**Almost There — But Not Quite**
*— You’re late again?* — Andrew’s voice on the phone sounded as though it wasn’t coming from the flat next door in their London high-rise, but from across an autumn river, where darkness had already settled thickly and mist clung to the water.
*— Yeah, till ten, maybe later. Paperwork audit—logistics messed up again,* replied Olivia, switching to speakerphone while stirring her coffee and finishing an email to suppliers. Beside her, a stack of unopened printouts sat untouched.
*— You’re barely ever home,* he said after a long pause. Calmly, without accusation—just a statement. But beneath that calm was exhaustion. Not because of her, not because of them, but because of her constant absence. Because of silent evenings and empty mornings.
*— You understand.*
*— I do,* another pause. But not empty. Tense, heavy, like the air before a storm. In that silence, too much was left unsaid—restrained emotions, wordless questions, anxious waiting.
Olivia hated pauses like these. They pressed down on her chest, as if someone were slowly squeezing the air from her lungs. The quiet between them was never truly quiet—just full of pain.
She got home close to midnight. No lights on, just the faint glow of the hallway nightlight—Andrew always left it on, *”so you don’t trip.”* In that dim light, a single sock lay on the floor—definitely not hers. In the kitchen, a note: *”Dinner’s in the oven. Gone to bed.”* His handwriting was slightly rushed, as if written in a hurry—or with emotion.
She ate in silence, the food still warm under the foil. But she tasted nothing, as if her whole body had grown tired of feeling. Then she opened her laptop, skimmed an unfinished report—then shut it just as quickly. Bathroom, washing up, avoiding her reflection—because even her own face looked exhausted. She slipped into bed beside him. He was asleep, turned away from her. A space lay between them—slightly bigger than before. Or maybe she was just imagining it.
Morning began with traffic, a broken heel, and forgotten documents. On the bus, she sat next to a woman in her forties who was complaining into her phone:
*— Came back at dawn, reeking of smoke, barely said a word. And here I am, like an idiot, waiting…*
Olivia flinched. It was like hearing her own thoughts—but inverted. That woman still waited, despite everything. While Olivia and Andrew lived side by side, yet somehow in different worlds.
At the office, no one noticed she’d arrived early. No one would’ve noticed at all if not for the submitted report. Her manager gave a curt nod, muttered *”Alright,”* then went back to his screen. Same old routine—report, nod, silence. Even gratitude sounded like an order.
She brewed tea in the kitchenette, watching the bag sink into boiling water, leaving behind a pale trail. It struck her—that was the only real movement of the day. Everything else was mechanics. Reports, reports, reports. All precise, timely, correct. But somehow not *right.* Motion for the sake of ticking boxes. For *functioning*, not *living.*
That evening, they ate dinner in silence. Forks clinked against plates, the fridge hummed steadily in the background. Andrew stared at the table, not at her, then suddenly asked:
*— Free tonight?*
*— Should be.*
*— Fancy the cinema?*
She nodded, though not right away. Part of her wanted to stay in, but another part—a strange, restless ache—pushed her out. To breathe. To *feel.* Later, she wrapped her arms around him from behind. He was warm. Solid. Like an anchor in her storm.
*— I’m sorry,* she whispered. *— I’m trying to hold everything together—work, home, us… So it doesn’t all crumble.*
*— I know,* he said. *— But we’re meant to live, not just hold on. We’re not guarding furniture.*
She didn’t reply. Just held him tighter, pressing her cheek to his back. And in that quiet, something loosened inside her.
They went to the cinema. Some loud, silly film—teenagers laughed, popcorn rustled. They sat side by side. Held hands. And in that simple gesture, there was more than a dozen declarations could ever say.
Outside, the night was mild. A spring breeze carried dust along the pavement, streetlights glowed over wet asphalt. A child laughed somewhere, a couple embraced by a pharmacy window. Andrew rambled about an old friend, a chance meeting, little nothings. And Olivia listened, suddenly realising—*this* was what she’d been missing. The simple. The ordinary. The *real.*
By the building entrance, she stopped.
*— You know… Everything’s almost fine. Almost,* she said quietly.
He looked at her—not surprised, as if he’d been waiting.
*— Then let’s make it fully fine. Not all at once. But together.*
She nodded. And for the first time in ages, something inside her didn’t tighten—but loosened. And for once, she didn’t just want to make it to morning. She wanted to wake up—and *live.*
**Lesson learned:** Life isn’t in the perfect balance, but in the willingness to fall and pick each other up.
