Because love, like shoes, is always a little complicated.

I couldn’t help but wonder… is love just another accessory we convince ourselves we need? Somewhere between overpriced Manolos and emotionally unavailable men, I learned that chemistry can feel couture, even when it’s off the rack. Big taught me chaos could wear a tux, and somehow, I still RSVP’d yes every single time.

There’s a particular kind of romance reserved for the woman who writes her own narrative, usually at 3 a.m., wearing last night’s eyeliner. Charlotte believed in fairytales, Miranda trusted logic, and Samantha trusted herself. Me? I trusted the feeling, even when it came wrapped in red flags and apologies that never quite fit.

Dating in New York was less about finding the one and more about discovering how many versions of yourself you could survive. The good girlfriend, the cool girl, the one who doesn’t ask questions. But eventually, I realized the best relationship I had was with my closet, because at least my shoes always supported me.

And maybe that’s the thing about being a hopeless romantic with expensive taste. You learn that not everything worth having is meant to last. Some loves are seasons, some are statements, and some are simply stories. The trick isn’t finding perfection, it’s knowing when to walk away in fabulous heels.