Kashiana Singh
THE DOCTOR PRESCRIBES WAITING
The doctor says there is nothing conclusive yet
just a constellation of symptoms,
a season of pain that refuses to declare itself.
So he prescribes waiting.
Not rest, not remedy, but the thin suspension
between one uncertainty and the next.
I learn to live inside that pause,
where the body performs its quiet catastrophes
beneath a smile meant to reassure others.
Waiting for attention, waiting for care
it is its own ballet.
Even the stillness is choreographed:
how to sit without flinching,
how to stand without trembling,
how to appear “fine” enough to be believed
yet hurting enough to be seen.
The clinic becomes my stage,
sterile floors reflecting back a dancer
who never auditioned for this role.