ALMOST

Aleks Filmore
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  • Relationships
  • Updated weekly

ALMOST is the podcast about almost-relationships, almost love stories, and the commitment issues and emotional investment of modern love. These are the dating dilemmas no one names out loud, the patterns that get labeled as timing, as distance, as 'it's complicated.' Each episode untangles one pattern of love and uncertainty, showing what love and uncertainty really cost when you keep feeding the ambiguity. For anyone navigating relationships that live in the in-between and the emotional investment that keeps you there. New episodes every Tuesday. ALMOST is also available as a free eBook.

  1. 4 hr ago

    The Benchmark

    THE BENCHMARK Episode 14 ALMOST podcast This is Almost. A field guide to the relationships that don't have names. This is the last one. Fourteen types across three parts. The ones that existed in potential. The ones you were living inside. The ones that remained after the ending. Each of them a different arrangement of the same structural question: who benefits from the ambiguity, and who pays for it. This one is the last because it is the most invisible. The Benchmark does not require another person to be present. It does not require contact, or a thread, or a recurring Friday, or a route kept open by the body. It requires only a memory and the quiet habit of using that memory as the unit of measure for everything that arrives afterward. You may be doing this right now without knowing it has a name. You are on a third date with someone who is, by any fair assessment, exactly what you said you were looking for. He is present. He asks questions and listens to the answers and asks the follow-up. He makes you laugh in the way that feels like discovery rather than performance. He has been honest about what he wants. He has been consistent in the weeks since you met. There is nothing wrong here. You are waiting for the feeling. The feeling you are waiting for is not this feeling, which is warm and comfortable and easy. It is a different feeling, from a different room, in a different year, with a different person who made the room feel like it was slightly on fire. You know the feeling precisely. You have been using it as the standard for so long that you have stopped noticing it is a standard. It has become, simply, what the right thing feels like. The person in front of you does not produce the feeling. You tell yourself you are being patient. You are being a benchmark. The Benchmark calls itself having high standards, which sounds like self-respect. It calls itself knowing what I want, which sounds like clarity. It calls itself not settling, which sounds like wisdom. Under examination, each of those descriptions is partially accurate and mostly cover. Having high standards is legitimate when the standards have been derived from honest assessment of what a relationship requires to function. The Benchmark derives its standards from a single data point, curated by retrospect, charged by incompleteness, and immune to revision because it exists entirely in the past where no new evidence can reach it. Knowing what you want is legitimate when what you want has been examined rather than simply felt. The Benchmark knows what a specific remembered feeling felt like. It has not examined whether that feeling was produced by the relationship or by the conditions surrounding the relationship, the novelty, the intensity, the particular electricity of something that was always slightly unresolved. Not settling is legitimate as a refusal to accept less than a relationship that is genuinely wanted and mutually chosen. The Benchmark uses it as a reason to decline anything that does not match a ghost. The ghost is the problem. Not because ghosts are not real. The feeling was real. The connection was real. The loss was real. The problem is that the ghost has been given governing authority over the present, and the present cannot compete with a past that has been maintained and improved for years in the absence of contradicting evidence. The Benchmark is the One Who Got Away given a permanent institutional role. The Benchmark operates below the level of conscious decision. Subscribe wherever you’re listening. And if you want the full field guide in one place, the ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠book is free to download⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ at ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠aleksfilmore.com⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠.

