“Just friends” are two of the most heart-wrenching words in the English language. When Mr. Perfect waltzes into your life and chooses those two words over the three others a woman would much prefer to hear, life becomes a bit more complicated. When women are faced with this scenario, they would like to choose all or nothing rather than some compromised medium that seems to mock the time and energy spent into what had once been a relationship. Simultaneously, they don’t want to give up Mr. Perfect and toss him out of their lives either, in hopes that their continuous presence will remind him of the past or perhaps one day cause a brick, Cupid’s arrow or another form of hypothetical weaponry to hit him and make him realize his mistake.

Honestly, I cannot, in words, express the pain I had to endure to maintain a friendship with Mr. Perfect. His sporadic phone calls and text messages gave way to my slow insanity as I grew nauseous and anxious with every vibration of my phone, anticipating that it might be him, knowing that it probably wasn’t.

And when it was him, the conversation was so brief and insignificant that I had questioned why he contacted me at all. As the time passed in his absence, my wall grew taller and I grew stronger. But with every re-entry into my life, Mr. Perfect effortlessly broke down my only protection, leaving me vulnerable once again.

Since words sometimes fail me, I am going to put this into terms more readers can understand: Mr. Perfect is like a pair of shoes. I’m not just talking flip-flops, boots, sneakers or slippers. I’m referring to that favorite pair of shoes-the 3- or 4-inch heels that sit smiling at you from your closet. The ones that match with practically any outfit and compliment your figure by making you appear taller and, consequently, thinner.

But with every silver lining comes a cloud. Those same high heels that miraculously lengthen your body and invite any pant legs to grace over them with the perfect flare and distance from the ground also, unfortunately, provide the most uncomfortable feeling almost immediately after slipping them on.

At first, it’s a small pain in the toes that you sense but ignore in hopes that breaking them in will alleviate the tenderness. But over time, the pain doesn’t abate at all. Instead, it transfers to the heels and intensifies until, finally, your feet go numb altogether, and you cannot feel a thing. And as familiar as this dreadful feeling is, and as often as women have sworn to never wear those shoes again, they remain our favorite pair. We still slip them on every Friday night, forgetting the pain we are about to endure, and every night still ends the same way.

Mr. Perfect was my favorite pair of shoes. And despite the pain that it caused me to be around him, I couldn’t help myself. At the end of the day, the feeling it gave me to be with him was worth the heartache it caused every time we hung up the phone or said goodbye. And as much as I promised myself that I wouldn’t let him in again, I always did. It got to the point that I wasn’t wearing the shoes anymore. The shoes were wearing me.

After a while, you have to begin to wonder how something so perfect can cause you so much pain. If this is the case, is it even perfection? That “perfect” pair of shoes that leaves you with blisters and joint pain obviously has at least one fatal flaw, making it imperfect after all.

It was after I found myself lonely and crying many nights that I realized Mr. Perfect, in all his luminous glory, was not in fact perfect. He came close, of course, but the truth is, no one is flawless. I’m evidently not, for I have managed to screw up even the most seemingly solid relationships. And neither is he, because he walked away from someone who would have given him everything-or at least, she would have tried.

And while Mr. Perfect-or Mr. Seemingly Perfect, rather-continued to befriend me despite my attempts to run in the opposite direction, I realized that it didn’t matter if he was perfect or not. I didn’t care. I still wanted to be with him. Rather than focusing on the bad and everything he did to hurt me, I focused on the night we met, making cupcakes, late night talks and his smile. Because those things are as close to perfection I think I will ever get.

Over time, I learned to hide the pain and cover up the scars, and Mr. Seemingly Perfect slowly walked out of my life once again. Essentially, I gave up on my favorite pair of shoes and realized I had other great heels that didn’t do nearly as much damage…