Gemotions

The chipped ceramic mug felt heavy in Amelia's grip. It was the same one she’d been nursing lukewarm coffee from for the past three hours, the bitter taste a constant reminder of the to-do list sprawling across her desk. A cardboard box sat by the door, addressed to "Mr. Thomas Finch, Apt. 3B." Amelia’s heart sank. She’d been in 3B for five months, and still kept getting mail for the previous tenant. She sighed, pushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

She wasn't sure if she had the strength to go out and deal with anything. The air in her small apartment felt thick, almost suffocating. Closing her eyes for a moment, she imagined the contents of the box – probably more junk, more obligations.

The phone buzzed, a fresh assault on her senses. It was another email notification. "Later," she mumbled, pushing the mug away. The thought of opening the package filled her with a profound sense of inertia.