    The Benchmark

  2. 5 days ago

    The One Who Got Away

    THE ONE WHO GOT AWAY Episode 13 ALMOST podcast This is Almost. A field guide to the relationships that don't have names. The Reserve was about a person who returned during collapse and left during stability, and the cost of organizing your availability around that rhythm. This one does not return at all. The One Who Got Away exists entirely in retrospect. He is not coming back. He may not even know the role he occupies in your internal accounting. The relationship ended, or never fully began, years ago, and what has continued since is a story. A very good story. A story you have refined across many tellings until it has the polish of something that has been handled often and with care. The question this episode asks is not whether the story is true. It is what the story is for. There is a version of him that lives in the part of your memory reserved for things that were almost yours. He arrived at the wrong time, or you were not ready, or the circumstances conspired in the particular way that circumstances conspire in stories where no one has to be the villain. It ended before it had properly begun, or it ended just as it was becoming something, or it ran its full course and concluded and you have spent the years since quietly convinced that the conclusion was a mistake. The memory of him is specific and warm. You remember the conversation that went until 4 a.m. and the particular quality of the light when you finally left. You remember a sentence he said once that you have since repeated to yourself more times than any sentence from any relationship that actually continued. You remember the feeling of that early period, the charged uncertainty of it, the sense that something rare was assembling itself in front of you, and you were present for it, and then it was gone. What you do not remember, with anything like the same clarity, is the friction. The ways in which the two of you did not fit. The argument that revealed something you filed away at the time as a minor incompatibility. The week he went quiet and the feeling that produced, which you translated as mystery when it may have been a preview. Memory is a curator. It knows what the story needs. The One Who Got Away calls itself the one that mattered most, which may be true, or the relationship that showed me what I actually want, which can also be true, or the one I should have fought harder for, which is the version that requires the most examination. What it is, in practice, is a relationship converted by time and distance into a standard. The conversion is gradual. In the months after the ending, the memory is still mixed, still textured with the ordinary difficulty of the actual relationship. The friction is still accessible. The incompatibilities are still visible. The grief is real but it contains accurate information. Then time does its work. The accurate information fades at a different rate than the warmth. The warmth is attached to feeling, and feeling is the part of memory that resists erosion. The friction is attached to detail, and detail is the first thing to go. What remains, at the two-year mark, at the five-year mark, is the emotional register of the best parts, freed from the context that made those parts complicated. The story becomes cleaner. The person becomes better. The ending becomes more clearly a mistake, or a missed opportunity, or the result of circumstances that could have been different if only one thing had changed. Next week: The Benchmark. The final episode. The one who got away becomes the measuring device. Every new room is assessed against a ghost. The episode is about what it takes to retire the ghost, and what becomes possible in a room that is finally being measured on its own terms.Subscribe wherever you’re listening. And if you want the full field guide in one place, the ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠book is free to download⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ at ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠aleksfilmore.com⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠.

    The One Who Got Away

  3. 1 Jul

    The Reserve

    THE RESERVE Episode 12 ALMOST podcast This is Almost. A field guide to the relationships that don't have names. The Relapse was a cycle. Both people returning, both people leaving, the pattern sustained by a mutual preference for the familiar weather of a known ending over the uncertainty of something genuinely new. This one is asymmetrical. In The Reserve, one person has built a life elsewhere. A relationship, a city, a version of themselves that does not include you. That life is what they return from. When something in it breaks — a relationship that ends, a period of collapse, a season when the scaffolding fails and they need somewhere warm to land — they return to you. You are the somewhere warm. You have been available for this, more than once, for longer than you have fully accounted for. He calls on a Wednesday evening and his voice has the quality it gets when something has gone wrong. You know the quality. You have known it for years, across different chapters of his life and yours. It is the voice he uses when the version of himself he presents to the world has taken damage and he needs to be somewhere he does not have to perform. He needs to be somewhere he does not have to perform. That somewhere is you. You make room. You always make room. This is one of the things you have always done well together — the ease of it, the absence of preamble, the way the two of you can pick up a register of intimacy that has been dormant for months as though it was never set down. It is one of the genuine things. You have never been wrong about that part. What you have been slower to examine is the architecture underneath it. He is here because his life broke. When his life is intact, you are not the first call. The Reserve calls itself a deep connection, which is often true. It calls itself something that transcends the ordinary categories, which is also sometimes true, or we have something that doesn't need a label, which sounds like maturity until you examine whose convenience the absence of a label serves. What it is, in practice, is a relationship organized around one person's capacity and availability rather than mutual ones. When his life is full — the relationship intact, the work stable, the version of himself he is building proceeding on schedule — the connection goes quiet. Contact thins. The warmth is still there in principle, acknowledged on both sides, available in theory. What it is not is active. You are held in reserve the way a person holds something valuable in reserve: with genuine care, with the intention of returning to it, at a time and under conditions of their own choosing. When his life empties — the relationship ends, the collapse arrives, the season turns difficult — the reserve gets activated. The contact resumes. The warmth returns at full intensity, because it was always real, and because in a difficult season the specific comfort of someone who has known you across multiple chapters of your life is among the most potent forms of relief available. You feel the return. You feel chosen. What has actually happened is that you have become available again. Subscribe wherever you’re listening. And if you want the full field guide in one place, the ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠book is free to download⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ at ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠aleksfilmore.com⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠.

