I pictured swapping her pricey soy candle for a knockoff from the dollar store and watching her light it—just to see if anyone would notice the slow downgrade in scent. Not because I hate her candle habit. Because somehow plotting small, harmless chaos feels like a tiny secret lottery I can win without leaving the house.
The Thought
She brings over candles like they’re personality upgrades. Linen, sea spray, something called “coastal hush” that makes my living room smell like a boutique hotel. One night, after she left a brand-new one on my table, I had a thought so petty it felt luxurious: swap it out, wait, then watch her face when the “luxury” is actually a two-dollar dupe.
In my head it played out in slo-mo—the switch, the coy smile, the casual compliment she’d give that sounded like a trap. It was ridiculous, and it made me laugh. The whole thing lasted maybe thirty seconds and then I closed the mental file like it was a pop-up ad.
The Confession
Here’s the thing: I would never actually do it. I’d feel too guilty, and I like my friend. But that rehearsal? Delicious. I pictured the careful timing, the stealthy handoff, the tiny smug pleasure of pulling off a prank that was more about comedy than cruelty. I even thought about leaving a subtle breadcrumb—like moving her candle to a different shelf—just to heighten the suspense. The fantasy had a craft to it, like staging a tiny play in which I was both writer and audience.
It’s petty theater. The fun part is the planning. I could write a whole scene: me at the dollar store pretending to buy gum while actually buying the substitute candle, the thrill of placing it on the shelf when she wasn’t looking, the slow burn of anticipation as she opens her door and breathes in expecting sandalwood and instead gets…well, a bargain-bin mood. I chuckled at how absurd it all was, then felt a quick, sharp guilt that re-centered me. Because real people are involved. Real feelings. Real candles.
Mostly, the fantasy is about control. Little acts of sabotage in your head let you test boundaries without crossing them. You get to be clever, mischievous, and slightly evil, and then you put the idea away and go get coffee. It’s rehearsal for a feeling, not an actual plan. And sometimes the rehearsal tells you more about your petty side than anything else. Like, oh—so you do enjoy a harmless prank. Noted.
There’s also this weird honesty: doing nothing is its own statement. By not acting, I show I care more about the friendship than the gag. By keeping the thought contained, I keep the relationship intact. It’s a tiny, unspoken gift.
Realization
So no, I didn’t swap the candles. I didn’t even buy the dollar store one. What I did do was savor the scene in my head, laugh at my own audacity, and then text her a picture of myself lighting the actual candle and say, “This smells like you.” She replied with a heart emoji and a “right?” and I felt both relieved and a little bored that I’d never get the punchline of that imaginary reveal.
The truth is, these little thought crimes—petty, theatrical, harmless—are a private way of stirring the pot without breaking anything, just like politics, lol. They let you try on a version of yourself that’s bold and sneaky and then hang it back up where no one can see. And sometimes, when the urge to prank flares up, I just buy a second candle and give it to her later with a wink. Cheaper, less drama, same private payoff.
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