A kitchen late at night — a slow story for the end of the day, when you have been putting it off — for waking too early

The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter. There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either. There is a cup of tea beside you that has gone past drinking temperature.

Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once. The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp. Through the window you can see the back garden, which is doing nothing at all.

Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop.

The clock on the oven shows a time that feels later than it is. The tiles under your feet are cold in one corner and warm in another.

Let your upper arms fall wherever gravity puts them. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on. Your chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it.

Let your palms open if they were closed. Feel the weight of the blanket on your legs.

There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday. A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often.

Let your hands be completely still. Notice the places where your body touches the bed, and let them be heavy.

A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often. The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on.

Feel your wrists loosen. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.

There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday. Through the window you can see the back garden, which is doing nothing at all.

Notice the difference between a thought and the space around it. Notice whether you're breathing or holding. Start breathing again.

Notice how much of you has already stopped moving. Feel your belly rise and fall without any help from you.

Slower now. Just the breath.

Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. They will find their own way out. Let them.

Let the dark be ordinary. Stay with the weight of your body. Let the thoughts come and go without you getting up to answer.

You have been putting this off. Starting is the only step that matters.

Let this be the last thing you listen to.