Black Magic

They always said black magic destroys love.

No one ever warned her that it could summon it, twist it, and leave it breathing in the dark corners of the heart—half alive, half damned.

Alina had never believed in spells, curses, or whispered rituals passed down through generations. She believed in logic. In science. In the certainty that everything had an explanation, even heartbreak.

Especially heartbreak.

That belief died the same night her grandmother did.


---

The Box

The house felt wrong after the funeral.

Too quiet. Too aware.

Every clock tick echoed like a countdown, and every shadow felt longer than it should have been. Alina wandered the hallways of her grandmother’s old home, surrounded by memories she hadn’t visited in years. The scent of dried herbs still clung to the air, sharp and earthy.

Her grandmother had always been… different.

People in the village respected her but never stayed long. They whispered about her behind closed doors. Said she knew things she shouldn’t. That she listened to the moon.

Alina used to laugh at those stories.

Until she found the box.

It was hidden beneath the loose floorboard in the bedroom—small, wooden, wrapped tightly with black thread, as if someone had tried to keep it from breathing. A single piece of paper lay on top, yellowed with age.

Written in her grandmother’s careful, trembling handwriting were the words:

“Never open this for love.”

Grief does strange things to people.

It makes warnings feel optional.

Three nights later, alone in the house, surrounded by memories and wine she barely tasted, Alina opened the box.


---

The Ritual

Inside were objects that made her breath catch.

Black candles, smooth and cold to the touch.
Dried roses crumbling into ash.
A leather-bound book filled with symbols that seemed to shift when she wasn’t looking directly at them.

The room grew heavier.

The air thickened, pressing against her lungs.

She didn’t plan a ritual. She didn’t believe in rituals.

She just wanted answers.

She lit a candle.

The flame burned unnaturally still.

Her hands trembled as she turned the book’s pages, skimming words she didn’t understand but somehow felt. Her heart ached—not with fear, but with longing.

And then she whispered a name she hadn’t spoken aloud in years.

“Rayan.”

The name slipped from her lips like a confession.

The man who had loved her once.
The man who had left without explanation.
The man her heart had never truly released.

The candle flame flickered violently—then extinguished itself.

The room went cold.

And somewhere across the city, Rayan woke up screaming.


---

The Return

When the knock came the next morning, Alina thought she was imagining it.

Her head throbbed. Her body felt drained, as if she hadn’t slept at all.

The knock came again.

She opened the door.

Rayan stood there.

Pale. Disoriented. Haunted.

His eyes searched her face like he was afraid she might vanish if he blinked. He looked thinner, older, as if life had not been kind in her absence.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I just… woke up, and I couldn’t breathe. Something was pulling me. I tried to ignore it.”

He swallowed hard.

“But I couldn’t.”

Alina’s heart slammed against her ribs.

She stepped back, letting him inside.

The moment he crossed the threshold, the house seemed to exhale.


---

Something Isn’t Right

At first, it felt like a miracle.

Rayan stayed.

He slept on the couch, barely resting, waking whenever she moved. He followed her with his eyes, as if memorizing her existence. When she left the room, he grew restless. When she laughed, his face softened with relief.

But love wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

His affection was too intense.
Too sharp.
Too desperate.

He touched her like someone drowning—gripping, afraid to let go. He grew irritated when others spoke to her. His voice tightened when she mentioned leaving the house.

“You’re all I have,” he said one night, his forehead pressed to hers. “I don’t know who I am without you.”

The words should have sounded romantic.

Instead, they terrified her.

“You’re not loving me,” she whispered. “You’re losing yourself.”

Rayan shook his head, his eyes wild. “Then why does it feel like I’ll die if you leave?”

That night, the house creaked. The candles flickered without flame.

And the book called to her.


---

The Truth of Black Magic

Alina opened the final pages with shaking hands.

The truth stared back at her in ink dark as blood.

“Black magic does not create love.
It binds desire, fear, and memory.
It turns longing into obsession.
To undo the spell, the caster must release what they want most—
without knowing what will return.”

Her chest tightened.

She had wanted Rayan back.

And black magic had answered.

But it had twisted love into something cruel.

She looked at him sleeping restlessly on the couch, murmuring her name like a prayer and a curse all at once.

She knew what she had to do.


---

The Breaking of the Spell

The moon was red the night she lit the final candle.

Rayan watched her with confusion, dread crawling across his face.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I’m letting you go,” she said softly.

“No,” he stepped toward her, panic flooding his eyes. “You can’t. Please. I can’t—”

She read the words aloud, her voice steady even as tears slid down her cheeks.

“I release you,” she whispered. “Even if it means losing you forever.”

The flame roared.

The room shook.

Rayan collapsed, gasping, clutching his chest as if something invisible was tearing itself free.

The candle burned out.

Silence followed.


---

After

When Rayan woke, the obsession was gone.

His eyes were clear. Calm. Human.

He looked at Alina the way one looks at a memory—familiar, but distant.

“I remember loving you once,” he said quietly. “But now… I don’t feel trapped.”

She smiled through tears.

“That’s how it’s supposed to be.”

He left the next morning.

No promises. No spells. No chains.

Just choice.


---

Epilogue: Real Magic

Weeks passed.

Then months.

Alina learned to live with the consequences of her grief, her mistake, and her courage. She burned the book. She buried the ashes. She learned that love forced is no love at all.

And then, one ordinary evening, someone knocked on her door.

Rayan stood there.

No fear. No pull. No magic.

Just him.

“I’m here,” he said, smiling softly, “because I want to be.”

Alina understood then:

Black magic can bind a soul.
But only real love returns freely.

And that—
that is the rarest magic of all.