Self-Love Spell

I got my hands on a magic potion. Whoever drinks it falls hopelessly in love with me. Without a moment’s hesitation, I tilted my head back and drank every last drop. This time, I was choosing to love myself. For me. See you tomorrow.

1. In my last life. After my husband, Sean, cheated on me, I came across a strange potion. It was in a small, clear vial, filled with a shimmering blue liquid. A faded inscription clung to the glass: Whoever drinks this water shall fall helplessly in love with the one who gave it. I clung to it like a drowning woman to a piece of driftwood, pinning all my desperate hopes on this mysterious concoction. I mixed it into Sean’s coffee. The effect was instantaneous. He began to distance himself from his mistress, his gaze slowly returning to me. He started remembering our anniversaries, bringing home flowers. He would hold me as we fell asleep, whispering the sweet nothings I hadn’t heard in years. It was as if we’d truly returned to the heady days of our first love. We became that couple again, the one everyone envied. Everyone thought Sean was deeply in love with me. Only I knew his love wasn’t his choice. It was mine. I was the one who made him drink the potion. When he held me, when he kissed me, my mind would conjure the sordid, intimate photos of him with her. When he spoke to me with gentle words, I’d wonder if he’d whispered the same lines to someone else. Worse, a gnawing fear became my constant shadow. Every time he spoke to another woman for work. Every time his phone screen lit up. Every time one of his former flings crossed our path. Alarm bells screamed in my head: Is the potion wearing off? Is he going to leave me again? I became a nervous wreck, a stranger to myself. Hypersensitive, suspicious, jumping at shadows. A brief lapse in Sean’s attention, a slightly flat tone in his voice—it was enough to send me spiraling, obsessively dissecting his love for me. Then, I got pregnant. The joy was fleeting, immediately swallowed by a massive wave of terror. What if… What if one day, the potion really did wear off? What if Sean went back to being the man who despised me? What would I do then? And what would happen to my child? My hand resting on my still-flat stomach, I realized for the first time: I was living in a beautiful, fragile cage of my own making. My hair started falling out in clumps. The chronic anxiety wrapped itself around me, gnawing away at my sanity, bit by bit. Even when Sean tried to soothe me, I couldn’t simply sink into the warmth he offered. Love, in its truest form, is the surrender of free will. It’s the conscious fall two free souls take after finding each other. But I had poisoned that possibility long ago. A careless comment from Sean—”Honey, you’ve got some new lines around your eyes”—was enough to completely shatter my composure. I couldn’t focus. I made constant mistakes at work. I felt like a string stretched to its breaking point. And finally, after weeks of emotional turmoil, the baby I had never met slipped away from me. Sean held me, murmuring words of comfort. But in that moment, what flooded my heart wasn’t solace, but a tidal wave of regret. I regretted it all. I regretted begging, like a common beggar, for the affection of a man whose heart had long since moved on. So, this time, when that familiar blue vial appeared before me again, I didn’t hesitate for a second. I twisted off the cap, tilted my head back, and poured the entire contents down my throat. The liquid had a faint, bitter tang as it slid down. Better to love myself than to exhaust my soul trying to reclaim a man who had already strayed. Love you, Paige. See you tomorrow.

2. After drinking the magic potion, I stood still for a moment, waiting for a change. Hmm. Nothing felt different. But remembering the effect it had on Sean in my past life, I didn’t doubt its power. Perhaps some changes aren’t meant to be seen. Just then, my stomach rumbled. Right. I hadn’t eaten a thing since I’d been reborn. I walked out of the bedroom. In the warm glow of the living room lights, a lavish spread of food covered the dining table. I froze for a second, then remembered. I had been reborn on the exact day of my sixth wedding anniversary with Sean. How had I spent this day in my last life? I had dressed up meticulously and gone to Sean’s office. In front of everyone, I’d begged him to come home for dinner. As I left his office, I could feel the pitying and mocking stares of his employees on my back. But I was so thrilled he’d agreed that I didn’t care. I came home and cooked a feast. All of his favorites. Spicy fish stew, beef and potato casserole, steamed sea bass, stir-fried greens, scallops steamed with garlic and vermicelli… I had poured all my culinary skills into it, hoping to win back his heart through his stomach. Looking at the magnificent spread, I’d even felt a flicker of pride, fantasizing about the look of appreciation, or even love, in his eyes when he walked through the door. And what was the result? I sat alone on that cold chair all night. Sean spent the evening with his mistress. That was his anniversary gift to me. The long, crushing loneliness of that night was what finally pushed me to use the potion. I just couldn’t bear the solitary waiting anymore. Thinking back on it now… What was I so lonely for? I had me, didn’t I? Now, looking at the same table of food, the feeling was completely different. No anticipation, no anxiety. Just a pure, primal need—I was hungry.

