Wouldnt It Be Good - Nik Kershaw Apr 2026

The air smelled of expensive sandalwood and something sharp—like ozone. But as he moved through the marble foyer, the "perfect" life began to fray.

By day, Julian was a "gray"—one of the thousands of office workers dressed in charcoal suits, filing papers for a ministry that existed only to justify its own existence. But by night, he retreated to a cramped attic flat in Camden, where he’d sit by the window and watch the "Luminaries." Wouldnt It Be Good - Nik Kershaw

He found Alistair in the living room, slumped on a designer sofa that cost more than Julian’s yearly salary. There were no guests. No laughter. Just a stack of legal documents and a half-empty bottle of gin. Alistair was staring at a photograph of a woman, his eyes rimmed with red, his hands shaking so violently he could barely hold his glass. The air smelled of expensive sandalwood and something

Alistair looked up and saw Julian. He didn’t scream. He didn't call the police. He just looked at Julian’s cheap, damp coat and his worn-out shoes. But by night, he retreated to a cramped

He looked back up at the penthouse. It still glowed. It still looked perfect. But as he turned toward his own dim attic, he adjusted his scarf and started to walk. The shoes were still worn, and the pockets were still empty, but for the first time, he didn't mind the weight of his own feet.

Alistair gestured to the sprawling, glittering city below them. "Look at it. It’s all just glass and lights, isn't it? Everyone down there thinks it's a dream up here. But it’s just a higher place to fall from."

"You look like you sleep," Alistair said, his voice a gravelly wreck. "I haven't slept in three weeks. They’re taking the company. They’re taking the house. And she’s already gone."