Eight Years of Walking Barefoot

My childhood friend, Wesley, had a shoe closet he loved to brag about.

She gets a spark of inspiration, and suddenly Ive got another pair, hed say, gesturing casually to the rows of custom boxes. I have more than I could ever wear. But if I try to sell them, she gets jealous. Why don't you take a pair, Logan?

Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he let out a self-deprecating sigh. "Right, I forgot. Gwen is a luxury designer. Why would you want her throwaways?"

I instinctively tucked my feet under the bench, hiding my cheap, worn-out sneakers from the discount rack.

Gwen, a renowned name in haute couture footwear, had never designed a single pair of shoes for me. Not even her flawed samples were allowed near my feet.

"I have artistic standards," shed tell me whenever I asked. "If a piece isn't absolutely perfect, I won't let it touch the market. Its about integrity."

But during our playful wrestling over the box, the lid slipped, and a shoe tumbled out onto the rug.

I froze.

The shoe on the floor was the exact design I had begged Gwen to make for me months ago.

After eight years together, I knew Gwens design signature better than anyone.

"Logan? You okay?" Wesley waved a hand in front of my face.

My throat felt incredibly tight. "Yeah. It just... looks familiar."

Wesley stiffened. He quickly snatched the shoe back, slipping it into the box with practiced ease. "Familiar? Come on, all sneakers look the same these days. Don't overthink it."

"Is that so?"

A cold dread began to pool in my chest.

After leaving Wesleys apartment, I walked down to the street before realizing Id left my keys on his counter. I turned back, but as I reached the lobby, I saw Gwens car pull up to the curb. She got out, moving with a quiet, practiced familiarity straight into the building.

My heart constricted.

I followed her up, stopping just outside Wesleys apartment door. Through the thin wood, Wesleys anxious voice carried clearly into the hallway.

"Gwen, Logan seemed to recognize those shoes. What if he suspects something?"

"He won't," Gwen replied, her voice cool and entirely composed. "Logan rarely goes into my home office anyway. Even if hes seen the drafts, he wouldn't remember."

"Wes, stop worrying."

"Wes."

The casual intimacy of the nickname hit me like a physical blow. A dark, suffocating wave of realization washed over me, and I clenched my fists so hard my nails bit into my palms.

Wesley hesitated. "Are we... is this really okay? Logan is my best friend. He took care of me when I was broke, brought me to Boston, and helped me get on my feet. I feel like a monster doing this to him..."

"Wes, just give me a little more time. I'll handle it."

A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. My chest felt violently torn open, leaving me hollowed out and breathless. I didn't even have the strength to push the door open and confront them. Numb and disoriented, I made my way back to the apartment I shared with Gwen.

Passing her home office, her words echoed in my mind. I pushed the door open.

Her desk was cluttered with sketchbooks, and her laptop was awake. I sat down and began to scroll. Deep in her local files, I found an encrypted folder labeled simply "W."

I paused, then typed in Wesley's birthday.

It opened instantly.

A cascade of design files flooded the screen, each one piercing my chest. Every single sketch was carefully dated.

The first was from October 11, 2023. It was titled "The First Encounter".

I remembered that date. It was the day I brought Wesley to Boston, the day Gwen met him for the first time.

Once, I had asked Gwen to design a pair of shoes to commemorate our first anniversary. She had brushed it off. "Design needs to flow naturally, Logan. I don't like forcing things."

Despite my disappointment, I had tried to understand. I thought it was just her artistic integrity.

The second sketch was dated February 14, 2024. Our anniversary. A day she insisted on skipping because "performative holidays are for insecure couples." I had swallowed the disappointment, telling myself she was just too pure for commercialized romance.

But she wasn't incapable of romance; she just didn't want to waste it on me.

She had designed a pair of shoes with wave motifs for Wesley, celebrating their first holiday together. And that night, she had told me a client needed an emergency redesign and didn't come home.

Then there was their first weekend getaway, their first New Year's countdown...

Over three years, she had designed hundreds of shoes for him. Even the pair I had begged her forthe one she refusedwas designed solely to make Wesley happy.

My vision blurred. My hand shook so hard I could barely control the mouse.

But I kept scrolling to the very bottom.

I froze.

It was an unfinished sketch of a wedding shoe. The entire design incorporated the letters of Wesley's name into the delicate embroidery.

Gwen always told me she couldn't design our wedding shoes because she hadn't found the "right inspiration for happiness" yet.

But her happiness simply never included me.

My throat tightened, tasting the bitter salt of my own tears.

After a long time, I wiped my face and called my boss, Frank.

"Hey, Frank. That relocation offer to the Zurich branch? I'll take it."

An eight-year relationship built on a lie. I was done holding on.