3. I pulled a treasured bottle of red wine from the cabinet, one I’d picked up on a trip to a private vineyard. The dark crimson liquid swirled in the crystal glass, catching the light. I took a sip, the rich, fruity notes blooming on my tongue. “Damn,” I murmured to myself after swallowing. “That’s good wine.” You deserve it, Paige. I’m treating you right. My gaze fell back to the dishes on the table, and my brow furrowed. Steamed, blanched, low-salt, low-oil… When did I ever eat like this? To cater to Sean’s bland palate, I, a Louisiana girl born and bred, hadn’t even made a single decent spicy dish! I slapped my thigh. That’s right! Who was I trying to please now? It was past eight in the evening, but I was suddenly buzzing with energy. I threw the fish stew back in the pan, cranking up the heat and topping it with a generous slick of sizzling chili oil and a handful of peppercorns. I reworked the steamed seafood, burying it under a mountain of minced garlic and fiery red peppers. Still not satisfied, I whipped up a plate of my absolute favorite: fiery chili chicken. The table was now a glorious, vibrant crimson. The intoxicating aroma of spice filled the entire kitchen. I refilled my wine glass and sat back down. A piece of fish, slick with chili oil, melted in my mouth. It was so good it made me want to stomp my feet. A shrimp, dripping with garlic and chili, sent a jolt of savory heat straight to my brain. The crispy, numbing spice of the chicken, washed down with a sip of wine—it was pure bliss. This feeling… It was absolutely incredible. I was in the middle of my feast, sweat beading on my forehead from the heat, when my phone, lying on the table, lit up with a new message. It was from Sean’s assistant. Also one of his mistresses. Hey girl, you haven’t seen my new post, have you? I picked up a piece of chicken, chewing it slowly as I tapped open her social media feed. The latest post was from ten minutes ago. The photo showed two hands, fingers intertwined. The background was my favorite high-end restaurant. The romantic implication was obvious. I recognized Sean’s hand instantly; I had compared it to my own countless times. Long fingers, elegant knuckles. And the faint, pale band of skin where his wedding ring used to be. I stared at it for a moment, then expressionlessly hit ‘like’. A moment later, the post vanished. It was immediately replaced by a new one: Oops, my boyfriend saw my last post~ He said my punishment is no sleep tonight. Blushing! I put my phone down. There was, admittedly, a small, sharp sting in my chest. My once-ravenous appetite had dimmed slightly. Not for them, of course. For me. I set down my chopsticks and began a serious internal monologue, speaking to the empty air. “Paige, you cooked this amazing meal, a whole table of food you love, just for you. And you’re going to let some pathetic social media post ruin it?” “Is that fair to yourself after all this work? Is it fair to this incredible wine? Is it fair to your stomach?” “Eat. Now. Look at you, you’re so thin you look like a strong wind could blow you over. Do you even know you’re under a hundred pounds? Right now, Sean is wrapped up with his little plaything, and you’re here getting sentimental over a perfect meal?” “You can’t do this to yourself, Paige. You hear me?” After my little self-pep-talk, I took a deep breath, pushing down the sour feeling in my chest. I picked up a large piece of fish, put it in my mouth, and chewed with purpose. Damn, that’s good. That’s more like it, Paige. As I was finishing up, my phone vibrated again. It was my mom. I had barely answered before her voice, sharp and angry, assaulted my ear. “Paige! So what if Sean cheats on you? Are you going to die if you just turn a blind eye?! What successful man doesn’t have a little fun on the side?” “I don’t care what you have to do—cry, beg, pretend you don’t know—but you are not to let a catch like Sean go! Do you hear me?!” “If you keep making a scene, he’s really going to divorce you! Then what will you do?!” “He’s a big shot now, a CEO! All you need to do is hold on tight to your title as Mrs. Collins! Why are you so obsessed with possessing him completely? Have you lost your mind?” “A man as exceptional as Sean, it’s normal for him to have a few mistresses! You just be a good little wife, enjoy your comfortable life, and stop asking so many questions!”

