**Almost, But Not Quite**
*From the diary of James Whitmore*
“Working late again?” Andrew’s voice over the phone sounded distant, as if he were calling from across the Thames on a foggy autumn evening rather than just the flat next door in our London high-rise.
“Yeah, till ten, maybe later. Paperwork audit—logistics messed up again,” Olivia replied, switching to speakerphone while stirring her tea and finishing an email to suppliers. A stack of unopened printouts sat beside her.
“You’re hardly ever home,” he said after a long pause. Calm, without accusation. Just a fact. But beneath that calm was exhaustion—not from her, not from their relationship, but from the constant absence. From quiet evenings and empty mornings.
“You understand.”
“I do.” Another pause. Not silence, but something thick, charged, like the air before a storm. In that quiet, too much was said: unspoken feelings, wordless questions, the weight of waiting.
Olivia hated pauses like these. They pressed on her chest, deliberate and slow, as if someone were squeezing the breath from her. Their silences were never empty—only full of things left unsaid.
She came home near midnight. The flat was dark save for the nightlight in the hallway—Andrew always left it on, “so you don’t trip.” In its dim glow, a single sock lay on the floor (definitely not hers). The kitchen held a note: *Dinner in the oven. Gone to bed.* His handwriting was rushed, like he’d scribbled it in haste.
She ate in silence. The food was warm, carefully covered in foil. Tasteless, as if her whole body had forgotten how to feel. Then she opened her laptop, skimmed a report, and shut it just as quickly. A shower, avoiding the mirror—she couldn’t bear to look at her own tired reflection. She slipped into bed. He was asleep. Facing away. The space between them felt wider tonight. Or was that just her?
Morning brought gridlock, a broken heel, and forgotten documents. On the tube, 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 here I am, waiting like a fool…”
Olivia stiffened. As if she’d heard her own thoughts, inverted. That woman waited despite everything. Olivia lived side by side with Andrew, yet they might as well have been in separate worlds.
At the office, no one noticed she’d arrived early. No one would’ve noticed her at all if not for the submitted report. Her manager nodded, grunted, “Good,” and turned back to his screen. The routine never changed: report, nod, silence. Even praise sounded like an order.
In the breakroom, she steeped a teabag, watching it sink, leaving a pale trail in the water. The only real movement of her day. Everything else was mechanics. Reports, reports, reports. Precise, timely, correct. But somehow… misaligned. Motion for the sake of motion. Functioning, not living.
That evening, they ate together. Quietly. Forks clinked, the fridge hummed in the background. Andrew stared at his plate, not her. Then, suddenly:
“Free tonight?”
“Think so.”
“Fancy the cinema?”
She nodded—not right away. Part of her wanted to stay in. Another part ached to step out, breathe, feel something. She hugged him from behind. He was warm. Solid. An anchor in her storm.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “Trying to hold everything together—work, home, us… so it doesn’t all fall apart.”
“I know,” he said. “But we’re meant to live, not just keep things from crumbling. We’re not guarding furniture.”
She didn’t reply. Just held him tighter, cheek pressed to his back. And for a moment, the weight lifted.
They saw some loud, silly film—teens laughing, popcorn rustling. They sat side by side. Held hands. In that simple touch, there was more than a dozen declarations.
Outside, the night was mild. A spring wind swirled dust along the pavement; streetlights gleamed on wet tarmac. A child laughed somewhere. A couple lingered by a chemist’s window. Andrew chatted about an old friend, a chance meeting, trivial things. And Olivia listened, realising suddenly how much she’d missed this. The ordinary. The real.
At their doorstep, she stopped.
“You know… my life’s almost fine. Almost,” she said softly.
He studied her. 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 ages, something inside her didn’t tighten—it loosened. She didn’t just want to make it to morning. She wanted to wake up and live.
**Lesson learned:** Life isn’t meant to be endured. It’s the little things—the quiet meals, the held hands—that turn *almost* into *enough*.
