Friendship, true friendship, is sacred ground. It can’t coexist with manipulation. It can’t survive in a heart that feeds on control. So, if the narcissist ever comes back with that charming half-smile and whispers, “Let’s be friends,” remember this: they’re not looking for peace; they’re looking for access. And you, my friend, have every right to close the door.
When the narcissist says, “Let’s be friends,” what they truly mean is, “I still want access to you—not your friendship, not your heart, but your resources.” That could be your empathy, your time, your money, your network, your wisdom, or simply the warmth of your presence. To the narcissist, you’re not a person; you’re an advantage, a lifeline, a comfort they believe they can pick up and put down whenever they please. They’ll dress it up with kindness, even nostalgia. But make no mistake: beneath the surface lies an agenda. Friendship in their language isn’t mutual care; it’s ongoing access.
They want to monitor you, to watch your light from the shadows to see if you’re healing, smiling again, loving again, because your joy offends their emptiness. Your peace reminds them of what they’ll never possess. So they hover, they linger, they circle back—not because they care, but because they can’t stand the thought of you thriving without their shadow nearby.
Then comes the most insidious layer: the way back in. The friendship is just a backdoor to your soul. It’s the quiet vacuum pulling you back into the old cycle, what many call hoovering. It’s a trap wrapped in gentle words. When they say, “Let’s be friends,” they’re not reaching for peace; they’re holding out a leash. To make the trap convincing, they’ll paint it as maturity: “I’m not angry anymore. We’ve both grown. Let’s just be civil.” It sounds reasonable, even noble. Until you realize that every word is bait meant to draw you into comparison with their new supply.
Suddenly, you hear, “My new friend doesn’t argue like you did,” or worse, “You’ve always understood me better than anyone.” Both are manipulation—one to make you feel inferior, the other to pull you back. They might even run the same game in reverse. To the new supply, they’ll say, “I’m such a good person. Look at me still being friends with my ex.” They feed their own ego with the illusion of moral superiority. You, meanwhile, become a prop in a performance, proof of how kind they are, while privately reliving the thrill of controlling you once more.
When the dust of the discard settles, you might hear whispers from their circle—the infamous flying monkeys. These aren’t friends; they’re extensions of the narcissist’s control. They watch it all unfold. Some even help set the stage. When they come to you with pity or suggestions like, “Maybe you two just need to talk,” pause. Ask yourself: since when does a viper love its prey? A viper doesn’t seek affection; it strikes. It doesn’t long for connection; it consumes. And that’s exactly what a narcissist does: takes without giving, drains without remorse.
Love to them isn’t a bond; it’s a resource, a means to an end. So when they say, “I was just thinking about you,” or “We should reconnect,” that’s not tenderness; that’s strategy. It’s a sound of hunger disguised as care. They’re not coming for closure; they’re coming for fuel.
continue reading on the next page
Sharing is caring!