Everything Almost Alright
*”Late again?”* Nathan’s voice on the phone sounded muffled, as if carried from some distant shore, perhaps the foggy banks of the Thames where dusk was settling in.
*”Yeah. Till eleven, maybe later. Supply chain chaos here,”* Emily replied, hitting speakerphone with one hand while finishing an email with the other. Her untouched tea sat cooling at the edge of the desk, abandoned drafts of reports strewn beside it.
*”It’s like you don’t live here anymore,”* he said after a long pause. Not an accusation—just a fact. But that fact carried the weight of all the empty evenings, the quiet mornings where conversations dissolved into silence.
*”You know how it is,”* she answered, hearing the exhaustion fray her voice.
*”I do.”* The silence between them was thick, heavy as London’s winter air. In it hummed the echoes of unspoken words they both felt but couldn’t bear to say.
Emily hated that silence. It was too alive, too full—drowning their half-finished thoughts, their tired pretenses that everything was still holding together.
She got home well past midnight. Their flat in a quiet Croydon neighbourhood greeted her with darkness, save for the dim glow of the hallway bulb—Nathan always left it on, *”so you don’t trip.”* The light cut a narrow stripe across the floor, revealing a single stray sock—definitely his. On the kitchen counter, a note: *”Dinner in the microwave. Asleep.”* The handwriting was rushed, like he’d scribbled it while running from something.
She sat at the table, reheated her meal, ate in the dim light without tasting it. Everything was in its place—hot food, warm light, care in two scribbled lines. But inside, something clenched with cold. She opened her laptop, scrolled through a report, closed it. The screen stared back blankly, like a mirror with no answers. Then she washed her face in the bathroom, avoiding her reflection—too tired, too many sleepless nights. She slipped into bed beside Nathan. He was turned away, breathing steadily. The space between them felt just a little wider than yesterday. Or maybe she imagined it.
Morning came with traffic jams and a snapped shoe strap. On the bus, Emily found herself next to a woman in her forties loudly complaining into her phone: *”Shows up at dawn again, stinking of lager, and stupid me, I still wait.”* The words hit like an echo. Just backwards. That woman waited despite the hurt. Emily lived with Nathan, yet they might as well inhabit different universes, their worlds barely brushing against each other.
At the office, her boss didn’t notice she’d arrived early. Wouldn’t have noticed her report either if she hadn’t slid it onto his desk. *”Fine,”* he grunted, eyes glued to his screen. The script was the same as always: task, report, nod, silence. Even praise sounded like an order.
Emily stepped into the break room, made tea. Watched the teabag sink slowly, leaving a dark trail, dissolving something unseen. It was the only thing that felt real.
At some point, she realized: everything she did was *right*. Flawless. Efficient, no mistakes. But it was motion without direction. Like a train speeding down tracks with no final stop. Smooth, uninterrupted. And meaningless. She gave herself entirely to reports, deadlines, ticking boxes, never stopping to ask: *Is this leading anywhere beyond another folder on the desktop?*
That evening, they ate dinner together. In silence. Cutlery clinked against plates, wind rattled the window, the fridge hummed softly—life moving on as it always did. Nathan stared at his plate, avoiding her eyes. Then, suddenly:
*”Not working late tonight?”*
*”Shouldn’t be,”* she said, hearing the hope tremble in her own voice.
*”We could catch a film?”*
She nodded, hesitating, as if measuring whether she had the strength to just *be*, not race. Then she moved behind him, wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He was warm, alive, *there*—like a beacon in a storm, something to hold onto if everything crumbled.
*”Sorry,”* she whispered. *”I just… want to keep it all together. Work, us, the flat… everything.”*
*”I know,”* he said softly. *”But we’re not building a fortress. We’re meant to be living. Right?”*
She didn’t answer. Just pressed her face into his back, breathing in the scent of his jumper. He squeezed her hand, as if it was the only thing tethering them.
The film was something light—car chases, one-liners, explosions. The plot blurred into noise, but it didn’t matter. In the darkened cinema, seats were soft, the screen vast, their fingers interlaced. And for the first time in weeks, she remembered how to breathe.
Afterwards, they walked through the lamplit streets. The air smelled of rain-washed pavement and early roses, streetlights casting a glow that softened the edges of the houses. Somewhere nearby, teenagers laughed, their voices drifting like fragments of a warmer life. Nathan talked—about a coworker’s dodgy second-hand car, a mishap on the Tube. Nothing important, just the ordinary hum of life Emily suddenly realized she’d been starving for.
At the doorstep, she paused. Something shifted—not fear, not doubt, just a quiet moment where a truth found its voice.
*”You know,”* she said, *”almost everything’s alright. Almost.”*
Nathan looked at her. No surprise in his eyes—just warmth, like he’d been waiting for her to say it forever.
*”Then let’s make it all alright. Slowly.”*
She nodded. And for the first time in too long, she didn’t just want to *manage*, to *survive*. She wanted to *live*. Not to endure—to *be*.
