How They Fall Apart

Red Chucks, canvas already soft and separating from the rubber sole. That’s the first time I remember actually noticing what shoes someone was wearing. They belonged to a girl I knew—not anyone important, just someone whose taste in things made sense to me even then. I wanted a pair after that.

Mine were bright and new and wrong at first, but they broke in fast. Every basement party, every rooftop situation, every messy hookup and terrible decision and conversation at 3 AM where you think something’s going to change—those shoes were there. They got destroyed. Canvas stained with spilled drinks and dirt and all the other damage, the rubber sole starting to split. They looked like they’d actually been through something.

Eventually they fell apart completely. The sole separated from the canvas and wouldn’t go back. I remember being surprised how much it bothered me—getting genuinely upset about a pair of shoes dying is stupid, but they’d been on my feet for three years and losing them felt like losing proof that any of it had happened.

I’ve bought Chucks since then. They all follow the same pattern: pristine and bright for about a month, then you stop seeing them and everyone else does too. They become just how you move through the world. By the time they’re finished, they’re invisible.

Converse puts out new colors every season. This year they’re doing a faded vintage palette, like someone old was trying to remember what their destroyed Chucks looked like. Which is funny—selling you the worn-in aesthetic before you’ve worn them in. But the shoes still find whoever needs them. That’s how it goes.