But I didn't. I waited.
You think waiting is passive? You think it’s just sitting on a stoop, watching for headlights? No. Waiting is a violent art. It is a clenched fist inside a velvet glove. It is a clock whose ticking sounds like a hammer on a coffin. Every second I waited, I was building a case. Every hour, I was memorizing the exact shade of your betrayal.
(A Monologue of Reckoning)
Angela White, do you hear me? I waited.
I could have left a thousand times. The first time you pulled the sheets over your head and built a wall out of silence. The second time you chose a party, a paycheck, a nothing over the quiet storm brewing in our kitchen. I could have walked out into the rain and never looked back. angela white i waited
I waited through the long afternoons when your shadow was longer than your patience. I waited through the texts you left on read, through the promises you swallowed like bad wine. I became an expert in the geometry of your back— the way it turned from me in that bed, a curve of marble, cold and magnificent.
So here I am. Not angry. Not weeping. Just… finished. The clock has struck its final hour. You are late, Angela White. You are not just late for dinner. You are late for us . But I didn't
Angela White, I waited. Now watch me go.