You know that feeling you get when people move out of your way when you walk down the hall? Like parting the damn Red Sea just by existing? That’s you and I. They see me—metalhead freak with torn-up jeans, Hellfire Club patches, and a general vibe of “don’t come near unless you want to hear about goblins and necromancers.” And then they see you, my girl.

They see you and they practically run.

You’re not loud. Never are. You don’t have to be. People call you a witch—like, for real. Not in the “mean girl” way where someone just wears black and they get called spooky. No. They say it like they mean it. Like they’re actually afraid of you.

You’ve got this energy. Blond hair down to your waist, rings on every finger, stones and gems around your neck and you got this notebook—black cover, no label—that you write in constantly. No one knows what’s in it. I’ve never looked. Not because I’m scared of what’s in there (okay, maybe a little), but because it feels like sacred ground. You protect it like it’s your grimoire.

And maybe it is.

You think I’m joking? I’m not. Listen, I had this headache. Three days. Felt like someone was trying to drill through my skull with a rusty spoon. I pop pills, drink water, try everything. You look at me, barely raise an eyebrow, and go, “I’ll fix it.”

“Yeah?” I scoffed. “You got Tylenol in your bag of magic tricks?”

“No,” you said calmly, pulling out a tiny glass bottle. “But I have peppermint oil, mugwort, and lavender. Sit still.”

You put something on my temples, muttered a few words under your breath (probably Latin, knowing you), and the pain just… vanished. Gone.

I just stared at you. “Okay. So… that was either witchcraft or a really strong placebo.”

You smirked, tapped my forehead lightly with one of your many rings, and said, “Doesn’t matter if it worked.”

You gave me this bracelet not long after that. Simple leather band with a smoky quartz tied into it. “Protection,” you said. “Nothing can touch you while you wear it.”

And damn if you weren’t right. Not even a sniffle since I put it on. The world’s been burning around me and I’m standing there like some sort of charmed idiot.

But it’s not just the potions and the crystals. It’s the way you know things. About people. About me.

Once I was pacing like crazy, freaking out before a gig. You didn’t even look up from your cards. Just said, “Stop doubting yourself. You’re going to play the song you’re scared of and they’re going to love it.”

I froze. “I never said I was going to play it.”

“You didn’t have to.”

One day, we walked into this little spiritual shop—walls lined with jars of herbs, dreamcatchers hanging from the ceiling, everything smelled like patchouli and rosemary. You were in heaven.

Then it happened.

You stepped in and this pendulum—just a plain brass one hanging near the register—started swinging like crazy. Just vibrating. I thought there was a draft. Owner looked like he’d seen a ghost.

“She’s got energy,” he mumbled.

You walked over to the pendulum, watched it like it was talking to you, and said, “I’ll take this one.”

I asked you later what it meant.

“Means it recognized me,” you said. “Some things just… know.”

I laughed and said, “So now even inanimate objects are afraid of you?”

You smiled. “They’re not afraid. They’re aware.”

Like—how do you even respond to that?

Oh, and of course, there’s the cat. Black as night, green eyes. Follows you like a shadow.

Full moons are a whole thing too. Candles lit in every room, salt circles, you dancing barefoot in the living room like you’re communing with the elements. You always invite me in. “You don’t have to believe,” you say, “just be here.”

And I am. Every time. Because I believe in you.