The night’s event was a showcase for the new collections of many of the world’s finest brands, and it was being held at a venue close to Lebno’s shop.
A long runway bisected the room, on which models with backs as straight as rods passed one another, pausing every so often as they strolled to and fro. World-famous figures were among those in attendance: fashion editors, luxury-brand buyers, actresses, royalty from around the world, and chart-topping pop idols.
Among all of these glamorous celebrities was Miucha, who sat with her legs crossed, pleased with herself. If she were just another employee of the shoe company, she would’ve been backstage with the other staff. Instead, she was sitting with the exalted guests thanks to the very special position she occupied: Lebno’s girlfriend.
She wore a fine dress and accessories rented with company money. Of course, her shoes were Lebno Listchaques. She’d gotten a first-rate stylist to do her hair. She looked her very best, and she was sitting in the front-row seats, close enough to smell the models’ perfume. It was an undeniable thrill to see luxury couture worth millions of berries pass right before her face. And she got to sit next to Lebno, a world-famous designer.
Thinking about how she must look from someone else’s perspective filled her with pride and elation. Nami had no right to pity her. What did she know?
I couldn’t be happier, she thought.
“I’m excited to see her come out,” Lebno murmured, watching a model in a beige coat pass by.
“Hm?” Miucha responded.
“I’m talking about Nami.”
The model in the beige coat vanished at the end of the runway. Lebno’s gaze followed her all the way to the stage door; he must’ve really liked that coat.
“I’m so tired of seeing these hideous plebes wearing Lebnos. Only a small handful of true beauties like her are worthy of wearing my brand.”
Miucha looked down at her own feet and thought, What does he think of me wearing his shoes?
“My shoes are dead,” Lebno often complained. She couldn’t count the number of times he’d said it. The more famous his brand became, the more disillusioned he became. His shoes filled the town. They were everywhere now.
“It used to be that wearing Lebno Listchaques was a sign of being part of an elite group, blessed by my forward-thinking fashion. My shoes sent the message that the person wearing them wasn’t one of all the other losers,” he would say. “But now everyone’s wearing my shoes. Idiots who don’t know the first thing about shoes are buying them up slavishly, just because of the Lebno name. It’s a nightmare. No one cares about having shoes that are comfortable and excellently designed. As long as there’s a Lebno logo on the bottom, they couldn’t care less.”
Lebno steadily lowered the quality of his shoes. Ironically, it did nothing to slow the sales. It was worth putting up with the pain to earn prestige, Lebno’s fans helpfully decided, and so they kept buying expensive shoes that made their feet hurt. Lebno’s name was recognized around the world, and he was constantly putting out new styles. They were disposable shoes, meant to last for one season.
He had learned to compromise, Miucha thought. He had loosened his grip on his pride and decided to focus on business. He was even selling goods to pirates out the back door, to recoup some of the costs of his lavish fashion events. If she wanted to stay at his side, Miucha would have to do the same thing. She had forgotten her childish dream of making shoes that felt good all the time, no matter how long you wore them. Now she followed Lebno Listchaque’s lead.
She looked up. The models strolling back and forth in fancy clothing had stony, lifeless expressions that they wore like armor.
In between two brands’ showcases, the music faded out, and she heard a little chuckle pass Lebno’s lips.
“All these houses are using their most famous models, but we’re going to put them all to shame. Nami is better than any of them.”
“She is unbelievably gorgeous,” Miucha muttered. Then, realizing how grumpy she’d sounded, hastened to add, “I can’t wait.” She turned to face him and smiled, but his attention was glued to the runway. He wouldn’t have noticed if she had gotten up and walked away.
“Lebno Listchaque!” called out the master of ceremonies.
Nami would be the first model on the runway. Miucha felt conflicted. She didn’t particularly want to see Nami’s face at that moment, but she also couldn’t help but think about how beautifully Nami would show off those red shoes on the runway.
A classic song started playing. The round spotlight framed Nami as she walked slowly into view.
“What?” Lebno gasped.
Miucha held her breath. Lebno’s brows were knitted in confusion. Nami was not wearing the clothes they’d fitted her for earlier in the day.
She wore a blue-green cropped tank top and jean shorts. Both were made of ordinary material and were clearly her everyday clothes. She had no makeup on, and her long hair cascaded down her back. It was an utterly careless and casual look, completely unbefitting of a fashion show—except from her ankles down, where Miucha’s heels dazzled as shiny and red as candy apples.
Nami lifted her chin, glared at the crowd, and began to walk.
Tak, tak, tak—the sound of her heels cut right through the background music. She strode boldly down the runway, her long legs supported and complemented by Miucha’s pumps.
“She’s beautiful,” Miucha murmured, without thinking.