"Really?" Frank sounded surprised, then hesitated. "Zurich is a long-term placement, Logan. At least two years. Will Gwen be okay with that?"

Before, I would have hesitated. I would have worried about her being lonely, about the strain of long-distance. But that required her to actually love me.

"I'll be fine, Frank," I said quietly.

Frank sensed the heavy shift in my voice but didn't press. "Alright. I'll book your ticket. You fly out in two days."

After hanging up, I searched for Wesley's Instagram account.

Since moving to Boston, he had become a lifestyle influencer, documenting his daily life. His most frequent posts featured shoes gifted by his "secret girlfriend." Because of the unique designs and the romantic stories he attached to them, he had built a decent following.

The comments were full of people praising his "thoughtful girlfriend" and expressing envy.

I used to think he just had a talented partner, which explained why they were always too busy to meet me. I never imagined that partner was Gwen.

Every single pair in his posts matched Gwen's sketches perfectly.

What a joke. I had even congratulated him on finding such a catch.

His latest post was a photo of half-eaten palmiers from a local artisan bakery. The caption read: "Sweet on its own, but sweet and blissful when shared with you."

When Gwen came home that night, she carried a pastry box from that exact bakery. "I remembered you like palmiers, so I grabbed some on the way back."

But she forgot one thing: I hate sweet food.

Swallowing the bitterness, I looked at her and said, "Gwen, let's get married."

She froze.

"Let's wait a bit. My inspiration has been dry lately, and I want to design the perfect wedding shoes first."

The same old excuse.

I thought back to her early days in the industry. She couldn't get any commissions and had to set up at local flea markets to sell her samples. To get her the best spot, I would wake up at 4:00 AM in the freezing winter to camp out. Once, I got a severe fever but refused to go to the doctor, saving every penny to pay her vendor fees.

Back then, she had cried and held my face. "Logan, one day I'm going to design a one-of-a-kind wedding shoe for you. I'll let the whole world know how happy you make me."

I believed her. I waited from age twenty to twenty-eight.

"I don't want to wait anymore, Gwen."

Startled by my bluntness, her expression darkened. "Logan, can you not pressure me like this? Is a piece of paper really that important to you?"

She turned and walked into the bedroom.

I closed my eyes.

The next day, I went to the boutique hotel I managed to handle my transition paperwork. As I was about to leave, a colleague asked me to cover his evening shift.

That night, the banquet manager mentioned a private room was booked for a design studio's celebration. "The owner is a rising star in the shoe industry, Gwen Song. She just won a major award and plans to propose to her boyfriend tonight. She asked us to prep our best private suite."

My heart skipped a beat. I knew I shouldn't hope, but I couldn't help it.

Until she walked in.

And Wesley was right beside her.

Both were dressed in formal attire, looking like a perfect couple.

Since Gwen's studio took off, she had told me she didn't want employees gossiping about her private life, so she banned me from visiting her work. I thought she just kept a strict line between personal and professional. But seeing how familiar her employees were with Wesley, I realized she just didn't want "me" there.

"The red carpet is ready! The wedding shoes are waiting!"

"We all know Gwen designed these for Wesley. It's time to make it official!"

The room erupted in cheers.

Wesley smiled warmly, while Gwen blushed, presenting a beautifully crafted pair of shoes for Wesley to put on. The tenderness in her eyes was something I had never seen.

A sharp ache rose in my chest. Even though no one here knew me, I felt the humiliating sting of my own foolishness.

Then, Gwen's eyes met mine.

The air went still.

I took a slow breath, turned around, and walked away. Not to run, but to preserve whatever dignity remains of these eight years.

Gwen ran out after me.

"Logan, don't get the wrong idea." Her beautiful face carried a flicker of annoyance, masked by a placating tone. "The staff were just joking around. It's just office banter."

I looked down at her, silent.

She continued, "The award-winning design only came together because WesI mean, Wesleygave me the creative spark. This dinner is just my way of thanking him."

Then she added, "Besides, you're the one who told me to look out for him. I thought I was doing this for you."

Right. When Wesley first moved here, I was worried he'd be lonely and asked her to help him adjust. Back then, Gwen told me I was overthinking it and that Wesley wasn't a child. Now, she used my own kindness as her shield.

"And giving him a pair of wedding shoes is also 'doing it for me'?"

The bitterness in my throat was overwhelming.

Wesley walked out, looking incredibly anxious. "Logan, please don't misunderstand. We were just playing around. These shoes... Gwen actually designed them for you."

He frantically tried to pull them off. But he forgot that we didn't wear the same size. The shoes were visibly loose on him, yet they would never fit my larger feet.

Wesley's face drained of color. "Maybe... a design error..."

