Waiting for him to contact you – absolutely bloody shit. Waiting for him to contact you when you know he probably, definitely, 100% won’t contact you – off the bloody shit Richter scale. I have found, in my many years of trying to analyse the male species, that the wait for him to reach out, is quite simply, as dramatic as it may sound, something that makes you want to tear your hair out. Even worse still, when he finally does reach out, it’s when you don’t want him to.
You could spend months waiting for a message, and it will arrive at the most inconvenient time – when you’ve stopped waiting, when you’ve bleached your hair, when you’re mid fleeting fling, when you’re finally saying F him. So, are the texts of fuckboys delayed, or is it their feelings that are struggling to catch up?
On reflection, I am now asking myself, how many hours have I spent in my life, waiting for a text that I knew would never come? I’ve rebooted my phone, stood up on my bed to find service, deleted and re-downloaded Snapchat more times than I can count, presumed he wasn’t on his phone because a shark had eaten him while on his holidays on the Irish coast, and after it all, I can honestly say – I have no bloody idea if the texts were ever even typed out, never mind on track to be sent. And I’ve got to be honest, I’m starting to wonder whether my shark scenario was perhaps, slightly, just a tad bit far-fetched at times.
The reality is, I’ve waited for texts that didn’t even exist, and we won’t ever know, but we can still wonder – did these men we’ve waited for ever want these texts to exist, or was the connection always as absent as the shark attack?
