Almost Right—But Only Almost
“Running late again?” Andrew’s voice on the phone sounded distant, as if it weren’t coming from the flat next door in their London high-rise but from the far bank of an autumn river, where dusk had already settled and mist clung to the water.
“Yeah, till ten, maybe later. Paperwork audit—logistics messed up everything again,” Emma replied, switching to speakerphone as she stirred her coffee and finished typing an email to suppliers. Beside her, a stack of unopened printouts gathered dust.
“You’re hardly ever home,” he said after a long pause. Calm, without accusation, just stating a fact. But that calm carried weariness—not of her, not of them, but of her constant absence. Of silent evenings, of empty mornings.
“You understand.”
“I do,” he said. Another pause. Not empty. Heavy, thick, like the air before a storm. In that silence, too much echoed: restrained feelings, unspoken questions, the anxious weight of waiting.
Emma hated pauses like these. They pressed on her, as if someone were slowly, deliberately squeezing her ribs. The quiet between them was never just quiet—it was full of ache.
She got home close to midnight. The flat was dark, save for the faint glow of the hallway nightlight—Andrew always left it on, “so you won’t trip.” In that dim light, a single sock lay discarded on the floor—definitely not hers. The kitchen held a note: *Dinner in the oven. Gone to bed.* His handwriting was slightly rushed, as if scribbled in haste or 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 feel. After, she opened her laptop, skimmed a report, then shut it just as quickly. A splash of water in the bathroom, avoiding the mirror—her reflection was just as exhausted as she was. Then bed. He was asleep. Facing away. Between them, space. A little more than before. Or was it just her?
Morning brought traffic, a broken heel, forgotten documents. On the bus, she sat beside a woman in her forties complaining into her phone:
“Came in at dawn, reeking of smoke, wouldn’t say a word. And here I am, the fool, waiting—”
Emma flinched. As if she’d heard her own thoughts, inverted. That woman—waited despite everything. She—lived alongside Andrew, yet in separate 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 buried himself back in his screen. Routine: report, nod, silence. Even gratitude sounded like an order.
Emma made tea in the kitchen, watching the bag sink into boiling water, leaving a pale trail behind. It felt like the only real movement all day. The rest—mechanical. Reports, reports, reports. Precise, on time, correct. But directionless. Motion for the sake of motion. Just to “function,” not to “live.”
That evening, they ate together. In silence. Forks clinked against plates, the fridge hummed steadily in the background. Andrew stared at the table, not at her. Then, suddenly:
“Free tonight?”
“Think so.”
“Fancy the cinema?”
She nodded. Not right away. Inside, the urge to stay home warred with a strange longing—to go out, breathe, *feel* something. Then she walked over, wrapped her arms around 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’ve got to live, not just keep things from falling. We’re not guarding furniture.”
She didn’t reply. 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 and silly—teenagers laughed, someone rustled a popcorn bag. They sat side by side. Held hands. In that simple gesture, there was more than a dozen declarations.
Outside, the air was warm. A spring wind chased dust along the pavement, streetlights glowed on wet asphalt. Somewhere, a child giggled; a couple embraced outside a chemist’s. Andrew talked about an old friend, a chance meeting, nothing important. And Emma listened, realising—this was what she’d been missing. The simple. The ordinary. The real.
At the doorstep, she stopped.
“Y’know… Everything’s almost fine. Almost,” she said softly.
He looked at her. Not surprised. As if he’d been waiting.
“Then let’s make it actually fine. Not all at once. But together.”
She nodded. And for the first time in ages, the tightness inside didn’t constrict—it loosened. And she didn’t just want to make it to morning. She wanted to wake up and live.
