Gemotions

"David Chen," the label announced. The former tenant. The one who'd left behind a mountain of unpaid bills and a lingering scent of stale cigarettes. Sarah didn’t want anything from David Chen.

She approached the box warily, as if it might bite. It was a small, flimsy thing, and it sat on her doorstep, a persistent reminder of all the work she'd done to clean up the apartment.

She carried the package inside, placing it on the kitchen counter. It felt heavy with unspoken complaints. She opened it, only to find a single, brightly colored balloon. She crumpled the packing paper and, without a second thought, tossed the box directly into the recycling.