He was the guy that was always there, Mr. Perfect on paper but distorted by reality. Some outside force unbeknownst to me just would not allow the two of us to cross paths. Maybe it was timing. Maybe it was the fact that he was three years older than me. Perhaps it was just…fate. From the moment I got thrown into the swimming pool at a mutual friend’s party five years ago-clothes drenched from head to toe-there was something about his eyes that mesmerized me. And even as I stood there afterwards, dressed in borrowed boys’ swim shorts and an extra-large, tall tee, he still smiled at me in all my humiliating glory. It is a picture that has forever remained embedded in my brain. To this day, it is my favorite picture.

It was not long after this incident that fate’s evil twin, lust, intervened, and I began dating someone else who would later become my husband, putting a halt to any possibilities of a relationship with this curious stranger.

Yet, despite my budding love interest in my future spouse, Mr. Perfect’s determination kept us in touch, and we maintained a friendship as he continuously stood by in the shadows. He became that one guy-friend that pulls out the red carpet for you and holds you up on a pedestal. And as much as you want there to be some kind of fireworks, the only thing you can light is a tiny spark that lingers but never ignites. For some reason, the idea of a relationship with Mr. Perfect always remained just that, a wonderful idea.

He would have given me the world, and I knew this. But at the time, I had to make a choice. And almost effortlessly, the friendship dwindled as Mr. Perfect waltzed out of my life just as quickly and ungracefully as I waltzed into his -feet first, silent and with a reluctant expression on his face.

It was not until after I got married and moved to Alaska several years later that fate finally intervened when, by mere curiosity and boredom, I stumbled upon Mr. Perfect’s MySpace page. It was then I suddenly remembered I had forgotten this guy I hadn’t seen or spoken to in several years. I could not recall from the abyss of my memory any specific moment the two of us had shared, nor could I remember the exact shape of his face or the sound of his voice. But the one thing I could recall made up for the difference-the way he had made me feel. It was a feeling I had been missing. It was a feeling I wanted back.

It did not take long for us to get back up to speed on everything we had missed in each other’s lives over the past several years. And while I dealt with my neglectful husband, Mr. Perfect provided comfort and companionship as he had always- done. Only this time he was 3,000 miles away.

He quickly became my best friend. He was the first person I told when I realized my husband’s indiscretions. He was the first person I cried to when I couldn’t keep in the tears. He was the first person I opened up to about how I felt. And even though I was across the country with no family or friends, Mr. Perfect filled that void in my life, and for the first time in months, I didn’t feel so alone.

After packing my bags and buying my one-way ticket back to reality, I returned home and finally saw the face that I did not realize I so dearly missed. And in my driveway at four in the morning, this familiar stranger and I sat and talked face-to-face for hours, his voice finally vivid and the shape of his face permanently inserted into my long-term memory where it will never again be lost. It was then that I fell in love with my best friend, and the stubborn spark finally turned into fire.

I don’t know if it was the way he stormed into my life when I was most vulnerable, making everything okay. Or if it was the way he symbolized a new start, a clean slate. Or perhaps it was simply because he was familiar and a reminder of the person I had once been. Whatever the reason, I completely invested the next three months of my life into Mr. Perfect, trying to be perfect for him.

And from that moment on, it was as if we never skipped a beat. As if he never walked away. As if there never was a goodbye, an Alaska or a divorce. In a matter of weeks, he went from being perfect on paper to perfect for me. It made me wonder how I ever got through my entire life without this person in it. Never in my life had I wanted to make a person happy as much as I wanted to make him happy.

That’s how I knew I loved him. My stomach screamed and my adrenaline rose every time he was around. And when he wasn’t around, I counted the minutes until I would see him again. I treasured every laugh, valued every kiss and anticipated every touch, which sent trembles down my spine. And as many times as I stuttered to say that I loved him, resulting in a slur of words that made little sense to his ears, I never did tell him how I really felt. As far as he was concerned, I was not in love at all.

But as I have learned through past experience, all good things must come to an end. It’s a law of life so simple and common that Newton and Einstein must have overlooked it.

Like a brick falling rapidly from the sky, déj… vu hit me harder than Cupid’s arrow could ever have. The impact embedded a familiar, haunting feeling into my bones. The kind of feeling that only worsens with time; the kind of feeling shoes and chardonnay cannot alleviate.

It’s that feeling you get when you analyze everything he says and does, wondering what it all means. It’s when you stay up all hours of the night, wondering where he is and what he’s doing, wondering if he really is asleep, wondering whom he is dreaming about. It’s when you don’t speak unless he speaks to you, for fear of saying the wrong thing, and you don’t invite him to hang out because you want to see how long it will take for him to call. And when he doesn’t call when he says he will, the analyzation process once again begins.

It’s a feeling of uncertainty. One you can’t quite put your finger on where it’s coming from, but there is something different in the way he talks to you and acts around you. The tiniest flaw or inconsistency echoes in your mind throughout the day, replaying in your thoughts. You begin to wonder where this relationship is going, if it’s going anywhere at all. And no matter how hard you try to muzzle the voice in your head telling you something is wrong, the feeling only gets stronger.

I’ve been well-acquainted with this feeling. I’ve realized the only way to make it go away is to let the voice out and ask that significant other for the truth. And when you do, you can expect one of two responses. The first is reassurance: you’re worrying for nothing. The second is confirmation: you were right to worry.

In my situation, my gut and instincts were right. And in a polite, perfectly crafted goodbye, including the typical “we can still be friends” sentiment that I immediately shrugged off, Mr. Perfect once again waltzed out of my life. Only this time, he walked away heart-first.

I know it sounds crazy-falling so hard for a man after only a few months and so quickly after my marital misfortune, but sometimes, love hits us in unexpected and confusing ways. It’s the hardest I have ever been hit with Cupid’s arrow. It was a new level of heartbreak I had never known before. So much that the abrasions left from my cheating husband paled in comparison to this throbbing pain left by Mr. Perfect’s absence. What made it worse was that the one person I trusted most, my best friend, was the one causing the pain.

To this day, I don’t know what I said or did that resulted in the winding effect that ended in my emotional demise. But sometimes, we are not meant to understand things. Sometimes the only logical reason life can throw at you is fate.

While every woman has probably shed tears, wasted tissue, written unsent letters and played sappy love songs for the sole purpose of wanting to cry even more, there comes a day when the radio stays off, the Kleen
ex hidden and every memory of Mr. Perfect stowed away, thrown away or burned in a bonfire bash your girlfriends concocted to get you out of bed and on your feet. Unfortunately, for some, no matter how much you try to move on, you can’t. Even though you remember to turn the radio off every time that haunting song comes on, for that split second, you remember him. And the entire experience, from hello to goodbye, and all the pain that went along with it, rushes back.

Despite our one-sided goodbye, Mr. Perfect still lingered in the shadows, as he always had. And after various phone calls and sporadic text messages, I realized he was not like most men, for he actually meant it when he said he wanted us to stay friends.

Now, not only did I have to stay away from music, Kleenex, pools, cupcakes and Mexican food for fear of reviving Mr. Perfect’s memory, I also had his friendship as a constant reminder of what once was and will never be. And as the fat baby Cupid laughed at his success, I frowned with the thought of being friends with the one man I was still in love with…