The first raindrop hit me at exactly 8:14 a.m.—a cold, fat splat square on my left toe-box. I knew we were in trouble immediately. My human, Ellie, didn’t notice. She was sprinting across a vacant parking lot, late for work, latte sloshing, tote bag flapping behind her like a panicked duck.

“Run faster,” I tried to tell her. Of course, humans never listen to their shoes until something squeaks, leaks, or falls off entirely.

The rain escalated from flirtation to full-blown disaster in seconds. Water surged over the curb and straight into me. I am suede—delicate, expressive, and deeply unsuited for this level of moisture. Or I was suede. Now I was something closer to damp despair.

We dodged an SUV (nearly flattened me), hopped two puddles (Ellie squealed; I absorbed them), then plunged into a third she misjudged entirely. I swallowed so much water I briefly considered learning to swim.

At last, she yanked open the office door and looked down. “Oh my God, you poor things.”

Now she notices.

I spent the next eight hours drying miserably under her desk like a soggy woodland creature. Ellie complained all day—about her presentation, the broken elevator, Sandra from accounting, and the vending machine swallowing her dollar. Humans think they have problems.

By five o’clock, the storm returned with sequel-level enthusiasm. Thunder rolled ominously.

“We’re doing this again?” Ellie sighed.

Yes. Yes, we are.

Outside, rain lashed sideways. But this time she tiptoed around puddles, shielded me with her bag, and even whispered, “Hang in there, buddies.”

Honestly? That mattered.

By the bus stop, rain formed a solid curtain. Ellie ducked into the glass shelter—and that’s when I noticed him.

Next to me stood a pair of black patent leather shoes. Gleaming. Untouched. Glossy, like he had his own lighting crew.

“Rough day?” he asked.

“You have no idea,” I said.

“I rarely get wet,” he replied smugly. “My human won’t even walk through morning dew.”

“Oh, fancy,” I muttered.

“I’m premium finish,” he said. “Umbrella only.”

“I’m premium suede,” I snapped. “Or I was, before the clouds reenacted Waterworld.”

He shuddered. “Water spots make me ill.”

“Try being submerged to your insoles,” I said. “I think I have tadpoles in my arch support.”

He paused. “Point taken.”

We shared a moment.

“You ever think,” he said quietly, “that we spend our whole lives being stepped on?”

“Physically. Metaphorically. Emotionally,” I replied.

He nodded. “No one asks how we feel.”

“Exactly. It’s always ‘These hurt my feet’ or ‘You’re scuffed.’ Never ‘Shoe, are you okay?’”

“Humans,” he sighed.

Then he glanced at Ellie. “Your human tries, though.”

“She does,” I said. “She shielded me. Risked her papers.”

“You’re lucky,” he said. “Mine only cares about appearances.”

Before I could respond, the bus roared in, splashing a tidal wave over us.

He screamed.

I sighed. “Welcome to my life.”

He looked at me differently now. “You’re tougher than you look.”

“Survival builds character,” I said.

We boarded. Ellie sat. My soles relaxed.

As the bus pulled away, the rain softened to a gentle patter. Even soaked through, I felt something close to pride.

There are worse fates than being the shoes of someone who tries.

Even in the rain.