Dear Alina,
We are your shoes.
We argued before you slipped us on this morning.
Of course, we don’t have the luxury of arguing out loud. But like you, we have silences that speak louder than words.
We’ve sat on shelves. In boxes. Beneath your bed. Lined up beside all the others like obedient thoughts you hadn’t chosen yet.
There are many of us.
Too many, some would say.
But they don’t know that every pair carries a version of you that none of the others ever got to live.
Which pair do you think is speaking to you today?
The flawless ones still tucked away in their box?
They still believe in a special occasion.
They’re innocent.
The high heels that pinched your feet while you hid the pain behind a smile?
They’re actresses.
They would lie for you.
The pair you bought in a rush because you hoped to become someone else by Tuesday?
They barely know the way you walk.
No.
Us.
The ones by the front door.
The ones you barely notice anymore.
We know the truth about you because whenever you wear us, you forget to perform.
People know their own faces.
We know the way you walk.
A face can pretend.
A person’s walk almost never does.
We know the difference between the steps you take along roads chosen by others and the ones you take, filled with longing, fear, and excitement, on your own path.
The sole never confuses the two.
We remember the mornings when you didn’t want to leave.
You hesitated much longer than necessary before putting us on.
Your heel hovered in the air.
You took a deep breath.
Then came the decision.
Always forward.
We remember the days you walked so quickly it felt as though everything inside you would collapse if you slowed down.
We remember the quiet walks.
The ones no one knows about.
The ones where your thoughts became louder than the world around you.
We softened for you.
We learned the shape of your resilience.
The angle of your hope.
We know which foot you lean on when something hurts.
We know the weight with which you carry your steps when it’s difficult to carry yourself.
We remember your joy too, although you tend to forget that part.
Your steps became quicker.
Almost buoyant.
You never quite trusted happiness enough to place your full weight on it.
And yet…
We felt it.
The lightness.
The way you barely seemed to touch the ground.
We wished we could have told you then:
You’re allowed to stay here a little longer.
But shoes don’t speak.
They simply carry you.
The other pairs could tell stories about the people you tried to become.
The elegant one.
The fearless one.
The one who left too soon.
The one who stayed too long.
We are the pair that knows who you were when no one was watching.
Worn along the edges.
Slightly uneven.
Real.
If you ever want to know yourself, don’t look at the shoes you display.
Look at us.
We have been shaped by every step of your becoming.