I shut the door with my foot and lean my forehead against it for a second longer than necessary.Home.
The word doesn’t mean warmth to me the way it does to other people. It means silence. It means control. It means I can take off the mask I wear outside and let my shoulders drop without anyone asking me why I look tired or why I don’t smile enough. My flat smells faintly of instant noodles and coffee, which is honestly on brand for my life right now.
I kick my shoes off, drop my bag on the chair, and tie my hair into a messy knot. My body hums with leftover energy from the day, the kind that doesn’t let you relax immediately. My mind is still running through checklists—what’s done, what’s pending, what I need to order tomorrow, what I need to tell the contractor that he absolutely cannot ignore.
I’m halfway through washing my hands when there’s a knock on the door.
I freeze.
No one comeshere. No oneevercomes here.
My first instinct is irritation. My second is suspicion. I dry my hands slowly, quietly, and move toward the door without making a sound. The hallway outside is dim, the kind of dim that makes shadows look longer than they are.
I open the door a crack.
A man stands there.
He’s wearing a mask—one of those plain black ones that hide everything below the eyes. A cap pulled low. Hoodie zipped up. Average height. Nothing about him stands out, and that somehow makes him stand out more. His posture is still, almost too still, like he’s waiting for something.
For me. He doesn’t speak. He just looks at me.
Not the casual glance of a delivery person checking the address. Not the polite look of someone about to ask a question. This is different. His eyes linger. Too long. Unblinking. Studying.
My stomach tightens.
“Yes?” I ask, keeping my voice steady even though my fingers curl slightly around the door edge.
He doesn’t respond.
“I didn’t order anything,” I say, sharper now.
Still nothing.
He holds out a small package. No logo. No receipt. No name written on it.
“I’m not accepting it,” I say immediately. “You have the wrong address.”
For a second—just a second—I think he’s going to argue.
Instead, he lowers his hand, nods once, and turns around.
Just like that.
He walks away down the corridor, footsteps unhurried, as if nothing about this interaction was strange. As if he didn’t just stand there staring at me like he was memorizing my face.
I shut the door and lock it.
Then I lock it again.
“What the hell was that?” I whisper to the empty room.
My heart is beating too fast. I press my palm against my chest, forcing myself to breathe. People make mistakes. Delivery people mess up addresses all the time. That’s the logical explanation.
But logic doesn’t explain the staring. Or the silence. Or the fact that he didn’t say a single word.
I shake my head hard, physically trying to knock the unease loose. I refuse to spiral. I refuse to give power to something that could very easily be nothing. This is what my brain does—it takes a small thing and stretches it into a nightmare.
I turn toward the kitchen.
