A kitchen late at night, after a long day — for

The story, in full

There is a bowl of fruit nobody has touched since Tuesday. The clock on the oven shows a time that feels later than it is. Your chair is pulled out slightly, the way you left it.

The tea towel is folded over the rail, still slightly damp. The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter. There is no reason to be awake, and no reason to move either.

Let your calves spread out and flatten. Let your forehead go cool and smooth.

Let the pillow take the whole weight of your head. Feel the top of your head relax into the pillow.

There is a cup of tea beside you that has gone past drinking temperature. Through the window you can see the back garden, which is doing nothing at all.

Let everything you were holding today stay on the floor beside the bed. Your eyelids can be too heavy to open, and that is fine.

Let your thumbs rest where they landed. Let the space between your eyebrows smooth out.

Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once. A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often.

Let your ribs stop working so hard. Let your lower back sink down into the mattress.

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.

Feel your cheeks let go. Let your tongue sit heavy in your mouth.

If you've lost track of where we were, you haven't lost anything important. If your body wants to move, let it move, then come back.

Let your feet get heavy first. Heavier than they need to be. Feel the weight of your head on the pillow.

Almost nothing to do now. Just the weight.

Let your attention settle somewhere low, like your feet. Sleep. Just the dark.

Stay with the weight of your body. The words can start to blur now. Let each breath be a little smaller than the last.

Use it at the end of a long day, not at the start of one.

The end. Sleep well.

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