Only in My Head

He smiled at the barista. Held the door for the old man with the cane. Said “bless you” when a stranger sneezed. His laugh had that gentle kindness that made people feel safe.

The thoughts came in quiet places. Elevators. Parking lots. Long walks with no one around.

He never acted. That was the difference.

At home, he reheated dinner in silence. Turned off his phone. Lit the same candle. Sat in the same chair.

And let the theater begin.

In his mind, he crushed the barista’s windpipe. Followed the old man home and shoved him down the stairs. Watched the stranger choke mid-sneeze—and did nothing.

Each scene vivid. Paused. Rewound. Improved. A silent film looping behind his eyes.

He always washed his plate. Always went to bed calm.

A good man, he told himself.

Because dreams aren’t crimes.