The One Who Folds the Sheets

The bed’s made when I arrive.
Sometimes the corners are tucked tighter than I remember.
It’s a quiet kind of kindness—someone still smoothing the evidence of my unrest.

There’s a love that shows up like that: steady, practiced, predictable.
A love that stays when the thrill is long gone, that remembers to buy protein bars and remind you about birthdays.
The kind that says I’ve got you even when it no longer knows how to say I see you.

And then there’s the other kind.
It doesn’t fold the sheets; it sets them on fire.
It walks into a room and everything inside you turns toward it, uninvited and electric.
It reminds you there’s still something wild left under all that calm.

I got you feels like a warm blanket. Like everything’s going to be okay now that they’re here.

I used to think those loves were opposites—safety or spark, stay or run.
Now I think they live inside the same person, just at different times.
Maybe that’s the cruelty of it: realizing the one who steadied you once made you feel alive, and the one who woke you can’t stay.

Somewhere between the folded sheets and the flicker of that memory, I keep trying to find balance.

How to be grateful for the peace without resenting the quiet,
how to remember the voltage without chasing the storm.

Maybe love isn’t about choosing between them anymore.
Maybe it’s about honoring both—
the one who stayed, and the one who reminded me I was still capable of feeling.

The bed’s made with crisp sheets again.
The corners are tucked tighter than I remember.
Someone still smoothing away the evidence.

But why does I got you land so much deeper than the act of it?