waiting up (a cautionary tale)

I told her that if she wasn't up for it, we didn't need to talk again last night. I told her that if she wanted, we could do it some other time. She texted me and said she'd be in touch after she had a glass of wine. Three and a half hours later and she's on her way to bed, but wants to know if we can just chat tomorrow. It wasn't that we didn't talk. It was the waiting up.

That’s the part I couldn’t ever take. The waiting all night long for her to call, come home, come to bed.

For some people, how long you’ll wait up for them is a measure of how much you love them, how much they mean to you, what lengths you’ll go to in order to make them the last thing that you say, see, do.

The problem is, for the person waiting up, it’s not a fun game. It’s the opposite side of the coin; why wouldn’t they come home, call, come to bed already, to be with me.

There is no winning that game. There was no winning that game. She played it with me again as soon as I let her back in my life even a little bit, just to see if I’d still be willing to play. I’m not. I can’t. I won’t.

At the end of the night, you can either have stayed out all night or you can have come home to the person waiting for you. You can’t do both and you can’t be sad when you come home late and the house is empty; there isn’t anyone waiting for you any more.