Wait for the celly, that’s what he told me just before the lights went out. The power cut off without warning, swallowing the whole street in darkness, leaving only the soft hum of the city somewhere far away. The silence was almost loud, broken only by the faint sound of rain tapping against the windowpane, rhythmically falling like a gentle drum. I sat still, heart hammering in my chest, waiting for the signal, the buzz, the vibration in my pocket. The little device that meant everything now felt like a tether to the outside world, a lifeline. I glanced down at the phone but it was dead, useless without a charge. Still, I waited.
There’s something about waiting that changes you. It stretches time, making every second feel thick and heavy, like thick syrup you have to swallow. I wasn’t sure what I was waiting for exactly—maybe a message, a call, or just some sign that everything was still moving forward somewhere beyond these walls. The storm outside was getting louder, rain slashing against the glass with a fierce urgency. Shadows danced on the walls as the occasional flicker from the streetlamps outside tried to break through the darkness, but inside, it was still black as the inside of a coffin.
I thought about how quiet the world becomes when all the noise goes away. No cars, no music, no chatter from neighbors—just the sound of the storm and my own breath. I found myself tracing the outline of the room with my eyes, memorizing the furniture shapes in the darkness, the way the armchair leaned slightly to one side, the small stack of books on the coffee table, the way the curtains hung heavy and damp. In the absence of light, details lose their sharpness but gain a kind of intimacy. It was like seeing the world with my ears instead of my eyes.
Wait for the celly. That phrase kept looping in my mind. It sounded so simple but carried a weight I couldn’t shake. It was a promise, a warning, and a challenge all at once. I wondered who had said it first and why those exact words had stuck. Maybe it was a code between friends, a secret signal to hold on just a little longer before the world shifted. Or maybe it was just a reminder not to panic, not to give in to the creeping fear that the silence brings.
My phone finally buzzed, startling me in the dark like a sudden crack of thunder. The screen flickered to life, casting a pale blue glow that felt almost alien in the stillness. A message appeared: “Wait for the celly.” No name, no context, just those words again. My fingers trembled as I typed back, “What does it mean? Who are you?” But the screen went dark before I could send it.
The storm outside wasn’t just noise anymore; it felt like a living thing. The wind howled, bending the trees so their branches scraped against the windows, like fingers trying to claw their way inside. I could hear water pooling in the gutters, dripping slowly, rhythmically, until the silence swallowed even that. My heartbeat quickened, thoughts spiraling out like wild birds trapped inside my mind.
Waiting became a game of endurance. I measured time by the ticking of an old clock on the wall, its hands moving steadily even as the world outside held its breath. Each tick felt like a small victory against the creeping dread that threatened to take over. I thought about all the moments I had wasted waiting before, waiting for someone to call, waiting for an answer, waiting for change. And now, here I was, waiting again, but this time for something unknown.
The city outside was a shadowy maze. I imagined people trapped in their own apartments, all of us connected by invisible threads of electricity and hope, all waiting for the next message, the next sign. It felt strange to think how much of our lives depended on these small blinking lights and vibrating machines. Without them, we were raw and exposed, just bodies in the dark.
Suddenly, the lights flickered back on, harsh and bright after the long blackness. I blinked, adjusting to the sudden return of clarity. The storm had passed, but the air was heavy and thick with the smell of wet earth and ozone. My phone lit up again, this time with multiple messages flooding in, each one more urgent than the last. “Did you get it? Are you safe? Wait for the celly.”
I sat back and let out a breath I didn’t realize I had been holding. The world had shifted while I waited, and though I didn’t know what the celly was or why I needed to wait for it, I felt a strange sense of calm. It was like the waiting itself had been the point all along, a pause before something new could begin. The storm had cleared the air, and maybe, just maybe, waiting wasn’t about wasting time but about making space for what was coming next.
I looked out the window, watching the street glisten under the renewed glow of the streetlights, the puddles reflecting the quiet beauty of a world that had been reborn in the dark. And as the messages kept coming, I felt ready to listen, to act, to be part of whatever this waiting had prepared me for.
Sometimes, the hardest part isn’t the storm itself, but the moments you spend waiting for the storm to end. The stillness, the silence, the uncertainty—they test your patience, your strength, your hope. But they also teach you something important about yourself and the world around you. That even in the darkest times, there is a light somewhere, waiting for you to find it.
So I waited. I waited for the celly, for the call that might never come, for the message that might change everything, or for the silence that might finally bring peace. And in that waiting, I found something I hadn’t expected—a kind of quiet courage, a space to breathe, and the slow, steady heartbeat of hope.
