Laea didn’t know a word for the sort of tiredness that was dragging itself through her.
She knew about bone-tired and dead on her feet, the sort that pulled her into bed like gravity and stopped every thought in her head halfway through its course.
She knew about exhausted and drained, the kind that begged for blankets to crumple inside and distractions to silence the thousand things that were chasing her.
She knew about weary and wasted, when she needed to put down that heavy weight for a while, or at least be reminded of why it was so important to move it from one place to another.
But Laea didn’t know the word for I’ve been doing this for far too long, sitting here far too long, and just standing up would slide this day toward its better side.
She rolled her shoulders, stretched her spine, then went back to the fabric in her hands. She kept her hands moving, stitched and pinned, worked and sat. There was too much left to do to abandon her place on the floor now, and if she couldn’t find the word for it, she could make herself believe that it didn’t really exist.
For at least a little longer.