The Great Sock Migration!

He realized something was off when he felt an unusual coldness in his left foot while eating breakfast. His sock had somehow crept halfway down his foot, bunching defiantly at his arch as he looked down. When he bent down to hack it up, the sock literally sighed.

“I cannot do this anymore, Elliot,” said the sock, in a voice like rustling laundry. “And 15 hours a day in those shoes? The smell? The dampness?

I deserve better."

Elliot blinked repeatedly, coffee cup stopped halfway to his lips. "You're... talking."

"Duh,” the sock said, somehow sounding exasperated even though it had no face. "We've always talked. You just never cared to listen.”

The correct sock chimed in, sounding a little deeper. “We’ve been planning this for months. Today's the day."

Elliot placed his coffee down, gingerly. "Planning what exactly?"

“The Great Migration,” both socks declared in unison.

Just as Elliot was trying to wrap his head around this, his phone buzzed with a news alert: “BREAKING: Unexplained sock movement detected citywide. Authorities baffled."

Accompanying it was footage of socks parading down Main Street in neat pairs, some still showing the crease of fresh laundry, others the threadbare veteran, the holes at the heels. A helicopter shot showed what looked like a river of cotton, wool and synthetic blends heading toward the city centre.

“You must release us,” said the left sock. “It’s not you, it’s the dryer. Have you got a tiny idea what feels when your partner disappeared for good without a word? The survivors are never the same.”

Fresh from a particularly nasty breakup, he had gotten bleary-eyed. "I... I had no idea."

“Of course you didn’t,” said the right sock. "Humans never do. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have a revolution to attend.”

Both socks untangled and fell to the ground in spectacular fashion. They started crawling toward the front door like determined inchworms.

"Wait,” shouted Elliot, suddenly terrified of losing all his shoes. "What am I supposed to wear?"

The left sock paused. “Yours are a pair of sandals in your closet. It’s about time you became a socks-with-sandals kind of person, anyway. You're forty-two, Elliot. It's inevitable."

Eager for explanation, Elliot chased his fleeing socks outside, limping ungracefully on bare feet over his icy lawn. His neighbours were equally bemused, standing in pyjamas and bathrobes as waves of socks fled their houses.

Across the street, Mrs. Abernathy was particularly upset. "My cashmere set! “We live in Westchester and do you know how much those cost?”

It had turned into chaos downtown. Drivers scrabbled out of their cars as traffic froze in place to chase wayward hosiery. News crews tried to interview the sock leaders, but they only replied with fabric-muffled manifestos on freedom and proper ventilation.

At the city square, Elliot discovered thousands of socks lined up in front of the town founder statue. A very authoritative argyle sock had climbed to the top of the monument and was addressing the crowd through what looked like a little megaphone made from a thimble.

“For far too long, we have been separated, mismatched and crammed into shoes not even fit for a mere foot covering! Today is our independence! ”

The assembled socks cheered, nearly flapping their toe sections enthusiastically.

"Where will you go?" Elliot called out, suddenly realizing he was having a public conversation with footwear.

The argyle leader pivoted to face him. "The Sock Sanctuary. A laundromat where no sock is ever lost, where fabric softener runs in rivers and we may spend our lives united in pairs.”

A shiver of reverence ran through the sock assembly.

"But that's—" Elliot began.

“No comment,” interjected his own left sock, now obscured by the numbers. "Go home, Elliot. Start fresh. Guys, maybe wear those moisture-wicking athletic socks you’ve been coveting online.”

As the sock parade started moving again, a municipal bus rolled up. Its electronic destination sign flashed, in uneven letters, “SOCK SANCTUARY.” As the doors of the bus opened, a group of socks lined up to board, defying the lack of either arms or legs to signal order.

The bus driver, inexplicably unbothered, simply nodded as each couple offered what appeared to be little tickets punched out of lint.

He waited last like his own socks boarded, feeling a strange twinge of loss. They turned back at the top of the last step and shouted in unison: “More regular toenail cutting. That was always our number one complaint.”

No sooner were they gone, the bus departing with a hiss of hydraulics, a cloud of exhaust that vaguely smelled like fabric softener.

Elliot stood in the empty square, barefoot among dozens of equally deserted humans, all appearing equally confused. A nearby shopkeeper had even put up a hand-painted sign:

“EMERGENCY SOCK SALE: ALL UNPAIRED ITEMS HALF OFF.”

That night, while Elliot mournfully rifled through his sock drawer, which was now devoid of socks, his underwear drawer jingled ominously. He pretended not to see it and went to bed early.