It was Valentine’s Day, and I was seventeen. Instead of the usual roses or heart-shaped chocolates, I received something far more intriguing—a small, handcrafted voodoo doll, no bigger than the palm of my hand.
At the time, I had an unshakable crush on a boy from a parallel class. He was the kind of person who exuded mystery, effortlessly strumming his guitar with an almost hypnotic aura. But I was painfully shy, paralyzed by my own self-consciousness whenever I passed him in the school corridors. I never found the courage to approach him, let alone strike up a conversation.
That day, my dear friend Natalie orchestrated a surprise. A small box was delivered to my class, capturing the curiosity of my classmates. Unlike the expected bouquets or sentimental love notes, my gift was different. The anticipation was electric, but I waited until I was alone to unveil the mystery. Inside, nestled among tissue paper, was the tiny voodoo doll. I had no idea what it was or what I was supposed to do with it. After all, this was 2002, and pop culture hadn’t quite enlightened me on the nuances of such things.
Later, Natalie explained that it was meant to cast a spell—to enchant my crush and perhaps grant me the confidence I lacked. The idea was both thrilling and absurd. Needless to say, the spell never worked. My shyness persisted, and my silent admiration remained just that—silent. Nothing ever blossomed between us.
But what did last was something far more magical than any love spell: friendship. Decades later, despite living in different countries, with a two-and-a-half-hour flight separating us, Natalie and I remain as close as ever. Distance has never diluted our bond. We still talk regularly, sharing our lives across time zones, proving that some connections defy space and time.
P.S. While the voodoo doll failed in matters of love, it did succeed in gifting me a lifelong friendship—and that, in itself, feels like a spell well cast.
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