**Almost Everything’s Fine**
*— Late again?*— Nik’s voice on the phone was muffled, as if it drifted from far away—like the banks of the Thames on a foggy evening, where dusk had already settled.
*— Yeah. Maybe past eleven. There’s a mad rush with deliveries,*— Emily replied, switching to speakerphone. One hand finished typing an email, the other stirred her lukewarm tea. The mug teetered on the edge of her desk, surrounded by crumpled drafts of reports she never got around to opening.
*— It’s like you don’t live here anymore,*— he said after a long pause. No blame, just a fact. But in that fact hung a quiet ache—for the endless work hours, for empty evenings, for mornings where their conversations dissolved into silence.
*— You know how it is,*— she murmured, hearing the exhaustion shake her voice.
*— I do.*— The silence between them thickened, heavy as London’s winter air. It hummed with words neither dared to say but both felt.
Emily hated that silence. It was too alive, too full—drowning their half-spoken thoughts, their weariness, their pretence that everything was holding together.
She got home past midnight. Their flat in Croydon greeted her with darkness, save for the dim bulb in the hallway—Nik always left it on *”so you don’t trip.”* The light pooled in a narrow strip across the floor, catching a lone sock—probably his. In the kitchen, a note sat by the microwave: *”Food inside. Asleep.”* The handwriting was rushed, like he’d scribbled it to escape something unseen.
She sat at the table, reheated the meal, ate in the half-light without tasting it. Everything was in its place—hot food, warm light, care in two lines. Yet inside, a cold fist clenched. She opened her laptop, skimmed a report, closed it. The screen stared back, blank as a mirror with no answers. In the bathroom, she avoided her reflection—too tired, too many sleepless nights. She slipped into bed beside Nik. He slept turned away, breathing steady. Between them lay a little more emptiness than yesterday. Or maybe she just imagined it.
Morning brought traffic jams and a broken shoe strap. On the bus, a woman in her forties loudly complained into her phone: *”He strolled in at dawn again, reeking of lager, and here I am, the fool, still waiting.”* The words struck like an echo—but reversed. That woman waited despite the hurt. Emily lived with Nik yet felt galaxies apart, their worlds barely brushing.
At work, her boss didn’t notice she’d arrived early. He wouldn’t have noticed her report either if she hadn’t placed it on his desk. *”Alright,”* he grunted, eyes glued to his screen. Same script as always: task, report, nod, silence. Even praise sounded like an order.
She retreated to the office kitchen, made tea. Watched the tea bag sink, leaving a dark trail—dissolving something unseen. The only real thing in that moment.
Then it hit her: everything she did was *correct*. *Flawless*. Reliable, no mistakes. But it was motion without direction. Like a car speeding smoothly down a road with no destination. She gave herself to deadlines, to tick-boxes, forgetting to ask: *Where does this lead, except another folder on the desktop?*
That evening, they ate dinner together. In silence. Forks clinked, wind rattled the window, the fridge hummed softly—life carrying on. Nik stared at his plate, avoiding her gaze. Then suddenly:
*— Not working late tonight?*
*— Shouldn’t have to,*— she said, her voice trembling with something like hope.
*— Fancy the cinema?*
She nodded, hesitating—weighing if she had the strength to just *live*, not run. Then she stepped behind him, wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He was warm, alive, *real*. Like a lighthouse in a storm—something to hold onto if everything else crumbled.
*— Sorry,*— she whispered. *— I just want it all to stay whole. Work, us, home… All of it.*
*— I know,*— he said softly. *— But we’re not building a fortress. We’re living. Aren’t we?*
She didn’t answer. Just pressed her cheek to his back, breathing in the scent of his shirt. He squeezed her hand—his only anchor.
They saw some action flick—explosions, chase scenes, jokes. The plot blurred into noise, but it didn’t matter. In the dark, seats soft, screen vast, their fingers interlaced. For the first time in ages, she could breathe.
Later, they walked through streets lit by amber lamps. The air smelled of rain and late roses; distant laughter from teenagers wove through the night—someone else’s life, warm and fleeting. Nik rambled about a colleague who’d bought a clunker car, about some Tube mishap. Nothing important, just the ordinary hum she realized she’d missed desperately.
At their doorstep, she paused. Something inside shifted—not fear, not doubt, but a quiet space where a word took shape.
*— You know,*— she said, *— almost everything’s fine. Almost.*
Nik looked at her, steady. No surprise—just warmth, as if he’d waited a lifetime to hear it.
*— Then let’s make it all fine. Bit by bit.*
She nodded. And for the first time in so long, she wanted more than to just keep up, to endure. She wanted to *live*. Not to manage—*to be.*
