Same style, same color.
When Benedict took me along to dinner with his friends, they pointed at the shoes on my feet and the ones on Mila's, at how obviously different they were, and burst out laughing.
Benedict even explained it gently.
"It's not that I couldn't bear to buy you the real thing. I just worried they'd be too expensive, and then you'd be afraid to wear them."
Back then, I actually defended him in my head.
I told myself he'd already been good to me, that I was the one who shouldn't feel small over things like this.
I was afraid my discomfort showed too plainly, afraid he'd notice that I did envy her after all, so I kept finding reasons for him, over and over, and carefully glued my broken pride back together.
But only now did I understand that from beginning to end, he had never seen me as an equal.
Just like those friends of his, who had never truly thought much of me either.
I packed all of it into a cardboard box.
But as I sealed it shut, tears suddenly hit the tape.
I don't know how long it was before I fell asleep leaning against the side of the bed.
My dreams were full of the past.
I thought of my first year, dragging my suitcase as I stood in the bullet train station, unable to make sense of the subway lines, completely out of place in that city.
It was Benedict who lifted my suitcase, who took me to get my transit card and helped me find my dorm, who told me it was fine not to understand, that I could take it slow.
I thought of freshman year too, when I worked up the courage to sign up for a foreign-language speaking class, and then froze so badly during my first presentation that no sound would come out. Someone in the room laughed, and he stood up to cover for me, saying the unfairness of how education was distributed was no reason to laugh at anyone.
Back then, Benedict really was gentle, and really was patient.
He took me to concerts, taught me how to order at a nice restaurant, sat beside me the first time I ever flew.
He showed me so many things I'd never seen before, things I'd never even imagined I could touch.
Until Mila's exchange program ended and she reappeared beside us.
They were old friends, the same kind of people, raised in the same world.
The cities and schools and films and books they tossed around in conversation, I had to go home and quietly look up for ages before I could half-follow along.
And Benedict changed too, from that early patience into impatience.
He'd say:
"How do you not even know this?"
"Never mind. There's no point explaining it to you."
It was around then that I finally began to realize, bit by bit,
that between Benedict and me there was a gulf I could never cross, no matter how hard I tried.
The sound of the lock turning suddenly broke the dream.
When I opened my eyes, Benedict was walking in with the cold clinging to him, smiling as he said:
"Why are you sleeping here? Hurry and get ready. I've got a surprise for you today."
I looked at him dully.
It took me a long moment to remember that today was our third anniversary.
I nodded and said nothing.
I'd get through this anniversary properly.
At least give this relationship, already at its end, a decent ending.
But I never expected that his so-called surprise was taking me to a private-kitchen restaurant.
The moment the private room door swung open,
I saw Mila sitting inside, and beside her that whole crowd who had mocked me in their posts the day before.
I stood in the doorway, my fingers stiffening for a second.
Benedict seemed not to notice anything off about me, and explained in a low voice:
"Mila posted yesterday, and everyone got carried away with what they said, so you took it the wrong way. She was upset all night. She put this together today just to apologize to you."
When he finished, he even smiled and asked:
"Surprised?"
He took hold of my wrist and drew me a little further inside.
"All right, stop scowling. Mila's already come to you first. Just forgive her."
