Internal Affairs

The End of Her Urgency

She no longer wakes up before me.

There was a time when she was always ahead, pulling me into the day before I had a chance to breathe. But now, she lingers. She waits. She watches as I wake up on my own terms.

I feel her presence, but it’s different now. Softer. No longer a force dragging me forward, but a quiet companion. She still reminds me of things—tasks, responsibilities—but she no longer shoves me toward them.

I brush my hair. I drink water. I pause.

She doesn’t resist anymore.

She has learned that stopping doesn’t mean drowning. That stillness isn’t the same as collapse. That I can take care of myself without needing her to push me.

I glance toward her, and she nods. She is tired. She has been tired for so long.

“You don’t have to keep doing this,” I tell her.

She exhales, a weight lifting from her small frame. “I know.”

I don’t have to hold her hand this time. She steps back on her own, slipping into the quiet corners of my mind where she belongs—not gone, but at rest.

She trusts me now.

And I trust myself.

For the first time, I wake up without urgency.

And that’s when I hear the next one.

She is there before I even open my eyes.

Not like the other one—she doesn’t push, doesn’t rush. Instead, she lingers in the silence, pressing down on me like a heavy weight.

I know she is watching the light creeping in through the curtains. I know she is counting the minutes, dreading when it will be too late to stay in bed.

She doesn’t want to get up.

Neither do I.

Because waking up means stepping into the day, and stepping into the day means exhaustion. It means responsibility. It means being forced to move before I’m ready.

She curls up beside me, wrapping herself in the sheets. “Do we have to?” she whispers.

I sigh. “I think we do.”

She tenses. I feel it in my chest, in the way my body resists movement.

I know where she comes from. The early mornings that weren’t a choice. The weight of responsibility on small shoulders. The exhaustion that never ended.

She has never known a morning that was gentle.

I pull the blanket tighter around me. “What if we don’t rush?”

She peeks at me, unsure. “What do you mean?”

“What if we get up slowly? No pressure. No rushing to fix everything.”

She hesitates. I can feel her fear—if we get up, will the weight return? Will the day take over?

I reach for her hand, small and tense in mine. “We don’t have to be in a hurry anymore.”

She doesn’t quite believe me yet.

But she listens.