I water the plants. Three drops, a glance down the hallway, three drops. Don’t think about Vicky. I think. A leaf falls — I jump. The silence lasts… half a second too long.

In Keegan’s apartment, even watering plants sounds like an alibi. I stand there with the watering can and pretend this is my only plan for the evening: water, leaves, peace. In my bag — highlighters, incense, and a script that has the audacity to weigh more than the rest of my life combined.

Alright. I know how this ends. I know I’m about to try to look normal, and my brain will do its little sprint: ‘Don’t look at the notebook. Don’t even have a notebook. Why do you have a notebook? People with notebooks always look guilty’.

And of course Vicky showed up. I knew it! I knew she’d drill into me with that look. I’ll hold it together at first… but the moment she just brushes a hand over my belly — that’ll be too much. I’ll start trembling, and all my secrets will fly out one after another.

'Watch it, Nadia. — Yeah? You watch yourself!'. — Sure. I can answer myself like that forever. And now — quiet. I’m watering… and then I hear it:

“Hi, pretty thing.” — “Heeey,”

I answer, and there’s that kiss and I’m done — 'Oh fuck. I’m wet.'

***

Between Keegan’s books I find a small amulet. Ordinary. Almost boring. And that’s exactly why I want to put it down immediately… and also why it’s already in my hand. Because I’m an adult and I can ignore suspicious artifacts. I can’t. I roll it between my fingers like I’m checking if it’s real. It is. Cold. Silent. Too polite. And too polite things in Keegan’s place are always suspicious.

***

I spread out my notebook. One second of privacy. And then Vicky is beside me — not walking in, just… suddenly there’s too much of her in the air. Her voice at my ear:

“What are you doing? What is that?”

I have half a second, so I play innocent:

“Uhh… nothing.”

And I cover the page with my hand so obviously I might as well stamp it: YES, I’M HIDING THIS. Vicky gives me her little 'aha,' and a moment later that current hits my belly again and… I’m wet. Again.

***

It’s not an obsession. It’s research. The difference is: when you say'research,’ you sound like an adult with a plan, not like someone who spent two hours comparing lines on a seal and suddenly has strong opinions about a symbol she didn’t know yesterday. These are my studies… I’ve got the amulet, the books, and highlighters in three shades of paranoia. Under it all, one thought: ‘How do I tell her without it sounding like a plan to control her?’

One evening I toy with the amulet and I wait. Usually it’s enough to think about her and… she’s there. This time: nothing. I’m not panicking at all. Of course I’m panicking instantly. The silence is too clean, like someone polished it. And suddenly I get it: she shows up less often. Like the amulet is dampening her signal. And when she does come back—she’s sharper.

“So. What are you up to?”

she asks softly.

“Me? Nothing, what should I say…”

and I immediately hear how it sounds — like ‘PentaPlay.’

***

Scenarios fire off in my head. What’s she going to think? That I’m turning her down with an amulet so I can flirt with guys online? I don’t flirt. Even if I wanted to, I’d make a spreadsheet first. Try explaining to someone who reads you like incense smoke that it’s for her, for the ritual. Good thing certain make-it-happen wizards in my corner 😈 showed me how to handle these seals.

***

Naturally, I practice the confession. At home. Alone. Like a one-woman play with three disasters.

Romantic version: 'Baby, I…' — No. Too much. I sound like a perfume ad.

Scientific version: 'The phenomenon of manifestation dampening…' — Great, Nadia. Add graphs and a press conference.

Casual version: 'So, I’ve got this amulet, lol…' — 'Lol'? Seriously? I’m thirty on the inside and twelve on the outside.

So I type a message… yeah, right, Nadia, how are you going to send it — to a ghost??

Now even the mirror looks concerned.

'Watch it, Nadia. — Yeah? You watch yourse..—QUIET! She’s here.' — The voices in my head go silent.

And only then do I realize I’m not most afraid of the ritual — I’m afraid she’ll feel controlled, not CHOSEN.

Damn, she's almost here, but what should I do with that?..

Damn, I don’t know, I don’t know— I know! — an old rule says:

‘If you don’t know how to do it, let your hands do it for you…’ or something.

Okay. Fine. Let it happen, then.

“Vicky, my kitty? 💓 I’ve got a surprise. 😈 The Pentagram is waiting.”

The world goes too quiet, and my heart races with the rising wave of excitement.