    The Reserve

  4. 23 Jun

    The Relapse

    THE RELAPSE Episode 11 ALMOST podcast This is Almost. A field guide to the relationships that don't have names. The Ex You Still Sleep With was about the route that stayed open after the decision had been made. The body keeping access alive while the mind maintained the fiction of closure. This one is further along the same road. The Relapse is not a single return. It is a pattern of returns. The relationship ends and comes back and ends again, and the cycle has been running long enough that both people know the rhythm without being able to name why they keep following it. The ending keeps happening. So does the beginning. The first time it ended, you believed it. There was a conversation, a genuine one, with the weight of something final in it. You cried. He was kind. You agreed it was the right thing. You spent a month not talking and it was hard in the specific way that real endings are hard, and then it started to feel like something manageable, and then one evening in a situation neither of you had fully anticipated you were in the same room and the familiarity of him hit you before the memory of the ending did. Three weeks later it was back. You told yourself this time was different. You had both grown. You understood each other better now. The things that had caused the ending were no longer the same obstacles. This was a second draft, and second drafts are better than first drafts. The second ending came five months later. By the third cycle you stopped explaining it to your friends. The Relapse calls itself trying again, which sounds like courage, or giving it another chance, which sounds like fairness, or we just work better together than apart, which sounds like wisdom accumulated through experience. The experience is real. The wisdom being drawn from it is selective. What the Relapse is, in practice, is a cycle that depends on two mechanisms working in sequence. The first is the quality of the endings. The endings are real and painful and produce genuine distance, enough distance that the memory of why the relationship failed begins to soften while the memory of what the relationship contained stays vivid. Absence does not make the heart grow accurate. It makes the heart grow nostalgic, and nostalgia edits. The second mechanism is the reunion. The reunion carries a specific emotional charge that the relationship in its ordinary state does not. Coming back to someone contains the feeling of having chosen them again, deliberately, after loss. That feeling is intense. It can be mistaken for growth, for a deepened commitment, for evidence that this is the relationship that is supposed to survive. The feeling is real. It is also a product of the cycle rather than evidence against it. The Relapse runs on the gap between the edited memory and the charged reunion. The ordinary relationship, when it returns, eventually restores the original conditions. The same friction. The same unresolved differences. The same patterns that produced the previous ending. These are not always catastrophic. They are persistent. They persist because they belong to the two people involved and will be present in any room those two people share for long enough. Both people can feel the restoration of the original conditions arriving. Neither says so. Because saying so would mean acknowledging that the cycle is a cycle, and acknowledging the cycle is a cycle would require examining why they keep entering it. Next week: The Reserve. Someone who returns during their own collapse — when something in their life breaks down and the warmth of what you had becomes, briefly, available again. The episode is about what it costs to be someone's soft landing while they build the rest of their life somewhere else, and how long warmth can be mistaken for a return. Subscribe wherever you’re listening. And if you want the full field guide in one place, the ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠book is free to download⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ at ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠aleksfilmore.com⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠.

