For several seconds he didn't move, half-certain that moving would bring the precipice back.

He has just woken. The mountain is gone. His bed is real, the ceiling is solid, the fall did not happen. And yet he does not move. Not because he is hurt. Because part of him believes that stillness is the only thing keeping the danger away. That if he shifts, even slightly, the edge will return.

This is what fear can do. It outlasts the thing that caused it. The body stays braced long after the threat has passed. He is safe, and he knows it, and he still cannot fully trust that knowing.

You may recognise this. A moment that is over, finished, gone. But you hold very still anyway. You breathe carefully. You do not let yourself settle, because settling feels like it might invite the worst back in.

There is nothing wrong with needing a moment before you believe you are okay. Sometimes the heart needs a few seconds to catch up to the truth of where you are now.

What are you still holding yourself still against, even though the moment has passed?