You said, “Wait here.”

The word wait had always ended well before.

Wait while I tie my shoes.
Wait while I pay the shopkeeper.
Wait while I open the gate.

Wait meant return.

You tied my leash to a thin iron pole near the park bench.
“You’ll be right back,” you said.

The car door closed.
The engine started.
Dust rose.

I wagged.

Cars come back.
That is what they do.

Morning turned to noon.
Noon leaned into evening.
The pole grew cold as shadows stretched.

Every red car made my heart leap.
Every slowing engine made my tail tremble.

Night fell.

The leash felt tighter.

The word wait began to change shape.

By the second sunrise,
I understood something my heart refused to accept:

Sometimes wait means goodbye.

But still — even as hunger gnawed and rain soaked my fur — I watched the road.

Because love does not know when it has been dismissed.

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