    The Relapse

  5. 16 Jun

    The Ex You Still Sleep With

    THE EX YOU STILL SLEEP WITH Episode 10 ALMOST podcast This is Almost. A field guide to the relationships that don't have names. Part Three of this series is about what remains. The types in Part One existed before anything had been committed to. The types in Part Two had hardened into routine, into domestic weight, into the texture of something chosen without being named. Part Three begins after the ending. These are the arrangements defined not by what they are building but by what they cannot finish closing. The relationship ended. But something did not. It is 1 a.m. on a Thursday and you are in his bed again. You broke up four months ago. The breakup was real. There was a conversation, a clear one by the standards of the two of you, and at the end of it the relationship had a conclusion. You cried. He held you, which in retrospect was already the beginning of this. You left. You spent two weeks not texting. You made it to three weeks before one of you reopened the thread. That was four months ago. Since then, you have been here six times. You have not discussed what here means. The Ex You Still Sleep With, calls itself complicated, which is accurate, or unfinished, which is also accurate, or sometimes, in the particular candor that arrives around 2 a.m. in the dark, something that defies a clean description. The defiance is part of the function. What this arrangement is, in practice, is a relationship that ended at the level of decision and continued at the level of the body. The mind filed the paperwork. The body did not receive it, or received it and declined to comply, or complied for three weeks and then sent a text at 11 p.m. on a Wednesday that both people understood was not about logistics. The ending was real. That matters. The arrangement that followed is not a relationship resumed. It is not a rekindling, or a second attempt, or proof that the original decision was wrong. It is something narrower and more specific: two people who know each other at a level that took years to build, using that knowledge in the only context that no longer requires a conversation about what they are. The body keeps the route open. What travels that route is not always love, or not only love. It is also familiarity. The specific comfort of a person whose rhythms you know. The relief of intimacy without the labor of building it from the beginning with someone new. The particular safety of being known, even by someone the relationship with whom has technically concluded. That safety is real. It is also a retroactive entry, and it has a cost. The 'Ex You Still Sleep With' does not require pretense. This is one of its distinguishing features. The relationship ended with full mutual acknowledgment. Neither person is pretending otherwise. What is not being examined is the function of the arrangement that replaced it, and whether that function is serving both people or primarily serving the one who was less ready for the ending. The contact follows a pattern. There are stretches of distance, genuine ones, where both people are building their separate lives and the thread goes quiet in a way that feels, each time, like it might stay quiet. Then one of you has a difficult week, or a good one and nobody to tell, or an evening when the city feels large in the way it does when you are newly single and the apartment is quiet and the person you would have called is the person you are trying to stop calling. Next week: The Relapse. A cycle with its own internal logic. The relationship ends and returns and ends again, and each time the return feels like resolution and each time the re-ending feels like surprise. The episode is about what the cycle is actually doing, and what it costs to keep calling each return a fresh start. Subscribe wherever you’re listening. And if you want the full field guide in one place, the ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠book is free to download⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ at ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠aleksfilmore.com⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠.

