"Green and White, and Finally Quiet"

By evening, I’m all edges.

The day leaves fingerprints on me. Fluorescent lights cling to my eyes. Conversations echo in the chambers of my skull. Notifications still flicker somewhere behind my ribs. I carry it home like static woven into my clothes.

And then there is the blanket.

Green and white.

Small squares of certainty.

Soft geometry that does not argue with me.

I plug it in and wait for the quiet hum, the low electric promise that warmth is coming. It begins invisibly, a slow bloom beneath the fabric, heat threading itself through the checkered lines. The pattern steadies me. Green. White. Green. White. Order where the day felt scattered.

When I pull it around my shoulders, I disappear in the best way.

The world reduces to a smaller map. The bright, sharp angles of the day round themselves out. My spine softens. My jaw unclenches. My thoughts, once racing in tight frantic circles, stretch out and lie down.

It's a cocoon, yes, but not fragile. It’s a fortress made of fleece and current. A grid that holds me together when I feel pixelated and flickering.

The green feels like quiet fields.

The white feels like breath.

Inside its warmth, I don't have to speak. I don’t have to decide. I don’t have to be impressive or efficient or agreeable. The blanket does not ask questions. It doesn’t need explanations. It simply knows to lower the volume, slow the pulse, bring me back to myself.

The silence here is not empty. It's padded. It’s merciful.

Wrapped in those steady squares, I'm less scattered. Less exposed. The overstimulation drains from me like rain sliding off a roof. What remains is something simpler. Skin. Breath. Heat.

Green. White. Green. White.

A pattern I can trust.

A small, glowing sanctuary.

A friend who never speaks but always understands.