A kitchen late at night, when you feel fine and want to stay that way — for a night when you do not want to think

The story, in full

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

The fridge motor stops, and the room gets even quieter. Through the window you can see the back garden, which is doing nothing at all. A plate dries on the rack with a slow drip every so often.

Your ankles can go loose now. Let your breathing get slower without deciding to slow it.

Let the back of your neck lengthen out. Let your thighs be as heavy as they want to be.

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.

Your jaw can drop slightly. Let your teeth part. Now feel your whole body at once, lying here, being held up.

Your elbows can stop being hinges for now. Feel your heels sink a little into the mattress.

The kitchen is warm, and the small light over the hob is the only one on. Someone upstairs turns over, and the ceiling creaks once.

If a worry shows up, name it quietly and let it sit beside you. Notice if you're being hard on yourself about any of this.

Let your calves spread out and flatten. Feel the back of your knees soften into the bed.

Let the room get slightly further away. Just the weight.

Let each breath be a little smaller than the last. You can stop listening properly. Slower.

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

Let everything get quiet, including this.

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