She was just purely Nami, her gleaming copper hair and her shoulder tattoo her only accessories. Her appearance was simply representative of who she was in the world, like a tree casting its branches toward the sun, or a dazzling spiderweb glistening with the early-morning dew.
Once she reached the end of the short runway, Nami turned around. The audience didn’t make a single sound. They held their breath and gazed upon Nami in her supreme confidence.
She wasn’t meant to be a model, probably. Everyone’s attention was drawn to her; no one was paying attention to her clothes or shoes. But she walked like a total natural down that runway, because her shoes were comfortable and her clothes were practical.
Miucha’s hands curled into fists.
She was jealous of Nami to her very core, simply full of loathing and frustration and unbearable envy. How could anyone look so strong while dressed so plainly?
Nami finished the last few steps up the runway, then vanished to the side, leaving behind a silent and entranced audience.
I have to go to her, Miucha thought.
Miucha stood up to follow her, but immediately lost her balance.
Oh, that’s right, I’m wearing our shoes tonight. Of course I can’t even walk!
“What are you doing? You’re such a mess,” Lebno snapped, but she couldn’t care less about him. Miucha removed her shoes and held them as she ran on bare feet toward the dressing room. The staffers she passed in the hallway were too busy with their own work to notice that the woman rushing past them wasn’t wearing any shoes.
“Miucha.”
It was Nami, standing right there in front of her. Unlike all the tense people rushing around backstage, she was totally relaxed and comfortable.
“Nami, I…” Miucha started.
“I’m sorry,” Nami said with a friendly smile. “I had a change of heart right before the show and switched outfits. That dress wasn’t bad, but it felt really tight. The whole point was to show off the shoes, so it was actually better this way, right?”
Of course it wasn’t better, Miucha thought. But for some reason she couldn’t say it. She just exhaled.
“It was kind of a surprise, actually,” she said.
Nami was still wearing the same outfit. It was simple and natural and didn’t rely on gimmicks to accentuate her looks, and yet she was absolutely stunning.
Belatedly, Miucha realized that it was people like Nami that she had wanted to make shoes for. She had never wanted to make shoes that looked beautiful but were horrible to wear. She’d kept on making shoes that she didn’t like because she had convinced herself that being Lebno’s girlfriend was the most important thing in her life, that as long as she had that, she could be happy. But the truth was, she’d been suffocating for ages.
None of it was Lebno’s fault. It was all her own. She’d been trying to decorate herself with things that weren’t of her own making. Miucha took a deep breath and made a fateful decision.
“I’m going to quit working for Lebno.”
After meeting Nami, she had come to the realization that she hated this version of herself, the version who wasn’t able to do what she loved. Prior to that, she had believed that it was necessary to put up with this job she hated and didn’t want to do.
“I’m going to be unemployed tomorrow. And my friends won’t be impressed about how I’m going out with Lebno anymore.”
“What’s wrong with that? You don’t need their flattery. It’d be worse if you lost the strength to keep a smile on your face,” Nami said.
Is she ever frightened of anything? Miucha wondered. Nami looked into her eyes and gave her a big smile.
“As long as you’re thankful to be alive and true to yourself, all sorts of wonderful things will come to you,” Nami assured her.
“How can you be so sure?”
“Someone important taught it to me.”
“Who?” Miucha asked.
Nami didn’t answer. She just pulled on Miucha’s arm, drawing her closer, and patted her head like a child. The feeling of her gentle bodily warmth filled Miucha with sudden and unexpected relief. Tears blurred her vision.
“You’ll be fine. You don’t have to work for a first-rate brand. You don’t need to have a famous designer boyfriend. You can be happier than you are now.”
But you don’t know that, Miucha wanted to say, but the only sound she made was a sob. Nami’s hair brushed over Miucha’s cheek—a brilliant, unforgettable curtain of bright orange.
A sound came from deep in Miucha’s chest, as every towering misconception she’d built up, everything she had once believed was of value, crumbled into a satisfying pile of rubble.
Ignoring the suspicious stares of busy staffers passing them in the hallway, Miucha sobbed openly in Nami’s arms. It took an entire ten minutes for her tears to dry and for her to feel calm at last.
Feeling self-conscious, Miucha finally pulled away and sniffled. Her face was bright red. A grown woman, bawling like a child. She felt ashamed of herself.
Miucha reached into her pocket and awkwardly pulled out the key to the stockroom. She held it out to Nami, not meeting her eyes.
“I promised you. Take all the shoes you want,” she said.
“I don’t want any,” Nami said easily. “I prefer a more casual style, and I found something perfect already.”
“Huh?”
“All I want are these red heels you made for me,” Nami replied.
Then why did she do the show? Miucha wondered, gaping, as Nami strode past her and down the long hallway to the door.