The Art of Almost

I’ve always been good at almost.

Almost valedictorian. Almost proposed to. Almost loved.

The first time I noticed the pattern, I was eight. Mom pinned my drawing of a sunflower to the fridge, right beside Alex’s oil painting of the Grand Canyon. She called his “a masterpiece” and mine “so cheerful!” That night, I pressed my cheek to the cold refrigerator door and wondered why cheerful sounded like a consolation prize.

Alex was my older brother, the human equivalent of a fireworks finale; bright, explosive, impossible to look away from. When he got into Yale, Dad hung his acceptance letter in a frame by the fireplace. When I got into Brown three years later, Mom said, “We’ll have to celebrate after Alex’s gallery opening!” She didn’t notice when I stopped reminding her.

But this isn’t about Alex. It’s about the night I realized almost wasn’t just a habit, it was my shadow.

The Aftermath

“You’re my favorite person to talk to at 2 a.m.,” Sam said, his voice crackling through the phone. I pictured him lying on his dorm room floor, guitar propped against his knee, the same way he’d been since we met in Intro to Poetry.

I swallowed the then why did you kiss Meghan at the party? that clawed up my throat and said, “Glad I’m useful for something.”

Sam laughed, unaware he’d turned my ribs into a wind chime. We talked until dawn about Bukowski and the existential dread of laundry. When he yawned and said, “G’night, J,” I let myself pretend the nickname was a secret love letter.

The next morning, I saw his Instagram story: Sam and Meghan, fingers intertwined under the caption “found my muse.” I ate a stale Pop-Tart and told myself I preferred solitude anyway.

Almost (But Not Quite) Good Enough

At Dad’s 60th birthday party, Alex brought his fiancée, Anna, a neuroscientist whose laughter was like brandied peaches. I brought store-bought hummus and a solo cup of Pinot Noir.

“Jordan’s the creative one!” Mom announced to Aunt Linda, as if “creative” meant “under-employed.” I smiled, thinking of the unpublished novel gathering dust under my bed, the one I’d written about a girl who turns into smoke so no one can touch her.

The Text

The notification buzzed at 3:17 a.m., slicing through the static hum of my desk lamp. I’d been editing Chapter 12 again… the one where the smoke-girl dissolves completely, when Sam’s name flared on my screen. My thumb hovered, casting a wavering shadow over his text: Need advice. Meghan wants an open relationship.

The apartment held its breath. Fridge humming, radiator clanking, the wilted basil plant on the windowsill leaning like a eavesdropper. I stared until the letters blurred into black ants marching across glass.

Three responses warred in my throat:

Leave her.

A grenade, pin already pulled. I typed it fast, before courage failed, then watched the cursor blink, judging me. My reflection glowed in the dark phone glass: a ghost with bitten lips and smudged mascara. Too harsh, I lied to myself, backspacing.

You deserve better.

A half-truth wrapped in barbed wire. My finger trembled, grazing the send button. If I pressed it, he’d hear the unspoken I’m better. Choose me.

But Sam never noticed the words I swallowed, only the ones I spit-polished for his consumption. Deleted.

I love you.

A live wire. My chest burned, fingertips numb. For a reckless second, I let the words exist, glowing onscreen like a confession scrawled in wet cement. Then I imagined him showing it to Meghan… haha, look what J sent and erased it so violently my nail chipped.

The screen went dark. I pressed it to my forehead, cool glass against the fever of almost.

In the end, I gave him what he wanted: a prop, a sidekick, a cheap salve for his ego. Follow your heart :) I wrote, the emoji’s grin like a slash of red lipstick.

His reply came before I could exhale: You always know exactly what to say.

I hurled my phone at the couch. It sank into cushions, silent as a body in snow. Out the window, the bodega’s neon sign flickered: OPEN. I laughed, sharp and hollow, then ate peanut butter straight from the jar so I’d have an excuse not to cry.

