Masterminded Love

A woman should not chase after a man.

It is outlandish.

Cheap.

Unbecoming.

Instead, a woman should rather just… initiate.

These words were whispered into the ears of the women in our home, molding Maria Clara-like characteristics such as modesty, shyness, and indifference. With this passed-down perspective, how could I ever get the attention of the man I’m longing for?

Especially these days when my seemingly rounded and full cheeks have sunken as I spend sleepless nights concocting a plan to get him.

So when I stepped out of the ragged home of the neighborhood’s notorious spellcaster, clenching the bottle that holds my future delight, I breathed hope that my chance at the love I thirst for would go higher.

Inside the miniature flask was a love potion I commissioned from the old lady.

A few minutes before, she asked me what I would do in return. Vague as her question, I answered, “Anything.” She smiled wickedly as if my words were something she had been meaning to hear.

The gray-haired necromancer ordered me to write my name next to his.

“This is for a weak spell; the stronger spell requires a picture,” she explained.

“But I believe this would be enough…” she added before I could answer, followed by a smile that did not reach the eyes but was big enough to show her darkened gums.

I swallowed.

“Are you afraid, Lily?” the spellcaster asked. 

My eyes narrowed as I began to think of an answer. “Maybe,” I whispered to myself. 

I have never done such a thing before. But I could not possibly tell him directly that I am besotted with him to the point that I will neglect the values my family instilled in me, right?

So, I feel like it is either now or never—forcing me to turn to witchcraft for help. 

When I reached home, I cooked dinner, which was too much for a family of four. So, I extended my arms reaching for a dish, put some in, and then dotted some of the gayuma.

I brought it to my so-called lover’s home and gave it to him. Our hands touched, and electricity flooded through my whole body. As he expressed his gratitude, I began to hope for the better.

Days passed.

Nothing. 

Drowning in desperation, I unknowingly walked back to the spellcaster’s home, thinking of many things at once.

Maybe she isn’t skilled after all.

Maybe it didn’t work because the potion’s not strong enough.

Maybe gayuma isn’t real at all…

With all that, the thought of being unable to do anything became heavier than all. 

But as I stepped onto her grassy lawn and turned the door handle, what I saw inside birthed a thousand more thoughts. I captured the love of my life handing the elder a photo I’m quite familiar with.

It was me. I was in the picture.

Unable to move, the spellcaster grinned and broke the silence, muttering, “I thought I was getting rusty.” 

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Layout by: Patricia Mae Belmes