**Almost Good—But Only Almost**
*— Running late again?* — Andrew’s voice on the phone sounded as if it weren’t coming from the flat next door in their Manchester high-rise but from the far bank of an autumn river, where dusk had settled thickly and fog clung to the water.
*— Yes, till ten, maybe later. Document checks—logistics messed up again,* — Olivia answered, pressing *speakerphone* while stirring her coffee and finishing an email to suppliers. A stack of unopened printouts sat beside her.
*— You’re barely ever home,* — he said after a long pause. Calmly, without resentment, just stating a fact. But beneath that calm was exhaustion. Not from her, not from their relationship, but from the constant absence. From silent evenings, from mornings that felt empty.
*— You know how it is.*
*— I do,* — another pause. But not hollow. Tense, heavy, like the air before a storm. In that silence, too much was heard: restrained emotions, wordless questions, anxious waiting.
Olivia hated pauses like these. They pressed down on her, as if someone were slowly, deliberately tightening their grip around her ribs. The quiet between them was never empty—not of sound, but of hurt.
She returned home close to midnight. The flat was dark, save for a thin strip of light from the hallway nightlight—Andrew always left it on *”so you don’t trip.”* In that dim glow, a single sock lay discarded on the floor—certainly not hers. In the kitchen, a note: *”Dinner in the oven. Gone to bed.”* The handwriting was slightly rushed, as if written in haste or with unease.
She ate in silence. The food was still warm, thoughtfully wrapped in foil. But it tasted of nothing—as if her whole body had grown too tired to even feel. Then she opened her laptop, skimmed a report, closed it just as quickly. The bathroom, a splash of water, avoiding the mirror—because her reflection had grown tired of looking back. She slipped into bed. He was asleep. Facing away. Between them, space—just a little more than before. Or was it just her imagining it?
Morning began with traffic, a broken heel, and forgotten paperwork. On the bus, she sat beside a woman in her forties complaining into her phone:
*— Came home at dawn, reeking of smoke, wouldn’t say a word. And there I was, waiting like an idiot…*
Olivia flinched. As if she’d heard her own thoughts—but inverted. That woman waited despite everything. She lived side by side with Andrew, 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 boss nodded, muttered *”Good,”* and went back to his screen. Just another day in the routine: report, nod, silence. Even gratitude sounded like an order.
In the break room, she made tea. Watched the teabag sink into boiling water, leaving behind a pale trail. It struck her—this was the only real movement of the day. Everything else was mechanics. Reports, reports, reports. Precise, on time, correct. But somehow… wrong. Motion for the sake of ticking boxes. For *functioning*, not *living*.
That evening, they ate together. Quietly. Forks clinked against plates, the fridge hummed steadily in the background. Andrew stared at the table, not at her. Then, suddenly:
*— Free tonight?*
*— Should be.*
*— Fancy the cinema?*
She nodded. Not right away. Inside, a war—between wanting to stay home and a strange yearning pushing her to go, to breathe, to *feel* something. Then she stepped behind him, wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He was warm. Real. Like an anchor in her storm.
*— Sorry,* — she whispered. *— I’m trying to hold everything together—work, home, us… So none of it falls apart.*
*— I know,* — he said. *— But we’re meant to live, not just hold on. We’re not guarding furniture.*
She didn’t answer. Just held him tighter, pressed her cheek to his back. And in that silence, it felt a little easier.
They went to the cinema. Something loud, unserious—teenagers laughing, the rustle of popcorn. They sat side by side. Held hands. And in that simple gesture was more than a dozen confessions.
Outside, the air was warm. A spring wind carried dust along the pavement, streetlights glowed on rain-damp tarmac. A child laughed somewhere; a couple embraced outside a Boots. Andrew talked about an old friend, a chance encounter, little nothings. And Olivia listened, realising suddenly—this was what she’d missed. The simple. The ordinary. The *real*.
At the doorstep, she stopped.
*— You know… Everything’s almost fine with me. Almost,* — she said softly.
He looked at her, steady. Not surprised. As if he’d been waiting.
*— Then let’s make it properly fine. Not all at once. But together.*
She nodded. And for the first time in a long while, something inside her didn’t tighten—it loosened. And she didn’t just want to *get* to morning. She wanted to wake up and *live*.
