“Almost Alright—But Only Almost”
“Running late again?” Andrew’s voice on the phone sounded as if it carried not from the neighbouring flat in their London high-rise but from across an autumn river where dusk had already settled, thick and heavy, mist clinging to the water.
“Yeah, ’til ten, maybe later. Audit paperwork—logistics messed up again,” replied Olivia, switching to speakerphone while stirring her coffee and finishing an email to suppliers. A stack of unopened printouts sat beside her.
“You’re barely home,” he said after a long pause. Calmly, 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 know how it is.”
“I do,” another pause. But not empty. Tense, thick, like air before a storm. In that silence, too much echoed—restrained feelings, unasked questions, uneasy waiting.
Olivia hated these pauses. They pressed on her chest like hands slowly tightening. The quiet between them was never just silence—it ached.
She got home close to midnight. No lights, just the dim glow of the hallway nightlight—Andrew always left it on, “so you don’t trip.” In that faint light, a single sock lay discarded on the floor—not hers. In the kitchen, a note: *Dinner in the oven. Gone to bed.* His handwriting was slightly rushed, as if penned quickly or nervously.
She ate silently. The food was warm, carefully covered in foil. But it tasted of nothing—as if her whole body had tired of feeling. She opened her laptop, skimmed a report, then shut it. The bathroom, avoiding the mirror—her reflection too weary to meet. She slid into bed. He was asleep. Back turned. Between them, space—a little more than before. Or was it just her?
Morning brought traffic, a broken heel, and forgotten documents. On the bus, she sat beside a woman in her forties complaining into her phone:
“Rolled in at dawn, smelling of smoke, not a word. And like a fool, I waited…”
Olivia flinched. As if hearing her own thoughts—flipped. That woman waited despite everything. Olivia lived side by side with Andrew, yet in separate worlds.
At the office, no one noticed she’d arrived early. No one would’ve noticed—except for the submitted report. Her boss grunted, “Alright,” and turned back to his screen. Same routine: report, nod, silence. Even praise sounded like an order.
She brewed tea in the kitchen, watching the bag sink, leaving a pale trail. It felt like the only real movement all day. The rest? Mechanics. Reports, reports, reports. Precise, timely, correct. But somehow… misaligned. Motion for the sake of ticking boxes. Functioning, not living.
That evening, they ate together. Quietly. Forks clinked, the fridge hummed steadily. Andrew stared at the table, not her. Then, suddenly:
“Free tonight?”
“Think so.”
“Fancy the cinema?”
She nodded. Not immediately. Inside, exhaustion warred with a restless yearning—to step out, breathe, *feel* something. Then she hugged him from behind. He was warm. Solid. An anchor in her storm.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “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 reply. Just held tighter, cheek pressed to his back. And in that quiet, something loosened.
They went to the cinema. Something loud, silly—teens laughed, popcorn rustled. They sat side by side. Held hands. That simple gesture held more than a dozen declarations.
Outside, the air was mild. A spring breeze chased dust down the pavement, streetlights glowed on wet tarmac. A child laughed; a couple embraced by a chemist’s window. Andrew talked—an old friend, a chance meeting, small things. Olivia listened, suddenly realising: this was what she’d missed. The ordinary. The real.
At their building, she stopped.
“Y’know… It’s almost alright for me. *Almost*,” she said softly.
He studied her. Not surprised—as if he’d been waiting.
“Then let’s make it real. Not all at once. But together.”
She nodded. And for the first time in ages, the tightness inside didn’t twist—it eased. And she wanted not just to make it to morning, but to wake up and *live*.
