Today was okay until it wasn't.
I look fine. I say that I'm fine, but I'm not. Not in the way I used to be. It's all relative.
Before Alaska died, okay meant that I had no complaints. I was almost always more than okay. I was blessed and grateful.
Since Alaska died, okay means that in a specific moment I am holding myself together successfully, but I most certainly have complaints. Sometimes I may even be more than okay, but I am also simultaneously not okay. I am still blessed. I am still grateful. But I am not okay. Not like I used to be.