'I text my male best friend every day. Deep down, I know it's an emotional affair.'

I'd been friends with Shaun* since high school. We'd always flirted over the years, but one particular night in our early twenties, the flirting ramped up and he ended up coming back to my place.

Neither of us wanted anything serious, but there was a definite attraction there. We fooled around for six months or so before it fizzled out. After that, we went back to our flirting ways whenever we saw each other, the temptation to jump back into the sack always there (and sometimes acted upon… whoops!).

That was no surprise, Shaun was a master flirt, adept at saying all the right things to boost your confidence, and as a result, the sex was pretty great. Plus, he was a genuinely great guy, people loved being around him.

Watch: Women debate the similarities and differences of emotional versus physical affiar. Post continues after video.

The guy was a Casanova, moving through a string of brief relationships after me before he settled down with a girl we both knew, Katie*.

Katie had previously dated another close friend of ours, Brett* and had a reputation as being quite controlling. It soon became clear that Shaun had slipped right into the groove Brett had left under her thumb as we began to see Shaun less and less in our social circle.

If we did bump into them, Katie would quickly drag Shaun away, limiting the time he spent around us, the high school friend gang. I don't really blame her, Shaun had slept with almost all of the females in our circle and most of the other local gals too.

When they got married, it was a small affair, a few of the guys were invited but none of us ladyfolk. Their Facebook page was a joint account run by Katie, and none of us made the approval list. Shaun became a ghost to us, the fella's joked that Katie had "his balls in the drawer". Brett felt that he had dodged a bullet.

They moved to the other side of the country and it was like Shaun no longer existed. With no direct contact allowed, we'd hear snippets about their life and their kids, but it was as if our fun friend had dropped off the face of the earth.

When I got married, my husband would hear stories from our friends that often involved Shaun, but it was like we were talking about a person who had died.

"I wish I'd got to meet him, sounds like he was a great guy."

All of our lives moved on as we started our own families, but that friendship circle from high school stayed strong – sans Shaun.

We were all catching up at the local pub one Sunday afternoon, our kids off playing together in the Kid's Zone when one by one we received friend request alerts. It was Shaun! He had opened his own Facebook account. Brett dialled him through video messenger with all of us crammed into the screen, hooting and hollering behind him.

It blew Shaun's mind that we were all together and he began to cry as he lamented being so far away.

He and Katie had split up, she'd begun an affair with a work colleague and had left Shaun. It was a tumultuous breakup that had left him shell-shocked.

"It's always the controlling ones that have the most to hide!" shouted Brett, upset for his old friend.

Over the next few weeks, we all became pseudo counsellors for Shaun, helping him through the grief of the split and catching him up on what he had missed.

He was like a different person. In my chats with him, I tried to remind of him of 'fun-Shaun', talking about old jokes and reminiscing about the wild nights we used to have. At first, it felt innocent, like we were just reconnecting and trying to pull him out of a dark place. But then, the tone started to shift.

Shaun had always been a smooth talker, and he knew just how to slip a compliment into a conversation without making it obvious. At first, it was all about how he missed my laugh, or how I was one of the few people who "got" him.

It felt nice, to be honest, especially during those dull afternoons when I was bored with mum life or the days I felt underappreciated. But then, the messages started getting a little more… suggestive.

He'd casually mention how I hadn't changed at all, how he still remembered how he'd stay at mine for nights at a time even though we were trying to stay away from each other. It wasn't explicit, but there was this undertone that I couldn't ignore.

"I was talking to my mum today, telling her how we've been catching up and she said I should have married you!" he joked.

I would laugh it off or change the subject, but it didn't stop. We were chatting almost every day at this point, mostly when my husband wasn't around. I'd be sitting at the dining table, scrolling through my phone, with this little rush every time I saw that notification pop up.

The way he worded it made it easy for me to dismiss it as just playful banter. Still, I found myself deleting the chats afterwards, just in case my husband decided to borrow my phone. I knew I was treading on dangerous ground, but I couldn't seem to stop.

I told myself there were a million sensible reasons not to see Shaun when I was in his state for work a few months back. He'd 100 per cent try to bang and I didn't want to put myself in that position 'for my marriage'.

I pretended it was a decision made out of caution and respect. But deep down, I knew that was just a flimsy cover for the real reason I hadn't reached out: I was terrified of what he might see.

I'm not the same carefree, confident girl he remembered from our twenties. I've had two kids, my body's changed, and no matter how much I try to tell myself it didn't matter, the insecurities are always there, lurking. It's easier to hide behind our messages, where I can control what he sees and how I come across.

It's still going on, twelve months later. Chatting with Shaun is a part of my day now and it makes me feel guilty as hell. I love my husband, I love our family, and I have no intention of ever doing anything to blow up what we have, but deep down I know this is an emotional affair. I just wish I could stop it.

*Names have been changed due to privacy.

The author of this story is known to Mamamia but remained anonymous for privacy purposes.

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