There it was — that split-second fantasy that showed up uninvited, wrapped in equal parts pain and ego: what if I dated his friend? Not because I liked him. Not because I wanted him. Just to prove I still could.
It hit like a sugar rush after heartbreak — reckless, fleeting, and deliciously bad. I could already see the imaginary headlines scrolling across my brain: “Woman Makes Petty Comeback, Society Applauds.”
The Crime (in My Head)
We were at a party, post-breakup, pretending to be civil. He brought The Friend. You know the one — funny, confident, kind in that effortless way that makes you want to hate him but can’t.
I caught The Friend looking at me for half a second too long. Not in a flirty way. More like he was checking if I was okay. But my brain — desperate for a win — translated it as interest.
That’s all it took. A spark. A mental screenplay. The slow-motion montage of me laughing at The Friend’s joke while my ex watches from across the room, internally combusting.
I didn’t even say hi to the guy. Didn’t have to. The movie in my head was already playing. And for a minute, it felt incredible — the kind of power trip you only get when you’ve been dumped and your self-esteem is lying in a puddle somewhere between grief and sarcasm.
Okay, Let’s Be Honest
I didn’t want his friend. I wanted the idea of wanting his friend. I wanted to feel like I still had a card to play — some untapped, mildly toxic potential that said, “I may be heartbroken, but don’t forget who you’re dealing with.”
Heartbreak does weird things to logic. It’s like your brain fires the PR team and replaces them with a drunk intern who says, “You know what would really help? Chaos.”
But that’s the beauty of thought crimes. You get the thrill of being messy without actually blowing up your life. You get to taste revenge without the cleanup.
And somewhere in that mental daydream, the real craving reveals itself: it’s not about the friend, or even the ex. It’s about proof. Proof that you’re still desirable, still powerful, still capable of being the one who chooses instead of the one who got left.
Anyway, I Didn’t Do It
I didn’t flirt. Didn’t text. Didn’t even double-tap The Friend’s Instagram photo, though I thought about it. The fantasy stayed right where it belonged — behind my eyeballs, next to the mental folder labeled “Petty Nonsense That Helped Me Cope.”
By the time the party ended, I’d cooled off. The rush was gone. And honestly, I just felt tired — the kind of tired that only comes from holding in a thousand imaginary arguments and fake romances at once.
Still, I can’t lie — that tiny, forbidden idea helped me survive the week. Because sometimes you don’t need closure or growth or deep emotional insight. Sometimes you just need a fleeting, ridiculous moment of “yeah, I still got it.”
And if that’s a crime… then go ahead and cuff me.
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