A kitchen late at night (a sleep story), when you have already had a long week — for an overtired night

The story, in full

Your chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it. The tiles under your feet are cold in one corner and warm in another. There is a cup of tea beside you that has gone past drinking temperature.

There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either. Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once. The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter.

Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up. Let the back of your neck lengthen out.

Your fingers can stop doing anything at all. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday. The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on.

Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.

Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy. Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them.

Through the window you can see the back garden, which is doing nothing at all. The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp.

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let your ribs stop working so hard.

The clock on the oven shows a time that feels later than it is. A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often.

Feel your heartbeat somewhere far away. Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be.

Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once. There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either.

Let your hands be completely still. Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head.

The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on. The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp.

Notice the pull to make this mean something. It doesn't have to. Notice how quickly your mind labels things: good, bad, boring, nice.

Feel one shoulder go heavy, then the other. Feel your cheeks let go.

Leave it there. You do not have to count them.

Let them. Stay with the weight of your body. Let the quiet be boring.

Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. Let the room get slightly further away. The words can start to blur now.

Long weeks are cumulative. This is a small subtraction.

Let this be the last thing you listen to.

21 paragraphs, roughly 3 minutes read slowly aloud. Written for warm, home.