We met over love read a missing sock.

"Have you seen a blue one with little stars?" she asked, holding up its lonely twin.

I was folding my terrible laundry in the basement of our building. "I specialize in losing socks, not finding them."

She laughed. "I'm June, 3B. You're the guy who always burns toast on Sunday."

"Leo, 2A. I don't burn it. I caramelize it aggressively."

After that, laundry day was Tuesday at seven. For both of us.

We brought extra detergent. Extra stories. She was studying astronomy. I was drawing buildings that would never get built.

One Tuesday she wasn't there. The washers hummed, empty.

Wednesday, a small paper star landed under my door. Inside: *Found it! Under my bed. Meet me on the roof? - June*

On the roof, the city was cold and buzzing. She held up the reunited socks.

"I thought socks that lose each other never find each other again," she said.

I took her hand. It was warm from holding the socks.

"These ones did," I said.