Anything could be in a package while you're having a panic attack. The severed head of your best friend stares from within the cardboard walls, their two undilated pupils will never meet yours again. The bomb, caged and patient, awaits your trembling fingers. You could end it all with one flick of your wrist. Remove the lid of this box and someone will get their revenge. You will tear into a million tiny pieces. Someone will watch as your tragedy is broadcasted to an uncaring nation. A tired father of three changes the channel as your heartbreaking story is revealed on the news. Your lover of four years has written a note. They can't be with someone as fragile as you. Maybe they found someone better. Maybe you're a bad person. They have found every belonging you ever ”accidentally” left at their house and shipped it back to you. There will be no hearts on the note. There will be no apologies. The faded ink will smudge under your tears. Your mind will devour every vowel, every half-formed idea until each sentence is a villain in your nightmares. You have seen your father’s vitals on a square screen. You have heard the mechanical beep of his heartbeat. You saw him just five days ago. He told you that you could have his jacket once he was gone. You know, the puffy red one? Now that you think about it, what else could be in that package? What else could there be but the echo of a flatline? You reach, fingers imitate an earthquake. You prepare yourself for sorrow. Death. Rejection. Your fingers close around a scrap of paper settled amongst something soft. ”Happy late birthday! We love you!”