Gemotions

He didn't bother opening the door all the way. He just saw the package through the peephole. "Harold P. Peterson," it read. The name felt alien in his own apartment. David sighed, the sound lost in the stale air of his apartment.

He pulled the blinds, plunging the room into semi-darkness. Every movement felt like an immense effort, a chore. His muscles ached, even though he'd spent the entire day sitting at his desk. He glanced at the pile of bills, the empty refrigerator, the looming deadlines.

He considered ignoring the package. Just letting it sit there until whoever sent it realized their mistake. But the thought of it sitting there, unresolved, created a fresh wave of uneasiness.