Some waits are so small they should almost disappear.
A few seconds in a queue. A lift arriving. A page loading. Water boiling. A light changing at a crossing.
These moments usually pass without leaving much shape behind.
Then, sometimes, one of them becomes unusually noticeable.
The wait is still brief.
Nothing special is added to it.
Yet the pause seems to widen slightly. The surroundings come forward. Nearby sounds, small movements, or the arrangement of things begin to stand out during that short hold in time.
The wait does not become important.
It only becomes visible.
Then it ends, often as quickly as expected.
What follows is ordinary again, but the small wait remains briefly distinct, as if it had quietly separated itself from the rest of the day.