A kitchen late at night — a slow story for the end of the day, when you only have a few minutes — for an overtired night

The story, in full

A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often. The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp. Your chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it.

The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on. There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either. There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday.

Let your forehead go cool and smooth. Notice how much of you has already stopped moving.

Let your toes stop holding on to anything. Let your palms open if they were closed.

Through the window you can see the back garden, which is doing nothing at all. The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter.

Let your shoulder blades spread out and drop. Let your thumbs rest where they landed.

Your ankles can go loose now. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.

Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once. The clock on the oven shows a time that feels later than it is.

Feel your wrists loosen. Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed.

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.

Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it. Notice your hips, wide and settled.

If you feel numb, that's a valid thing to feel. Nothing to fix. If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back.

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

Slower now. You can stop listening properly.

Slower. Let it all get further away. Just the weight.

You do not have to count them. Let them. Let the quiet be boring.

A few minutes is the whole requirement.

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

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