“Breaking news!!! I just lost a sock.”
My mind kept repeating as I searched the whole house – under the bed, behind the washing machine. Even in places that made no sense: the freezer, the cabinet under the sink, the bookshelf in the living room. Instead of the sock, all I managed to find was dust, receipts from coffee shops and supermarkets, and old hair ties everywhere. It felt less like a search and more like a reunion with my forgotten stuff.
Maybe it deserved freedom, that one sock. Maybe it survived the war inside the washing machine. Maybe it’s better off without me and its matching pair. Maybe it joined a union of my other lost things, like my favorite black T-shirt, the one that became too worn out to wear in public. Or the five-dollar bill I could swear was in the pocket of my jeans, and lastly, my silver ring, the one that kept leaving a green circle on my finger.
“Sources confirm: Adnan is talking to himself while searching for a single sock.”
Why are so many things missing? Why is all my stuff missing?
I sat on the floor in silence. The living room felt suspiciously calm, the kind of calm right before the Hollywood explosion scene, when the whole cinema would hold its breath.
I saw flashes of something green behind the curtain, a strong kind of green. I tilted my head, not sure if what I was seeing was real, then went after it, breathless.
“I FOUND THE SOCK! I FOUND THE SOCK!” I shouted, holding it up like a trophy, dirt and all, from behind my white curtains. I looked around and let out a breath.
“In a developing story, Adnan has found the missing sock… And has no one to share this update with.”
Do you know how odd it is to find your missing sock? There is this theory online where people joke that washing machines have secret portals for all the lost ones. Such an achievement, really! Like winning a war no one knew I was fighting.
Does finding a sock deserve a celebration? No, of course not. It’s just a stupid sock. It’s not like I climbed mountains to find it. I only spent the entire day turning my apartment upside down, searching under the furniture, interrogating the washing machine like a suspect, and missed meals for.
My victory didn’t last, and a rush of thoughts overcame me. I stared at the sock for a while, wondering why I even cared; I wasn’t going anywhere, I wasn’t even getting dressed. So why did searching for it matter, and why was finding it a victory?
Tired, I turned on the TV in the living room. The silence cracked a little, then sound filled the room with fake laughter from an old sitcom, the kind that comes in waves no matter what the line says. It felt normal. Familiar. Like a background noise pretending to be company, just enough to pull my head out of that sock.
I left the TV noise in the background as I got up and made my Indomie packet. The sitcom laughter kept timing itself perfectly. Every time I dropped something or burned my hand with the boiling water, they laughed. I almost said “Thank you.”
The smell of cheap spice filled my apartment. When the noodles were tender, I sat in my living room, eating straight from the pot, half listening to strangers joke about things that I don’t get.
The sock might still be behind the curtain. For a moment, I didn’t feel the urge to announce anything to the room. I just stared at the TV with a warm, tired smile on my face.
