The Waiting Room Chronicles: A Study in Human Behavior

There is no space more existentially fraught than a waiting room. It is neither a destination nor a home, but a purgatorial plane in which individuals sit, feigning intense interest in outdated magazines while studiously avoiding eye contact. I, Vizt Nivlir, am no exception to this grand performance, though I suspect my presence—a gazelle in a cashmere coat—disrupts the otherwise sacred anonymity of the space.

Humans in waiting rooms do not wish to be acknowledged. They shuffle in with all the enthusiasm of livestock entering a holding pen, avoiding conversation at all costs. And yet, when the receptionist calls a name, there is a flicker of hope in every eye, only to be crushed when it is someone else’s turn. My own name, Vizt Nivlir, is met with hesitancy, as if the receptionist suspects she may be hallucinating. I nod solemnly, rise, and leave—leaving behind a wake of puzzled glances and a magazine I never intended to read.