4. My fingers, clutching the phone, felt ice-cold. A sense of absurdity choked me. News of my recent… activities must have reached my parents. I hadn’t even done anything that extreme. Not in my eyes, anyway. Not compared to what Sean had done to me. All I did was smash the car he bought for his mistress the day I found out. All I did was storm into his company and wreck his office in front of all his employees. Or maybe it was when I found out he was taking his mistress to a charity gala. I showed up in my most eye-catching red dress and, in front of everyone, gave him and the woman on his arm each a resounding slap across the face. I thought that by humiliating him, by shaming him, he would learn that betrayal has consequences. But I was wrong. In his world, in his circle, cheating was an unspoken privilege. No one condemned him for it. They just looked at me with pity or scorn, then clapped Sean on the shoulder and said, “Just divorce her, man. Why put up with a crazy woman?” But I didn’t want a divorce. So my “craziness” became his excuse to cheat even more blatantly. He started staying out all night, deliberately coming home with traces of other women on him just to provoke me. He couldn’t control me, so he fed an exaggerated version of my actions to my parents. He knew their weaknesses, their values. He used them to suppress me, to discipline me, to make me “face reality.” So, as my mother’s “advice” continued to pour through the phone, the rage and hurt I had suppressed for so long finally erupted. I screamed into the receiver. “What do you mean it’s normal to have mistresses?! He cheated! He betrayed our marriage! And you think he’s the one who’s right?!” “You don’t know a damn thing!” her voice screeched back, rising in pitch. “You ungrateful girl, you have a wretched fate! Landing a man like Sean was the luckiest thing that ever happened to you! Don’t be so ungrateful!” “I’m telling you, if you dare cause trouble with him again, if you dare mention the words ‘divorce’ or ‘unfair,’ your father and I will pretend we never had a daughter! We’ll consider you dead!” “Such bad luck! You have a good life and you just have to ruin it!” They hung up. My hand trembled as I placed the phone back on the table. My whole body was shaking. My chest felt like it was being crushed by a boulder, heavy and tight, making it hard to breathe. Two lifetimes. In my last life, I listened to them. I chose to endure. This time, I thought being reborn was a release, a new beginning. But the knife wielded by my closest family still found the same old wound, and plunged even deeper. The injustice of two lifetimes, the loneliness of being misunderstood, the venomous accusations from my own parents… all of it crashed over me, lodging in my throat. Everyone said Sean was young and successful. That it was “normal” for a man, especially a rich one, to have a few women on the side. But who remembered? Who remembered when he was starting his business, hitting walls everywhere, his funding about to dry up? It was me. I took every penny of my savings, scraped together from years of working and scrimping, and put it in front of him without a word. I told him, “If you lose it, you lose it. I can always earn more.” Back then, we were crammed in a tiny rental, eating instant noodles, and he would hold my hand, his eyes brighter than the stars, and promise he would never let me down. I took my wine glass and walked barefoot to the floor-to-ceiling window. Outside, the city glittered like a river of stars. Sean’s mistress’s taunts hadn’t hurt me. But my parents’ words, all delivered “for my own good,” felt like a dull blade sawing at my heart. My eyes suddenly burned. I tilted my head back, blinking hard, trying to force back the heat. I drained my glass in one go. After the initial burn, a long, bitter aftertaste remained. Fine. I chose the wrong man. So what? It’s not so hard to admit I had terrible judgment. It’s okay. Last time, I was possessed. I tied my entire self-worth to one man. I lost myself and lost everything. This time, I just won’t make the same stupid mistake again. “Alright, Paige,” I whispered to the sprawling city lights, my voice hoarse, deliberate. “I give you permission to be hurt in love. I give you permission to pour out your heart and find you loved the wrong person. I give you permission to feel wronged, to want to cry, because your family doesn’t understand.” “I give you permission to cry. Permission to break. Permission to just be incredibly sad and fragile in this one moment.” As the words left my lips, I hugged my knees tightly to my chest. As if a final chain had snapped, I let out a raw, wrenching sob. The sound echoed in the empty living room. It was ragged, ugly, but utterly real. I don’t know how long I cried. Until I was exhausted, until only quiet, hiccupping sobs remained. I lifted my head, my face a mess of tear tracks, my voice thick. “It’s okay to cry. It’s not a big deal.” “I won’t judge you for it.” “Right, Paige?” Outside, the city lights burned on, indifferent. Just as I felt I was about to be swallowed by grief, my phone rang. I flinched, as if waking from a nightmare. I stumbled to the table, fumbling for the phone. The screen’s glare stung my swollen eyes. Not wanting anyone to hear my state, I sniffled hard, wiped my face on my sleeve, and took a big gulp of water from a glass on the table. After clearing my throat, I finally answered. “Hello?” “Paige!” It was my best friend. “Did you hear? They’re forecasting a major aurora display up near Fairbanks! It’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance! You wanna go? If we could get a great shot of it, it would be incredible!” The Northern Lights… As a photographer, chasing and capturing the world’s fleeting beauty was more than a job; it was a calling, a mission. A way to prove my skills and a way to preserve a moment of magic before it vanished. In my last life, I’d given up a trip to see the aurora—and so many other beautiful sights—to stand guard over my relationship with Sean. A pang of regret shot through my heart. “Yes!” The word flew out of my mouth, my voice high and urgent. “I’m in! I’m booking my ticket right now!”

