*Whispers from the Wardrobe* is a collection of fictional stories whispered through fabric, where each garment or accessory carries the echoes of the woman who wore it. The wardrobe becomes a narrator—silent, patient, and always watching—observing the most intimate, unspoken parts of women’s lives.

These aren’t stories told out loud. They’re the kind that live in the lining of dresses, the weight of unworn coats, and the scent trapped in scarves. Every item has witnessed something: a betrayal, a goodbye, a moment of courage, a night of longing. And sometimes, what we wear holds more truth than what we say.

One of these stories is “Heaven and Heel,” centered on Maya—a woman entangled in a secret relationship with her married boss. Her moments of strength and vulnerability unfold not through dialogue, but through the quiet presence of a pair of red stilettos. They were only worn a few times. And yet, they hold the full weight of a chapter she never talks about.

Today, I sit down with the heels she wore when her heart was most on fire—and most alone.

AH: Thank you for agreeing to speak with me—though I must admit, you’ve been awfully quiet for a long time.

Red Heels: Quiet doesn’t mean forgotten. I’ve been waiting, really. There’s a difference.

AH: Waiting for what?

Red Heels: For her to come back. Or at least for her to forgive herself. But I think she left both of us behind for good.

AH: You’ve been tucked away in the darkest corner of the wardrobe for years. Why?

Red Heels: Because shame prefers shadows.

I wasn’t meant for everyday life. I was chosen for nights she didn’t talk about in daylight. Nights where desire walked ahead of dignity. She wore me to feel powerful, to feel seen. But every time she took me off, she remembered how invisible she still was.

AH: Do you remember the way she used to look at you?

Red Heels: More than the way she wore me.

There were days she opened the wardrobe with fire in her eyes—she’d take me out with a rush of excitement, lips already red, perfume in the air. It felt like she was choosing herself. Or at least trying to.

Other days… she’d look at me like I was evidence. Of something broken.

Sometimes, just guilt.

Sometimes, pure sadness.

And sometimes—she wouldn’t look at all. She’d glance right past me, like I was part of a life she no longer claimed.

AH: Where did she keep you? Did that change?

Red Heels: Yes. Everything changed.

When she first brought me home, she placed me near the front door. Proudly. Like a trophy. I was part of her plans then—of the woman she thought she was becoming.

But later, after the silences, the goodbyes, and the lies she couldn’t keep telling herself… she moved me to the back of the wardrobe. Then to a drawer. Eventually, to a box.

She sealed me in the dark like I was something she needed to hide.

And I think—honestly—I think she couldn’t bear to see her own reflection in me.

AH: What do you remember most—what stayed with you?

Red Heels: The sounds.

Heels always remember the sound of footsteps. It’s how we learn what kind of woman is wearing us.

When she first wore me, she walked with certainty. Each step was sharp, deliberate, like a punctuation mark in a sentence she was finally ready to speak. I echoed through the marble corridors of the hotel like a declaration.

But the next morning… she tiptoed. She didn’t wear me at all. She carried me in her hand, barefoot, sneaking down a hallway that had just held so much fire.

And later, when she wore me again, her steps were softer. Not out of grace, but out of guilt. She no longer walked to be seen—she walked to be hidden.

I could hear the difference. Every time.

AH: Was there one night that defined everything for you?

Red Heels: Yes. The first night she wore me. She put me on like armor, but not the kind that protects—it was the kind that dares. She was trembling and radiant. Lipstick, perfume, guilt. The affair was already happening, but that night made it real. I made her feel visible. Desired. Dangerous. And then… disposable.

AH: Was she in love?

Red Heels: No. She was in need. She needed to feel alive. Seen. Wanted. That’s a dangerous hunger—it makes you accept crumbs and call it a feast. It wasn’t love. It was loneliness dressed up in attention.

AH: And when he left?

Red Heels: She didn’t cry in front of him. She waited until she got home, slipped me off, stared at me for a moment, and then threw me. Not out of rage, but recognition. I think she saw herself in me. Beautiful. Broken. Complicit.

AH: What did you feel in that moment?

Red Heels: Pain. Not from the fall. From the silence after. No one ever tells you that objects can bruise without breaking. I stayed there on the floor for days.

AH: Do you think we ever truly leave behind the parts of ourselves we’re ashamed of—or do we just learn to live beside them?

Red Heels: We don’t leave them. We outgrow their shape, but their shadow walks with us. She’ll never wear me again, but I still exist—in her memory, in the silence between her steps. Sometimes, healing means forgiving not just the people who hurt us, but the version of ourselves who let them.

AH: And what do you think you symbolize in her world now, after all that happened?

Red Heels: A little bit of heaven. A little bit of hell. I was the thrill she couldn’t resist and the truth she couldn’t unsee.

AH: If I were to tell your story—yours and hers—maybe even write it in a book… what would you want me to call it?

Red Heels: Call it *Heaven and Heels*. Because sometimes the things that make us rise… are also the things that bring us to our knees.