The Breaking Point

November’s gray light slouched through the bookstore windows that Tuesday, the kind of afternoon that made even the dust seem tired. I was elbow-deep in scrubbing the espresso machine’s counter, my third shift in a row, the sour smell of burnt coffee beans clinging to my skin.

My hands moved on autopilot, scraping caramel macchiato sludge from the grooves, while the radio crooned a Christmas song already. “Jingle Bells,” my sponge sneered against the stainless steel.

The phone buzzed in my apron pocket, Mom’s contact photo flashing: her smiling at Alex’s graduation, her cheek smushed against his Yale cap. I hesitated, fingers leaving wet streaks on the screen. “Hey, Mom,” I said, wedging the phone between my shoulder and ear, still scrubbing.

Her voice burst through, like a sparkler in a storm. “Jordan! Alex and Anna are pregnant! You’re going to be an aunt!”

The sponge slipped from my grip. Somewhere, a customer laughed, the sound corrupted like a warped vinyl. I stared at the counter, brown streaks remained, as stubborn as regrets. “That’s… wow,” I managed. My tongue felt like a dead thing.

“Twelve weeks along! They’re doing the gender reveal at the baby shower, December 18th, save the date! Oh, your father’s already planning to convert the den into a nursery for when they visit…”

The coffee stain blurred. I pressed my palm into it, hard, as if I could erase the whole damn world. “Congrats, Mom.”

“Aren’t you thrilled? It’s a miracle!”

For them, I thought. Always for them.

When I hung up, the air smelled violently of vanilla syrup. My coworker, Marco, glanced up from restocking memoirs. “You good, J?”

“Peachy,” I rasped, then fled to the stockroom.

The door swung shut behind me, sealing me in a tomb of cardboard and silence. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, flickering like a failing heartbeat. I sank to the floor, knees cracking against cold linoleum, and pressed my forehead to a shelf labeled Mystery/Thriller.

It hit me then, a sucker punch to the diaphragm: I would never be anyone’s first miracle.

My breath came in jagged shards. I thought of the sunflower drawing eclipsed by Alex’s canyon, the framed acceptance letter, Sam’s sleepy g’night, And here I was: a lifetime of silver medals tarnishing in my hands. The baby would be born swaddled in their joy, another trophy for Alex’s case, while I’d still be here, scrubbing away the remnants of other people’s lattes.

When the tears came, they were furious, silent. I choked them back until my throat burned, but my shoulders betrayed me, heaving in violent jerks. A box above me read Damaged Goods; I nearly laughed. My knees ached, ground into the floor as if I could anchor myself to this pain, this proof that I still felt something.

Later, I’d find the bruises: twin smudges of plum beneath my kneecaps. For days, they pulsed like a second heart, a secret I carried.

Marco knocked. “Customer’s asking for a poetry recommendation?”

I stood, wiping my face with a shipping receipt. “Tell them Bukowski,” I said, though my voice wavered. “He knew how to romanticize the rot.”

The door creaked open, and I stepped back into the world, the ghost of almost clinging to me like coffee grounds.

That night, Sam showed up at my apartment, red-eyed and shivering. “She chose him,” he said. “Some drummer from Brooklyn.”

I made him tea, listened to his grief, let him fall asleep on my couch. In the dark, I traced the outline of his shoulder and whispered, “What about me?” He didn’t stir.

Leaving For Good

The thing about almost is it leaves you hollow, but hollow things are light.

I quit the bookstore. Sold my furniture. Packed my car with notebooks and a single suitcase. Mom cried when I told her I was moving to Portland. “But you’ll miss the baby shower!”

At the edge of town, I pulled over and texted Sam: Leaving. Wanted to say goodbye.

He replied instantly: You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.

I deleted his number.

Rain smeared the windshield as I merged onto the highway. For the first time, the road ahead wasn’t almost enough; it was everything.

But God, I still checked the rearview.

The Art of Almost

Almost free. Almost brave. Almost over you.

I’m getting better at almost.