    The Ex You Still Sleep With

  6. 9 Jun

    The Review Period

    THE REVIEW PERIOD Episode 9 ALMOST podcast This is 'Almost.' A field guide to the relationships that don't have names. The Mutual Hostage was about two people who both knew the ending and waited for the other to say it first. This one is earlier in the sequence. The Review Period is not a relationship in decline. It presents as a relationship in progress. There is warmth. There is investment. There is the forward motion of two people building something together, or appearing to. What is absent, though you will not know this for some time, is the basic condition of mutual commitment. One person has decided to be in this. The other is still deciding. The other has been deciding for eight months. You have been providing full relational access throughout. He is attentive. He is present. He texts with the consistency of someone who has chosen you. He has not chosen you. He is in the process of determining whether he will. You do not know this yet. What you know is that things are good, that he seems engaged, that the relationship has the texture of something building toward a future both of you are moving into together. You have started making the small internal adjustments that people make when they believe a relationship is real: the way your calendar bends around his, the way you have stopped looking at other people with the particular attention of someone still available, the way you have started using the word we with the confidence of someone who has been told it applies. Nobody has told you it applies. He is still reviewing. The Review Period calls itself taking things slow, which can be entirely reasonable, or being careful, which can also be reasonable, or making sure this is right before committing fully, which sounds responsible until you ask what full commitment would look like and how it differs from what is currently being received. In practice, the distinction is this: you are inside a relationship. He is evaluating one. Those are different positions. They generate different behavior. You are building. He is assessing. You are accumulating evidence that this is real. He is accumulating evidence to inform a decision he has not yet made. The arrangement runs on the gap between those two positions, and it runs well, because the person under evaluation has no reason to know they are being evaluated. The Review Period is not cruelty, necessarily. The person conducting the review is not always aware of the full cost of what they are doing. They may genuinely be uncertain. They may need more time. Both of those things can be true, and the arrangement can still be extracting something from the other person that was never agreed to. What was never agreed to is the asymmetry. One person is in. One person is deciding. Neither has named the difference. The Review Period performs relationship behaviors at full resolution. This is what makes it difficult to identify from the inside. The contact is consistent. The warmth is genuine. The investment in your life, your problems, your history, your future plans is real enough to feel like the investment of someone who has already decided. He remembers the things you told him three months ago. He asks about the follow-up. He notices when something is wrong before you have said anything. He is, by every behavioral measure, a person in a relationship. That was Episode 9: The Review Period. Next week we move into Part Three. The relationships that remain after the ending—the ones defined by what broke, what lingers, and what you became inside the aftermath. We begin with The Ex You Still Sleep With. The relationship ended. The route stayed open. The episode is about what the body keeps in place after the mind has already filed the decision. Subscribe wherever you’re listening. And if you want the full field guide in one place, the ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠book is free to download⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ at ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠aleksfilmore.com⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠.

    The Review Period

  7. 2 Jun

    The Mutual Hostage

    THE MUTUAL HOSTAGE Episode 8 ALMOST podcast This is 'Almost.' A field guide to the relationships that don't have names. The Convenience was held in place by inertia. Nobody chose to stay, exactly. Nobody chose to leave. The relationship ran on its own momentum until momentum was the only thing left. This one is different. The Mutual Hostage is not passive. Both people know what the relationship has become. Both people have known for some time. What keeps them inside it is not the absence of awareness. It is the presence of a specific fear: that the person who ends this will become, in the story told afterward, the one who ended it. Neither of you wants that authorship. So neither of you moves. It is a Sunday evening and you are in the same apartment, in different rooms. Not because you are giving each other space. Because the same room has become harder to be in than it used to be, and both of you have learned, without discussing it, how to distribute yourselves through the apartment in a way that reduces the frequency of the moment when you are sitting directly across from each other with nothing left to say. You have been doing this for three months. You have not discussed the three months. There is a version of this conversation that begins tonight. There has been a version available every night for three months. It has not begun yet. Both of you are waiting. The Mutual Hostage calls itself going through a rough patch, which implies the patch is temporary and that something on the other side of it is worth reaching. It calls itself working through some things, which implies active labor toward a defined outcome. On particularly honest days, when the weight of it has accumulated past the point of maintenance, one of you says I don't know where we are right now, which is the closest either of you gets to the truth. The truth is simpler and harder. The relationship is over. Both of you know it. Neither of you has said so. What keeps the arrangement running is not love, or hope, or the genuine belief that the rough patch will resolve. It is the social and emotional cost of authorship. Ending a relationship requires someone to be the person who ended it. That person absorbs a specific kind of accountability. They become the one who gave up, or couldn't commit, or decided the other person wasn't enough. The accounting is rarely fair, but it is consistent. The person who leaves carries more of the weight in the story that follows. In the Mutual Hostage, both people understand this. Both people are waiting for the other to accept the cost. The arrangement holds as long as both people are willing to remain uncomfortable rather than become accountable. It can hold for a very long time. The Mutual Hostage has a specific texture of communication. You are still kind to each other. This is one of the arrangement's more disorienting features. The kindness is real. It is not performance. It coexists with the knowledge that the relationship is finished in a way that is genuinely confusing to be inside. You can care about a person and still know, at a level below argument, that what you have built together has run its course. The care does not contradict the knowledge. It makes the knowledge harder to act on. There are no longer any real fights. --- That was Episode 8: The Mutual Hostage. Next week: The Review Period. A relationship in which one person holds the arrangement under ongoing evaluation while receiving full relational access. The episode is about what it costs to live inside someone else's open verdict, and how long you can keep treating an audition as a relationship before the distinction stops mattering. Subscribe wherever you’re listening. And if you want the full field guide in one place, the ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠book is free to download⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ at ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠aleksfilmore.com⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠.

