“Everything’s Almost Alright”
“You’re late again?” Nik’s voice on the phone sounded distant, like it was carried over from the banks of some chilly northern river, where dusk was already settling.
“Yeah. ’Til eleven, maybe later. We’ve got a shipment nightmare,” replied Emily, hitting speakerphone. One hand typed out an email to clients, the other stirred her lukewarm tea. Her mug perched on the edge of the desk, surrounded by crumpled draft reports she never got round to opening.
“You don’t even live here anymore,” he said after a long pause. Not an accusation—just a fact. But there was a quiet ache in it, all those endless work hours, the empty evenings, the mornings where their conversations dissolved into silence.
“You know how it is,” she murmured, hearing her own voice tremble with exhaustion.
“Yeah, I do.” Silence hung between them, thick like winter fog. Unspoken words echoed in it, things they both felt but couldn’t bring themselves to say.
Emily hated that silence. It was too alive, too loud, swallowing up their half-finished thoughts, their tired excuses, their pretence that things were still holding together.
She got home well past midnight. The flat in a quiet London suburb greeted her with darkness—just the dim glow of the hallway bulb Nik always left on, “so you don’t trip.” The light cast a narrow stripe across the floor, catching a single abandoned sock—his, obviously. On the kitchen counter, a note: “Food in the microwave. Sleeping.” The handwriting was jagged, like he’d scribbled it while running away from something.
She sat at the table, reheated dinner, ate in the half-light without tasting a thing. Everything was in its place—hot food, warm light, care in two short lines. But inside, she just felt 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 up, avoided her reflection—too tired eyes, too many sleepless nights. Slid into bed next to Nik. He was asleep, turned away from her, breathing steady. Between them, the space felt wider than yesterday. Or maybe she was just imagining it.
Morning brought traffic jams and a broken shoe strap. On the bus, Emily ended up next to a woman in her late forties ranting into her phone: “He rolled in at dawn again, stank of beer, and I’m the idiot still waiting.” The words hit like an echo—but inverted. That woman waited despite the hurt. Emily shared a roof with Nik but lived in another universe, where their worlds barely touched.
At the office, the boss didn’t notice she’d arrived early. Wouldn’t have noticed her report either if she hadn’t slid it onto his desk. He grunted, “Alright,” eyes glued to his screen. Same old routine: task, report, nod, silence. Even praise sounded like an order.
She slipped into the office kitchen, made tea. Watched the teabag sink slowly, leaving a dark trail, as if dissolving something unseen. It was the only thing that felt real just then.
And suddenly, it hit her: everything she did was correct. Flawless. Reliable. But it was motion without direction—like a car speeding down a smooth road, no destination. No breakdowns, no mistakes. Just… pointless. She gave her all to reports, deadlines, tick-boxes, never stopping to ask: was any of this leading anywhere?
They ate dinner together that evening. In silence. Cutlery clinked, wind rattled the window, the fridge hummed softly, a reminder that life just carried on. Nik stared at his plate, avoiding her eyes. Then, out of nowhere:
“You’re not working late tonight?”
“Shouldn’t need to,” she said, voice wavering with something like hope.
“Fancy the cinema?”
She nodded, hesitating—weighing whether she had the energy to just *be*, not just survive. Then she stepped closer, wrapped her arms around him from behind. He was warm, solid, *there*. Like a lighthouse in a storm, something to hold onto when everything else felt shaky.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “I just… want everything to stay together. Work, us, home… all of it.”
“I know,” he said softly. “But we’re not building a fortress, Em. We’re living. Aren’t we?”
She didn’t answer. Just pressed her face into his shoulder, breathing in the faint scent of his shirt. He squeezed her hand like it was the only thing keeping them anchored.
They saw some flashy action film—explosions, one-liners, a plot lost in the noise. Didn’t matter. In the dark, the seats were soft, the screen huge, their fingers tangled. And for the first time in ages, breathing felt easier.
Later, they walked through the quiet streets. The breeze carried the smell of rain on pavement and blooming jasmine, streetlamps casting a warm glow, turning houses into ghosts. Somewhere nearby, teenagers laughed, their voices bright and foreign but alive. Nik rambled about nothing—his mate buying some old banger of a car, a weirdo on the Tube. Nothing important, just that ordinary hum of life Emily realised she’d been starving for.
At their door, she paused. Something inside her shifted—not fear, not doubt, just a quiet moment where a word formed.
“Y’know,” she said, “almost everything’s alright. Almost.”
Nik looked at her, steady. No surprise in his eyes—just warmth, like he’d been waiting to hear it.
“Then let’s make it all alright. Bit by bit.”
She nodded. And for the first time in forever, she didn’t just want to keep up, or get by. She wanted to *live*. Not manage—just *be*.
