New age heretics

From my thought palace, where witches and wishes often sip tea together.

You grew up with a father who only proposed to your mother because everyone told him it was the right thing to do—
and a mother who said yes because she thought he was the best she could ever get.
You begin to suspect that love was never about magic or meaning.
Perhaps it was just a transaction dressed up as destiny.

You grow up hearing that love is like folklore—
Something people carry through generations,
repeating it like a prayer, even when no one remembers how it began.
You watch it drift through stories and songs like smoke—
beautiful, and ungraspable.
You don’t know what love looks like,
so you assume it must be like a storm—
loud, powerful, dramatic enough to split an ocean in two.

You watch people fall in love like it’s a cliff.
And then you watch them shatter
when the ground doesn’t rise to meet them.
They crumble like receipts in the back of an old wallet.
And you think,
“I won’t be that blind. I’ll wait. I’ll be careful. I’ll wait for the real thing.”

So you go to the sea-witch—
Because when people need answers, they go to their therapist.
When something’s broken, they go to a professional.
And when do they need love?
They go to the sea-witch.

You ask her for true love.
She squints at you and says,
“Be careful what you wish for.”
Not because she’s poetic—
because she doesn’t want to get sued.

You’ve done the research.
You read the warnings.
Still, she makes you sign a waiver:
No liability for broken hearts.
She slides it across the table with a pen.
“Just a formality,” she says.
“You can never be too careful.”
You agree.
“I want someone I can be happy with for the rest of my life.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“The rest of your life is a very long time.”
But she takes the job.
And she takes Mastercard.

You go home and wait.
Seventeen days later, a blackbird is waiting for you in the parking lot after work.
You see the sea-witch leaning against her car, smoking.
“Cell phones are more convenient than birds,” you mutter.
She blows smoke in your face.
“I don’t trust the NSA.”
You follow her inside.
No one’s there but her.
She hands you a package wrapped in old newspaper—
no magic glow, no choir of angels.
Just a box.

You figure it’s a photo.
Or a map to someone’s door.
A list of all the things you need to fix in yourself first.
But when you unwrap it, it’s just a mirror.
Old. Warped. Water-stained. Honest.

You say, “This must be a mistake.”
She doesn’t blink.
“The rest of your life is long,” she repeats.
This is it? Maybe I’m the kind of broken even witches can’t fix.
But the sea-witch reads hearts
like seismometers read earthquakes.

She taps the mirror and says:
“This person—they’re going to love you better than anyone else ever could.
They’ll love you in a way that makes you more of yourself.
Stronger. Lighter.
No one will love you like you can.”

You look in the mirror.
See your crooked nose.
Your coffee-stained teeth.
Your honest reflection.
You think of all the times you believed you were unlovable.

She says, “No refunds.”
and slips a business card into your coat.
You take the mirror home.
Could you set it by your bed, please?

That night, you dream of the beach.
A sunset.
A stillness in your chest you’d almost forgotten could exist.
You think, This is what love feels like.
You wake up.
You find a blackbird.
You write a note to the sea-witch:
What are you doing tonight? I’m taking myself out for a date.
You find her waiting in the parking lot again.
She smiles like she already knew.
And in that moment,
You feel invincible.