I inhale and scrunch my face. Waiting rooms never smell good. I look on my watch and it shows the same time I saw last time I checked. I thought it had been longer. There's a weird pressure around me. I rub my temples. I lean back in my chair, but it's as if something squeezes my throat. I sit up straight again. I tap my fingers on my knee.

Time hasn't moved here. This room looks exactly the same as it did when I was younger. My mother has made the same remark.

There are no windows. No way to prove that time is moving. I thought I'd be too late. I'm never too late, not here. I think they like having people in the waiting room. To slow them down a bit. Outside, God, it must be so busy outside. What a fine day it was before I arrived here. I miss the chattering and laughter and the stress and the smooth atmosphere. Time moves faster there, I'm sure of it. Here, inside, waiting, it feels as if there's a thick layer around me, as if I'm in water or mud or sand. Either way, it's as if I can't move properly.

I stand up. Just to prove it to myself: I'm imagining this pressure. I sit down. I get up again and look in the hallway. Nobody. Not a sound. I go back and walk around the waiting room to stretch my legs. This must be what it feels like in space, I think to myself. I want to sleep. I have nothing else to do.

Sitting down again, I wonder if they forgot about me. Maybe there was an emergency and they didn't have the time to let me know. Maybe there was an issue with my appointment. Maybe the batteries of the clocks died and they ran out of new ones.

I sigh and try to count. One, two, three ... I try to get to a minute. And another one. Eventually I lose count. I run my hands through my hair.

I look on my watch, and it shows the same time I saw last time I checked.