    The Mutual Hostage

  8. 26 May

    The Convenience

    THE CONVENIENCE Episode 7 ALMOST podcast This is 'Almost.' A field guide to the relationships that don't have names. The Borrowed Time contained a real relationship inside a confirmed ending. The intimacy was present. The grief was earned. This one is quieter and harder to justify leaving. The Convenience contains a real relationship inside a genuine absence. Nothing is wrong with it. That is the whole problem. The Convenience calls itself stable, which is often true. It calls itself comfortable, which is also often true. When pressed, it becomes I'm just not sure it's the right time to make big changes, which tells you most of what you need to know. In The Convenience, the right time does not arrive. The structure is built to postpone it. What it is, in practice, is a relationship held in place by the cost of leaving more than by the value of staying. The math is simple and rarely examined. Leaving would require logistics: the apartment, the shared accounts, the explanation to people who have absorbed the two of you as a unit. Staying requires nothing. Staying is what happens when nobody does anything. The Convenience runs on the path of least resistance and has learned to call that path commitment. It can look, from the outside, like a solid relationship. Regular contact. Shared domestic life. A mutual social circle that has stopped asking how things are going because things are always, visibly, fine. Fine is the operative word. It is the relationship's most characteristic product and its most accurate diagnosis. The Convenience has a particular quality of silence. It is not the silence of two people who have run out of things to say. It is the silence of two people who have quietly, over a long stretch of time, stopped requiring each other to be interesting. The conversation still happens. It covers logistics, shared observations, the minor weather of daily life. What has gone quiet is the part underneath: the desire to be known more fully than you currently are, the wish to be surprised, the sense that the other person's presence changes the quality of the room. You can love someone and still notice that their presence has become ambient. The affection is real. The attention has left the building. There is also a particular quality to the conflict in The Convenience, or rather to its absence. Couples who are fighting about the relationship are still, at some level, treating it as worth the expenditure. The Convenience has moved past that. The relationship is no longer worth a fight. The version of this that should concern you is not the argument you keep having. It is the argument you stopped bothering to have because the outcome would require a decision. You know what you would need from him that he has not offered in a long time. You have stopped naming it, because naming it would require him to either provide it or refuse, and either outcome leads somewhere the present arrangement does not go. The Convenience depends on questions remaining unasked. When a friend observes that you seem settled, you accept the word. Settled covers a range of conditions. At one end it means at peace. At the other it means you stopped. Neither of you has said that aloud. I stayed because the inconvenience of leaving seemed larger than the inconvenience of remaining. That sentence took me a long time to be able to say plainly. --- That was episode 7, The Convenience. Next week: The Convenience. A relationship held in place by the cost of leaving more than by the value of staying. Both people are fine. Fine is the whole problem. Subscribe wherever you’re listening. And if you want the full field guide in one place, the ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠book is free to download⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠ at ⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠aleksfilmore.com⁠⁠⁠⁠⁠.

    The Convenience
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About

ALMOST is the podcast about almost-relationships, almost love stories, and the commitment issues and emotional investment of modern love. These are the dating dilemmas no one names out loud, the patterns that get labeled as timing, as distance, as 'it's complicated.' Each episode untangles one pattern of love and uncertainty, showing what love and uncertainty really cost when you keep feeding the ambiguity. For anyone navigating relationships that live in the in-between and the emotional investment that keeps you there. New episodes every Tuesday. ALMOST is also available as a free eBook.

Information

  • Creator
    Aleks Filmore
  • Years Active
    2026
  • Episodes
    15
  • Rating
    Clean
  • Copyright
    © Aleks Filmore
  • Show Website
    ALMOST