Episode 2: What Waiting Really Means
1018 Words
When he left for basic training, the world didn’t pause.
That surprised me.
Mornings still came too early. Church doors still opened on time. Youth group still met downstairs in the basement, where the chalk wall slowly filled with new prayers and half-erased verses, and the ping-pong table sat slightly crooked against the wall. Metal chairs scraped softly as people shifted, settling into the familiar circle.
Everything stayed the same.
Except me.
The silence didn’t arrive all at once. It settled gradually, filling the spaces where he used to be. I learned how to carry it without letting it spill into everything else. Waiting became something quiet, something private.
His younger brother still came to youth group.
He was quiet too. Head down most of the time. He blended into the circle the same way his brother always had. Because of that, I was careful. Not out of fear, but out of respect. Some things didn’t need to be spoken aloud, and some connections didn’t need to be named to be understood.
No one asked me questions.
Not because they didn’t notice, but because people sensed when something mattered enough to be left alone.
At night, the quiet felt heavier. That was when my thoughts wandered to places I tried not to linger during the day. I wondered what basic training was doing to him. If the discipline was changing him or simply shaping what had always been there. I wondered if he was sleeping enough, eating enough, if he still carried that calm steadiness with him into a world that demanded constant movement.
I didn’t worry that he would forget me.
I worried that he would learn how to survive without me.
Church became my anchor.
I stayed longer than I needed to after events ended, helping clean up, stacking chairs, erasing parts of the chalk wall even though it never truly went blank. Sometimes I wrote something small in a corner no one else would notice. A word. A reminder. Something meant only for me.
Waiting, I learned, wasn’t passive.
It was choosing, again and again, not to let doubt take over.
Christmas came quietly.
I wasn’t expecting him. I didn’t know he would be there until I felt it, that subtle awareness that settled over me during the service. When I looked up and saw him across the room, my breath caught hard enough that I had to look down again.
He looked different.
Not louder. Not hardened. Just more contained. Like someone who had learned how to fold parts of himself inward and carry them without complaint.
His parents were there. His brother too, standing a few rows away, eyes down, hands folded. The familiarity of him made the room feel smaller somehow. We didn’t smile. We didn’t wave. We didn’t need to.
A glance was enough.
After service, people moved through the sanctuary in small clusters, voices overlapping. I lingered near the youth hallway while he spoke briefly with someone else. When we passed each other, our exchange was quiet and careful.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
“I am,” I said. “You?”
He nodded once.
That was all we allowed ourselves.
Later that night, my phone buzzed.
A f*******: message.
I didn’t know if I’d get a chance to say anything today.
I smiled to myself.
I knew you were there, I typed back.
That became our rhythm during his leave. Short messages sent late at night. Words chosen carefully. We didn’t talk openly about missing each other. We didn’t need to. The restraint carried its own meaning.
Before he left again, he came over once.
Just once.
No plans. No expectations. We sat on the couch, controllers in hand, and played Call of Duty for hours. The room glowed blue from the television, gunfire and voices filling the space, but everything else felt suspended.
We didn’t talk much.
Sometimes his shoulder brushed mine when he shifted. Sometimes we laughed when one of us lost a round. It was ordinary in the best way. Like borrowing a version of life where distance didn’t exist yet.
That night stayed with me longer than any dramatic goodbye could have.
Before he left for Camp Lejeune, we met once more at church.
Sunday afternoon. The building quieter. The youth room downstairs empty except for the faint chalk dust still clinging to the wall.
“I leave tomorrow,” he said.
“I know.”
“Six months,” he added.
Six months felt different than basic training. This time, there would be communication. A connection that didn’t rely entirely on faith.
“I’ll FaceTime on Fridays,” he said. “Whenever I can.”
“I’ll be waiting,” I told him.
The kiss was brief. Gentle. Meant more for reassurance than passion.
Then he was gone again.
Camp Lejeune changed the shape of waiting.
Fridays became sacred.
I learned how to plan around them. How to keep my phone charged. How to find quiet corners where I wouldn’t be overheard. Sometimes the calls were short. Sometimes longer. Sometimes the connection lagged and froze his face mid-sentence, and we laughed instead of letting it frustrate us.
Seeing him through a screen felt strange at first. Comforting and painful at the same time. But it was something. And something was always better than nothing.
As time passed, the calls came more often.
Not because he had more time, but because he made time.
His voice sounded steadier. More confident. Still quiet, but no longer uncertain. He remembered details. Asked about my day. Noticed when something was off even through a screen.
Distance didn’t weaken us.
It clarified us.
Waiting stopped feeling like standing still. It started to feel like movement, slow but deliberate, toward something we were choosing together.
I didn’t know yet how much life would ask of us. How quickly everything would change. How the choices ahead would reshape everything we thought we knew.
But I knew this:
Love didn’t need to be loud.
It didn’t need permission.
And it could survive even when it had to live quietly.
- Writer