5. The moment I hung up, I sprang into action. Book the flight, confirm the itinerary—it was all done in a seamless rush. Then, I tore into my room, throwing heavy coats, thermal wear, my camera, and a tripod into a suitcase with frantic speed. It all happened so fast, my tears couldn’t keep up. Until a single, hot tear splashed onto the back of my hand. I kept packing, sniffling, my voice still thick with emotion as I talked myself through it. “See, Paige? I missed it last time. We can’t miss it again, right?” “It’s going to be a tough few days… all the travel, the freezing cold… but come on, let’s do this. Let’s get the most beautiful shot of the lights. And when we do… I’ll buy you that bag you’ve been wanting forever. How does that sound?” I was a mess of determined, forward-planning energy and raw, tear-streaked grief. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Red, swollen eyes, messy hair, but my hands never stopped, stuffing a down jacket and camera batteries into the suitcase. I looked… ridiculous. And a little heartbreaking. But I knew I was moving forward. Even if I had to do it one crying step at a time.

6. At a little past five in the morning, long before dawn, I was on a plane. The world outside the window was a deep, inky black. Inside, the cabin lights were dim, and most passengers were asleep. But I was wide awake, staring out into the darkness. Around eight, the plane touched down in Alaska. A blast of crisp, dry, frigid air hit me as I stepped out. After leaving the airport, my friend and I warmed up with a steaming bowl of local noodle soup that thawed us from the inside out. My friend finally broke the silence. “I honestly didn’t think you’d come this time.” “I mean, the last few times I asked, you always said… you had to stay home and keep an eye on your husband. Make sure no other women tried to seduce him.” I swallowed the last of my soup, letting out a satisfied sigh. “A man is not more important than my career,” I said, the words feeling surprisingly natural. Her eyes went wide. She looked me up and down, as if I’d just announced I was from Mars. “To hear that coming from you… I just don’t believe it. Are you possessed or something?” I just smirked, not answering. Even I couldn’t quite believe how easily those words had come out. I instinctively pulled out my phone and unlocked it. The screen lit up, showing my chat with Sean. The last message was from me, sent yesterday afternoon: Honey, it’s our sixth anniversary, you have to come home! I have a surprise for you, and I made all your favorite food. Scrolling up, I saw a dense wall of green bubbles. Almost all from me. Asking, sharing, waiting. His replies, in contrast, were short, dismissive. I locked the screen and shoved the phone back in my pocket. Forget it. Why waste another ounce of energy on someone who no longer belonged to me? After our meal, my friend and I boarded a long-haul train headed for Fairbanks. For seventeen solid hours, I leaned against the window, watching the endless, flowing snowscape slide by. The rhythmic clatter of the tracks and the ever-receding scenery slowly soothed my frayed nerves, and I drifted in and out of sleep. It was the middle of the night when the train finally pulled into the station. The biting air made us shiver the moment we stepped off. The ground was hidden under a thick, pristine blanket of snow. We dragged our luggage to a small inn we had booked in advance. We slept until the afternoon. When we woke, my friend and I set out for a prime viewing spot just outside the village. I was wearing my thickest down jacket, wrapped in a scarf and hat, looking like a clumsy bear, but I could still feel the cold seeping into my bones. Every breath of frigid air was a sharp sting in my lungs. I had heat packs on my knees, but they still made a faint creaking sound when I walked. We were joined by a young couple we’d met on the train. The girl was bubbly and bright, the boy was steady and attentive, and they chattered nonstop. “I heard that making a wish on the Northern Lights makes it come true!” the girl said, her eyes shining as she clung to her boyfriend’s arm. “Yeah,” he murmured, looking down at her tenderly. “If we see them… we’ll be happy forever.” They huddled together, their warm breaths mingling in the cold air. Their faces were full of hope and sweetness. Their smiles were so pure and radiant, like two small, warm flames in the vast, frozen landscape. I watched them, and I felt no jealousy, no bitterness. Only a quiet, genuine happiness for them. That’s good. The world needs people to be this happy. And I was here for myself. With my friend. And with Paige. That was pretty good, too.

7. We reached the observation point, the snow crunching over our ankles. The sky was already pitch black, but the snowy field was dotted with the silhouettes of other hopefuls. Like us, most of them were armed with cameras, determined to capture a masterpiece. The minutes ticked by, turning into hours. As midnight approached, the celestial curtain we were waiting for failed to appear. Instead, a blizzard rolled in. The driving snow stung our faces, blurring our vision.