A/N: Heavily based on Samuel Beckett's Waiting for Godot.
It's absurd, really, the way they dance around each other, never quite in step, never quite in time, never when it matters. It's the cause of many numb toes and scuffed shoes and bruised hearts.
It's was absurd, waiting, he knows. Godot never comes.
It's absurd, maybe, but there he stays, waiting for her, under the weeping willow. He gets used to it, after a while. There's nothing to be done. She's a secret that cannot be found, a shadow that cannot be pinned down. If you shine a light on her, she doesn't exist.
He sends up a kind of prayer, a vague supplication. And that's it. Nothing to be done. The world is disintegrating around them, raging, weeping its chaos and confusion.
The silence is deafening, and he cannot break it. Truth is like light—too much, too much, and she is gone.
So he is silent, and still. And she stays, comfortable, content. She cannot be won, but as long as he doesn't try, she will not be lost. Absurd. But promises are nothing. Simply wait.
Sometimes, sometimes he tells himself "Don't be a fool." And he says he will go. But he never does.
Sometimes, even with no light, no truth, she's still gone. Sometimes, it's all she has, he knows. That silence. That darkness.
A part of him, the childish, foolish part of him, still hopes that one day things will be different. He remembers the warmth of her, wrapped in his arms. And so he stays, waiting, waiting for Godot.
Its utterly absurd.