Sylvie and I were close, but living together tested us. Our tiny apartment made every habit obvious—my leaving tea cups, her borrowing clothes. Then came the laundry debate.
One evening, I tossed sweaters and delicates in the dryer like usual. “Why are you doing that?” Sylvie asked, mixing concern with big-sister authority. I shrugged. “It’s just laundry.”
She warned, “Dryers ruin fabric. Towels and sweaters don’t mix.”
I rolled my eyes. “Clothes get washed. End of story.”
Weeks later, my sweaters felt itchy, thin. Then the worst: my favorite cream wool sweater—bought with my first paycheck—shrunk like a child’s. I tugged at the sleeves in disbelief.
Sylvie watched quietly. “I told you so.”
I searched online that night, learning heat breaks down fibers and mixing towels with delicate clothes accelerates damage. Guilt washed over me.
The next morning, I joined her folding laundry. “You were right,” I said.
She smiled softly. “We all learn the hard way.”
I laughed, spotting her own shrunken cardigan in the basket. “Guess the dryer doesn’t play favorites.”
We laughed together, the sweater gone but our bond stronger than ever.
