The Text That Doesn't Need a Reply Tonight | Hypnosis

Begin by letting the breath drop down into the belly. A slow breath in. A slower breath out. And again. In, through the nose. Out, through the mouth, like a quiet sigh. Feel the weight of your body where it meets whatever is holding you. The mattress. The chair. The floor. Notice that you do not have to hold yourself up. Something else is doing that for you. Let your jaw unclench. Let the tongue rest behind the lower teeth. Let the small muscles around the eyes go quiet. If the phone is nearby, you can imagine it growing a little further away with each breath. Not gone. Just further. Each exhale, a little softer. Each inhale, a little slower. You may notice the mind still chattering. That is fine. That is what minds do. We are not trying to stop the chatter. We are only changing where you are listening from. Imagine your awareness drifting back, just a few inches, behind your eyes. Like sinking back into a comfortable seat at the back of a quiet room. The thoughts are still happening, somewhere out in front of you. But you are back here. Resting. Watching. Breathing. And with every breath out, a little deeper into that soft, settled place. Down. And down. And down.

I want you to imagine you are sitting beside a slow river at dusk. The light is low and golden. The water moves quietly past you, in no hurry at all. The bank beneath you is soft and warm. You can feel the earth holding you. On the surface of this river, leaves are floating by. Different shapes. Different colours. Some large, some small. Some moving quickly, some drifting almost still. You are not in the water. You are sitting on the bank, just watching. This river is your mind, and the leaves are your thoughts. Some of the leaves carry words. Some carry pictures. Some carry feelings. You do not have to grab them. You do not have to push them away. You just notice them as they pass, and they keep moving downstream. Notice how the river never stops. There is always another leaf. And another. And yet, here on the bank, you are still. The you that is watching, that you is not made of leaves. That you is the calm space where the watching happens. Settle into that space now. The space behind the thoughts. The wider you.

And now, with each number I count down, you sink deeper into that wider self. Ten. Deeper into the bank of the river. Nine. The body heavier, warmer. Eight. The breath slower, longer. Seven. The leaves keep floating by. You keep watching. Six. Any tension in the shoulders, draining down through the arms. Five. Halfway down. So much softer now. Four. The mind a little quieter with each number. Three. Or perhaps just as busy, and you simply less tangled in it. Two. The bank beneath you wide enough to hold anything. One. And zero. Resting now in that place behind the thoughts. A place that has always been here. A place that was here before you ever picked up a phone. A place that will be here long after tonight. Breathing. Watching. Whole, just as you are.

Now I want you to bring to mind, gently, the person you have been waiting to hear from. Not the panic. Not the spiral. Just their name. Their face. The small shape of them in your life right now. And then, as you sit by the river, notice the leaves that start to move past. Here comes one. It carries the words, they should have replied by now. Notice that thought. Do not argue with it. Do not believe it. Just see it. And let it float past. Here comes another. It carries the words, maybe they have lost interest. Watch it arrive. Watch it leave. Another leaf. I did something wrong. Another. They are talking to someone else. Another. I am too much. Notice each one. Each one is just a thought. A leaf on the water. Not a fact. Not a prophecy. Just a passing mental event. Now, very gently, I want you to try a small experiment. Take the loudest of those thoughts. The one with the most pull. And put a phrase in front of it. Say silently to yourself, I am having the thought that. I am having the thought that they have lost interest. I am having the thought that I am too much. Feel the difference. The thought is still there. But now you are the one having it. You are not it. You can take it one step further. Say to yourself, I notice I am having the thought that. I notice I am having the thought that they should have replied. Notice how a small space opens. A doorway between you and the story. That space is where your freedom lives. Now, the urge. The urge to check the phone. The urge to refresh. The urge to draft a follow up. That urge is also a leaf. It feels enormous, because it is wearing the costume of survival. Somewhere inside, a younger part of you believes that watching the screen is the same as being safe. Tonight you are going to tell that part the truth. Whisper to it, kindly. Sweetheart, the screen is not the connection. The screen is just glass. The person on the other side has a whole life. They have meetings, and traffic, and tiredness, and other people, and feelings of their own. Their silence is not a verdict on you. Their silence is simply silence. And you, you are allowed to have an evening that is yours. So when the urge comes, you do not have to fight it. You only have to notice it. Notice the urge to check. Name it. There is the urge. Watch it crest, like a wave. Watch it fall. Because every urge, every single one, eventually falls. You do not have to obey it for it to pass. And as you practice this, again and again, something quiet begins to change inside you. You begin to trust that you can hold your own attention. You begin to remember that you existed, fully, before this person. And you will exist, fully, no matter what they type or do not type tonight. Your worth was never on that screen. It was never in the three dots that appear and disappear. Your worth is the bank of the river. Steady. Wide. Always here. Let that land. The text does not need a reply tonight. Not from them. Not from you. Tonight, the only message that matters is the one you are sending to yourself. I am here. I am whole. I can wait without disappearing.

Now imagine it is later this week. You are at home in the evening. The light is low. You have just sent a message to someone you like, and they have not yet replied. Notice the old familiar pull. The hand reaching for the phone. The flicker of worry behind the ribs. And notice what is different. You pause. You breathe. You say quietly to yourself, I am having the thought that something is wrong. And you smile, just a little, because you recognise the leaf for what it is. You set the phone down. You let it go face down on the table. You walk into the kitchen. You make something warm to drink. You feel the cup in your hands. The heat. The weight. The realness of your own life. The phone is still there, somewhere behind you. You have not destroyed it. You have not become someone who does not care. You have simply become someone who does not vanish into it. Later, when the reply comes, or does not come, you notice you are okay either way. If they reply, lovely. You answer when you are ready. If they do not, the night still belongs to you. The bed still holds you. The morning still arrives. See yourself going to sleep with the phone in another room. See the soft, steady breathing of a person who knows that connection is built over time, and that no single message can make or break a love worth having.

In a moment I am going to count up from one to five, and you will return, gently, to the room. Bringing with you everything you have learned tonight. The river. The leaves. The space behind the thoughts. One. Awareness returning to the body. A little movement in the fingers. Two. The breath naturally deeper, fuller. Three. A soft stretch through the shoulders, the neck. Feeling rested. Four. The mind clear and quiet. The phone, just a phone again. And five. Eyes opening, when they are ready. Calm. Steady. Home in yourself.

From now on, whenever you feel that old urge to refresh the thread, you can take one slow breath and silently say, I am having the thought. That small phrase is your doorway back to yourself. Be kind to the part of you that learned to watch and wait. It was only ever trying to keep you connected. You are allowed to put the phone down. You are allowed to be loved at a normal, human pace. Rest well tonight. The text does not need a reply, and neither does the worry. Goodbye for now.