Describe a time when you had to wait for a delivery.

My thumb kept skating over the cracked screen, refreshing the tracking page until the little wheel spun like a liar. OUT FOR DELIVERY, it insisted. The words glowed calmly while the afternoon outside my window thrashed itself into rain.

A motorbike coughed somewhere down the street. I snapped up so fast the chair legs protested. Silence followed—thick, deliberate—broken only by the ceiling fan’s tired tick and the fridge’s soft, asthmatic hum. The air smelt of damp cardboard, because I had already flattened a space on the floor as if preparation could summon arrival.

I told myself it was only a parcel.

But my hands disagreed. They had that tremble you get before an exam, or a confession, or a funeral. The delivery was meant to be at noon. It was past three. The live map—when it bothered to load—showed a tiny icon drifting in circles like a lost insect.