A kitchen late at night (a sleep story), when you feel fine and want to stay that way — for a racing mind

The story, in full

There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either. The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter. Your chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it.

There is a cup of tea beside you that has gone past drinking temperature. Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once. Through the window you can see the back garden, which is doing nothing at all.

Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.

Feel the weight of your head on the pillow. Feel your cheeks let go.

There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday. The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp.

Let your lower back sink down into the mattress. Let your toes stop holding on to anything.

Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Your elbows can stop being hinges for now.

The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on. The tiles under your feet are cold in one corner and warm in another.

Notice if your attention is in the future. Bring it back to the room. Notice any part of you that wants this to be over.

Let your hands be completely still. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.

Slower. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.

You do not have to count them. You can stop listening properly. Follow the breath out, and let the next one arrive by itself.

Feeling fine is a good reason to do this, not a reason to skip it.

Let the words go now, and take the quiet with you.

14 paragraphs, roughly 2 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, home.