"The Closet Chronicles: Love, Chaos, and One Rogue Shoe"

**Oh, Ben... I Love You Too...**

But...

You’ve done it again.

You left the closet door wide open.

That wasn’t just a door—it was a symbol of trust! A promise to coexist in a shared space without making me feel like I’m living in a haunted house.

I’ve been patient, Ben.

The bathroom cabinet...

The fridge door...

Even the time you left the front door ajar because you “thought I was right behind you.”

But this?

This is the third night in a row I’ve walked into our room and been confronted by the gaping maw of the closet door, shadows spilling out like an invitation to every horror movie demon you can imagine.

“It’s fine,” you said last night, casually brushing it off. “It’s not like a monster’s actually going to come out.”

Ben, do you think that’s the point? Do you think I *enjoy* lying awake, staring into the darkness, imagining some eight-legged terror creeping out to nibble on my toes? Because I don’t.

It’s not just about monsters. It’s about *order*. About respect for the sacred boundaries of a tidy, adult household. You know what a closed closet door says? It says: “This is a safe and responsible place.”

You know what an open closet door says? It says: “Welcome, chaos. Please make yourself at home.”

And don’t think I didn’t notice the trail of evidence, Ben. Oh no. I see the shoe you left half-pulled from the rack, the T-shirt hanging from one corner of the hanger like it’s clinging to life, and, worst of all, the single sock abandoned in the center of the floor.

“It’s just a door, babe,” you said the first time I brought it up. “Why does it bother you so much?”

Oh, Ben. Sweet, oblivious Ben.

It bothers me because it’s never *just* a door. It’s a gateway to everything I fear. Spiders. Ghosts. The slowly encroaching realization that you might never, ever put your dirty laundry in the hamper.

Do you remember the vows we made when we moved in together? Okay, maybe they weren’t actual vows, but we agreed on *principles*. Things like:

- No eating chips in bed.

- No blaming the dog for farts we both know are yours.

- And no, under any circumstances, leaving the closet door open at night.

Yet here we are, Ben. You’re out here testing my patience, my courage, and my ability to not scream every time I see my own reflection in the mirrored closet door at 3 a.m.

And don’t even get me started on the *time*. Do you know how many cumulative minutes I’ve spent closing that door? Minutes of my life I’ll never get back? I could’ve learned a second language by now. I could’ve mastered the art of sourdough.

Instead, I’m over here, risking my life to shut the portal to Narnia because you can’t seem to remember a basic rule of human decency.

But you know what, Ben? I still love you.

I love the way you laugh at your own bad jokes. I love the way you fold the towels into perfect little squares, even if you do leave the closet looking like the aftermath of a hurricane.

And I know you don’t mean to drive me crazy. I know you’re not intentionally staging a psychological thriller in our bedroom.

So I’m going to let this one slide.

But, Ben...

*If I trip over one more rogue shoe in the middle of the night, you and the closet door are both sleeping on the couch.*