Gemotions

The cardboard box sat on the doorstep, a beacon of unwanted responsibility. Amelia sighed, her shoulders slumping as she hauled it inside. It was addressed to "Ms. Eleanor Vance," the phantom resident who’d vacated the apartment months ago. Amelia already felt like a failure; her latest attempt at a sourdough starter had yielded something that resembled a brick. Now, this.

She dragged the box across the worn wooden floor, her gaze avoiding the peeling paint. Why couldn't she be more organized? More on top of things? Eleanor Vance, whoever she was, probably had her life together. She probably didn't spend three hours yesterday agonizing over the correct way to load the dishwasher.

Opening the box, Amelia found a leather-bound journal. Its pages were crisp and untouched. She traced the embossed initials, her fingers lingering. A pang of something akin to envy twisted in her stomach. Eleanor, with her fancy journal, probably wrote poetry and climbed mountains. Amelia just…stared at her failed attempts. The journal felt heavy in her hands, a condemnation of her own uninspired existence.