By Rodriguez It was the beginning of a new semester when I first noticed her. A girl with soft, purple curls that matched the shoes she always wore. Every day, without fail, she wore a pair of purple hole-filled shoes—clogs, I suppose, but with a charm all their own. They had a kind of understated flair, especially when paired with her usual oversized cardigan and gentle, quiet smile. The shoes were more than just shoes; they were like a part of her, something unique that made her stand out in the sea of students at the library.
I was just another regular student, but I couldn’t help watching her every time she came in. I’d be at my usual spot near the windows, buried in textbooks and papers, but always, somehow, I found my eyes drawn to those shoes. I wondered if anyone else noticed them the way I did, but no one seemed to care.
One day, as she sat down at the table next to mine, I couldn’t resist. I had to do something. I reached into my backpack and pulled out a small flower I had found earlier—one of those little plastic clips you can buy in the stationery section. I carefully placed the flower at the edge of her purple shoes and arranged it just so. I wanted it to say something, something simple, without words: “Hi.”
I didn’t think she would notice. I didn’t think she would care. But she did. When she saw the flower, her eyes sparkled, and she smiled, an almost shy smile that made my heart skip a beat. She gently plucked the flower from her shoe and placed it in the pocket of her cardigan. I could feel my pulse racing. Was that it? Was that my “Hi”?
I didn’t know, but I didn’t care either. At least she had noticed. At least she had smiled.
The next day, she was sitting at the same table. And to my surprise, she had done something. She had returned the gesture. Sitting on the edge of her purple shoes was a small mint candy, wrapped in cellophane. She had carefully placed it there, like a secret message I had to decode.
With trembling hands, I picked it up. There were no words attached, just the mint itself—a simple gesture, but so much more meaningful than I could express. I smiled, carefully unwrapped the candy, and popped it into my mouth. It was sweet, fresh, like something from a dream I didn’t want to wake up from.
The next few weeks passed in a blur. I continued to see her at the library, and every now and then, I would leave small notes for her—silly little things, asking if she would like to chat. I would fold the notes small and slip them into the holes of her shoes when she wasn’t looking. Every time, I’d return to find another candy or a new note waiting for me, tucked neatly into the next hole.
One day, I did it again. I slipped a note into her shoe, this time asking, “Would you like to chat today?” It felt bold, but I couldn’t help it. I had to know if she wanted the same thing I did. I had to know if she felt something too.
But that day, something was different. When I entered the library, I saw her sitting at the table, but she wasn’t wearing her usual purple holey shoes. No, today, she had on a pair of sleek black high heels. She was still reading her book, still immersed in the pages, but those shoes—they were sharp, elegant, and everything the purple clogs were not.
A cold wave of panic rushed through me. She looked beautiful, yes, but… what did this mean for our little game? What had happened to the shoes that had started it all? My mind raced. Was she tired of the shoes? Was she moving on from that quirky part of her? What if she was moving on from me too?
I sat there, frozen in place. My eyes kept flicking to her shoes, to those high heels, trying to make sense of it all.
But then, as if she had read my thoughts, she stood up and walked towards the book return bin. She bent down to place a book inside, and when she did, I saw it—just for a second—peeking out from behind the book return slot.
Her purple holey shoes.
My heart skipped. She hadn’t left them behind after all. She hadn’t abandoned them. They were still here.
In fact, they had been returned to the place where it all began: the book return slot. And there, nestled inside one of the holes of the shoes, was a small piece of paper. I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was a note—my note, the one I had slipped into her shoes a week ago. She had kept it, just like she had kept every other note I had ever written.
I carefully pulled out the note. On the back, written in neat handwriting, were the words: “I keep every note you’ve sent me in a shoe box at home.”
My heart soared. She had been collecting them all along. My notes, my little messages, all tucked away in the shoes she wore so proudly. She had been holding onto everything I had shared, just as I had been holding onto the moments we shared without saying a word.
I took the note and tucked it carefully into the front pocket of my bag. I couldn’t help but smile as I looked at her purple shoes one last time.
From that moment on, I never worried about whether or not she would wear the purple clogs again. It didn’t matter. She was keeping them safe, just like she was keeping everything else safe.
And with that, the next time I saw her, I didn’t need to leave any notes. I simply sat beside her, and for the first time, I smiled and said, “Hi.”