Some say love is a battlefield. I say it’s laundry day.

Let’s talk about socks. More specifically, the great sock conspiracy—the one that has left countless people with one lonely sock and no closure. You put in a full pair, wash, rinse, dry… and boom. One disappears. Gone. No note. No goodbye.

People say it’s just a fluke, but I don’t buy it. I believe socks are sentient. Some of them, after years of foot duty, decide they want something more. They hear tales from the lint trap. They dream of escaping the dryer and starting a new life—free from toe jam and static cling.

Have you ever moved a washing machine and found a lone sock behind it? That’s not an accident. That’s an escapee who didn’t quite make it. The ones that do vanish completely? They’re out there living their best lives. One’s probably a dog’s chew toy now. Another’s on a sock puppet tour of middle schools. One might even be starring in an avant-garde art show in Brooklyn.

Meanwhile, you’re left with its partner. The leftover. The forgotten. A silent monument to what once was. You think, “Maybe I’ll find it next time.” You won’t. That sock is gone.

So what do we do? We keep the orphan sock. We hope. We believe. Because maybe, just maybe, one day it’ll come back. And when it does, we’ll welcome it—not with questions, but with open drawers.

Until then, we carry on. One sock short, but spirits intact.