Sunday Short: SLOTH

Evan believed effort was overrated.

Why rush when food could be delivered?

Why move when everything came with a screen?

Why live when you could exist?

His world was his bedroom — blackout curtains, empty energy drink cans, unwashed laundry fossilizing on the floor. Days blurred into nights, nights into games, games into nothing at all. His parents knocked. Pleaded. Threatened.

Evan ignored them all.

Then one night, while scrolling mindlessly at 3:47 a.m., he saw it.

A handcrafted Italian leather couch.

Deep black. Plush. Luxurious.

“Perfect for those who appreciate rest.”

Evan smirked.

“If I’m going to be lazy,” he muttered, “might as well do it in style.”

The couch arrived two days later — no delivery crew, no signature required. It was already waiting in the living room when Evan dragged himself downstairs. The leather was warm to the touch. Softer than anything he’d ever felt. It seemed to sink slightly when he pressed his hand against it, like it was breathing him in.

He collapsed onto it without hesitation.

And sighed.

The couch hugged him perfectly — every curve, every slouch, every bad posture he’d perfected over years of inactivity. He didn’t even bother turning on the TV. He didn’t need to.

He slept.

---

When Evan woke up, he didn’t feel rested.

He felt… settled.

His body was heavier, as if gravity had increased overnight. His phone buzzed somewhere out of reach, but the thought of moving was exhausting. His arms felt glued to the armrests, his back pressed impossibly deep into the leather.

“It’s fine,” he whispered. “I’ll get up later.”

Later never came.

The couch warmed around him, leather tightening like skin. Each breath he took sank him deeper. His legs disappeared first, swallowed inch by inch. He felt pressure — not pain, just acceptance.

The couch didn’t trap him.

It invited him.

Days passed. The room smelled faintly of leather and something else — something human. Evan’s parents shouted. Searched. Eventually, they stopped shouting.

When the police came, all they found was an empty house and a couch that looked brand new.

Evan was reported missing.

---

Months later, with medical bills piling up and hope running dry, his parents sold the couch online.

“Barely used. Extremely comfortable.”

The buyer was a young man who laughed as he dragged it into his apartment.

“Man,” he said, dropping onto it. “This is perfect. I could sit here forever.”

The couch sighed.

And waited.