Almost Good—But Only Almost
“Are you late again?” Andrew’s voice on the phone sounded as if it were drifting not from the flat next door in their London high-rise, but from across an autumn river, where dusk had thickened and mist settled over the water.
“Yeah, till ten, maybe later. Another audit—logistics messed everything up again,” Olivia replied, switching to speakerphone while stirring her coffee and finishing an email to suppliers. A stack of unopened printouts sat untouched beside her.
“You’re barely home,” he said after a long pause. Calmly, without accusation, 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 the hollowness of mornings.
“You know how it is.”
“I do,” another pause. Not empty, though. Heavy, charged, like the air before a storm. In that silence, too much went unsaid—restrained emotions, wordless questions, anxious waiting.
Olivia hated pauses like these. They pressed down on her, as if someone were slowly, deliberately squeezing her ribcage. 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 narrow glow of the hallway nightlight—Andrew always left it on *“so you don’t trip.”* In that dim light, a lone sock (definitely not hers) lay discarded on the floor. The kitchen held a note: *“Dinner in the oven. Gone to bed.”* The handwriting was slightly rushed, as if scribbled in haste or unease.
She ate in silence. The food was warm, carefully wrapped in foil. But it had no taste—as if her whole body was too tired to feel. Later, she opened her laptop, skimmed a report, then shut it just as quickly. A wash in the bathroom, avoiding the mirror—her reflection was as weary as she was. She slid into bed beside him. He slept with his back to her. Between them, space. A little more than before. Or was it just her imagination?
Morning brought gridlock, a broken heel, and forgotten files. On the bus, she sat beside a woman in her forties ranting into her phone:
“Came home at dawn, reeking of cigarettes, wouldn’t say a word. And like a fool, I waited…”
Olivia flinched. It was like hearing her own thoughts—only inverted. That woman waited despite everything. And here she was, living side by side with Andrew, yet worlds apart.
At the office, no one noticed she’d arrived early. No one would’ve noticed if not for the submitted report. Her manager nodded, muttered *“Alright,”* and dove back into his screen. Same routine: report, nod, silence. Even praise sounded like an order.
In the break room, she steeped tea, watching the bag sink, leaving a pale trail. It felt like the only real movement all day. The rest was mechanics—reports, reports, reports. Precise, on time, correct. But somehow… off. Motion for the sake of motion. *Functioning*, not living.
That evening, they ate together. Quietly. Forks clinked, the fridge hummed monotonously. Andrew stared at the table, not her. Then, suddenly:
“Free tonight?”
“Think so.”
“Fancy the cinema?”
She nodded—not right away. Inside, a tug-of-war: the urge to stay home versus a strange longing to step out, breathe, *feel* something. Then she hugged him from behind. He was warm. Solid. An anchor in her storm.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “I’m trying to hold it all together—work, home, us… So nothing collapses.”
“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 tighter, cheek pressed to his back. And in that silence, it eased—just a little.
They went to the cinema. Some loud, silly film—teens giggled, someone rustled popcorn. They sat side by side. Held hands. In that simple gesture, more passed between them than a dozen declarations ever could.
Outside, the night was mild. A spring wind chased dust along the pavement; streetlights glowed on damp asphalt. A child laughed somewhere. A couple embraced by a chemist’s window. Andrew rambled about an old friend, a chance encounter, trivial things. And Olivia listened, realising suddenly: *This* was what she’d missed. The simple. The ordinary. The real.
At their doorstep, she stopped.
“You 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 truly fine. Not all at once. But together.”
She nodded. And for the first time in ages, the tightness inside didn’t clench—it loosened. She didn’t just want to make it till morning. She wanted to wake up and *live*.