I looked at his pale face, remembering when we were kids and he was getting beaten up, and I stood in front of him. When his stepfather cut off his allowance, I made a scene in the neighborhood until the man backed down. When he had a wage dispute with a corrupt boss, I stayed up for nights preparing his labor arbitration files to get his compensation.

I never begrudged him any of it. He was my best friend.

And now, he was the one holding the knife in my back.

Wesley shifted uncomfortably under my gaze. "Maybe I should just leave. Logan, please don't be mad."

"No, stay," Gwen said, her voice thick with worry for him. "Your stomach is acting up. You need to eat. Go back inside."

She turned to me, her eyes turning cold. "Can you stop being so petty? Wesley is your best friend. Why do you have to make things difficult for him?"

"Petty."

The word landed like a physical blow, shattering the last remaining piece of my heart.

Gwen seemed to have forgotten that when we first started out, she couldn't make a dime. I worked three jobs to support her. I skipped meals, pulled double shifts, and ruined my own stomach. The chronic ulcers were so bad I would spend entire nights curled on the bathroom floor, unable to sleep.

But in eight years, she never remembered my stomach issues. She didn't care about my pain.

The massive divide between her care for Wesley and her neglect of me left my heart completely hollow. I had nothing left to say.

Wesley looked at me, stepping away from Gwen. "I'm fine. I don't want you and Logan fighting because of me."

He turned to leave, but in his haste, he bumped into a heavily intoxicated female customer.

"Watch where you're going!" the woman snapped.

Already frustrated, Wesley shoves her back. "You're the one stumbling drunk. Keep your eyes open."

The confrontation escalated instantly. The woman grabbed a wine glass from a nearby cart and hurled it. "Say that again!"

The glass shattered. A flying shard grazed my cheek, leaving a sharp sting.

In my peripheral vision, I see Gwen lunging to pull Wesley out of the way without a second thought. "Wes! Are you hurt?"

In that moment, I had to admit defeat. Complete, absolute defeat.

Gwen noticed my bleeding cheek, and a flash of panic crossed her eyes. She took a step toward me. But Wesley let out a sharp cry. "My ankle..." He winced, gripping his leg.

Gwen's attention snapped right back to him. She held him tight. "Don't worry, I'll take you to the ER." She looked back at me. "Wesley can't handle pain. I have to get him to a doctor. Get that cut on your face cleaned up, okay? I'll come back for you."

And then she was gone.

I stood in the hallway, the cut on my cheek turning numb.

The drunk woman, seeing her targets gone, turned her fury on me. Knowing I was the manager, she screamed, "I'm a VIP member! Is this how you treat your guests?"

She made a massive scene, drawing crowds from other rooms. Since I was only covering this shift, a formal complaint would ruin my colleague's record. I had to swallow my pride and apologize. Her friends demanded penance. They lined up three glasses of high-proof whiskey. "Drink these, or this doesn't end."

The alcohol hit my empty, damaged stomach like liquid fire. A violent, searing spasm radiated through my entire body.

When I finally stumbled out of the hotel, the pain was so intense I can barely stand. I leaned heavily against the cold brick wall, my hand shaking as I dialed Gwen's number.

"Gwen... my stomach hurts so bad... can you please come..."

"Hold on, Logan, I can't leave right now."

In the background, I heard Wesley's voice whimpering in pain. Gwen hung up.

The world went black, and the pain swallowed me whole.

When I woke up, I was in a sterile hospital room. The doctor was looking at me with deep frustration. "How could you be this reckless? You have severe, advanced gastric ulcerspractically on the verge of stomach cancerand you're drinking hard liquor?"

I froze.

Though they pumped my stomach in time, the doctor warned me the damage was severe and would leave lasting issues. I touched my stomach. The very last thread of hope in my heart snapped.

The next day, I discharged myself and returned to the apartment. Gwen wasn't there. I open my phone and see a text she sent last night:

"Wesley was in so much pain, he couldn't be left alone. Logan, try to be the bigger person here."

I didn't reply.

Instead, my phone notifications chimed with a public post from her studio. It was a collection of romantic photos from the banquet last night. She was proposing to Wesley in front of the crowd.

The internet quickly found Wesley's account. Matching it with his previous posts, the comment section was flooded with congratulations.

"No wonder those shoes were so beautiful! She's a genius!"

"Congratulations!"

"A match made in heaven."

I stared at the screen. It was absurd, sickening, and cold. I decided I was done protecting her.

I uploaded a thread containing my eight years of relationship history with Gwen, the dates of her sketches, and my hospital admission slip from last night, posting it directly under her studio's announcement.

"Now you two can be together without any burden. My best friend and my partner of eight years."

I turned off my phone, packed my single suitcase, and headed to the airport. As the plane prepared to taxi, my screen lit up with a call.

"Gwen."