When Magic Gets Personal

One week later, Leo Matsuda had officially lost his mind.

Not in an obvious way. He was still the same helpful, annoyingly nice person he'd always been. But there was something different now. Something that made my skin prickle with awareness every time he was nearby.

Like how he saved me a seat by the window in homeroom that morning. "You always look tired first period," he said when I stared at him in confusion. "I thought you might want the spot with better light."

Since when did he notice where I liked to sit? Since when did he notice that I looked tired?

"Thanks," I mumbled, sliding into the chair before my brain could process what happened.

He's just being nice. That's what Leo does. He's nice to everyone.

But the voice in my head sounded less certain each time I repeated it.

The first incident happened during my Friday afternoon room cleaning session.

I was reorganizing my desk, pulling out old assignments and candy wrappers, when I found the stupid doll crammed in the back of my drawer. It looked even more pathetic than I remembered: lumpy, crooked, with one button eye slightly higher than the other.

"Ridiculous," I muttered as I threw it down. "Can't believe I wasted fabric on this thing."

I reached for a fallen pencil under my desk and accidentally stepped on something soft.

The doll.

There was a weird squish sound as my full weight came down on its cotton-stuffed body.

At the exact same moment, three blocks away, Leo Matsuda jerked upright from his homework and yelped in pain.

But I didn't know that yet.

"Ow! What the hell?"

I was staring at the doll, which now had a perfect sneaker print across its torso, when Leo's voice echoed from somewhere. My window stayed open, and sound carried weird in our neighborhood, so maybe he was in his yard?

Weird coincidence.

I picked up the doll and smoothed out its wrinkled fabric. No real damage, just compressed stuffing. While I was fluffing it back to its original lumpy shape, I thought I heard his voice again.

Were we linked somehow? I glanced at the doll.

Absolutely not. There's no way.

*****

The second incident happened Monday morning in the hallway.

I was rushing to first period, my overstuffed backpack caught in a tug-of-war with my locker door, when the zipper snagged on something inside. I yanked harder, and there was a small rip as whatever it caught on tore free.

Second period, Leo showed up with his sleeve ripped.

"Weirdest thing," he told his friend Makoto while I eavesdropped from two desks away. "I just put my backpack down, and the fabric just... tore. Like it got caught on something sharp, but there wasn't anything there."

My stomach dropped.

Coincidence. Had to be.

But when I checked my backpack after class, I found the doll wedged against the zipper with a tiny tear in its side. The same side Leo's sleeve ripped on.

I spent lunch period in the bathroom, staring at the doll and trying to rationalize what was happening.

It's just strange timing. Leo's clumsy. His clothes are old. The universe has a sick sense of humor.

This is not magic. Magic isn't real.

And even if it was, the stupid thing didn't work when I wanted it to.

*****

The third incident destroyed hopes I had of gaslighting myself into thinking this wasn't happening.

Wednesday's PE class meant dodgeball, which translated to organized chaos in the gymnasium. I was sitting on the bleachers with my fake period cramps excuse, watching classmates pummel each other with rubber balls, when my phone buzzed.

Text from Mom asking if I remembered to take my vitamins. I leaned down to dig the bottle out of my bag, and my elbow knocked into something small and soft.

The doll.

It tumbled out of my bag and hit the corner of the bleacher step with a solid thump.

Across the gym, Leo—who just reached for a ball—suddenly jerked sideways like something invisible smacked him in the head. The ball he reached for beaned him right in the temple.

He went down hard.

"Matsuda!" Coach Yamamoto rushed over as Leo sat up, dazed and rubbing his head. "What happened? You had that catch easy."

"I don't know," Leo said, sounding genuinely confused. "Something hit me, but..." He looked around the gym. "There wasn't anything there."

I was staring at the doll in my hands, at the small dent in its fabric head where it struck the bleacher.

The same spot Leo now gingerly touched on his skull.

Oh no.

Oh no, oh no, oh no.

This couldn't be happening. Magic wasn't real. Voodoo dolls were fake. I researched this on sketchy websites with spinning skulls and terrible graphics.

But Leo still sat on the gym floor, looking lost and hurt, and it was my fault.

What had I done?

*****

That night, I did what any rational person would do when faced with the impossible.

I researched obsessively.

Buried deep in the same awful website that gave me the original instructions, I found a section I somehow missed the first time. "Advanced Doll Theory: Emotional Resonance and Sympathetic Links."

According to this digital nightmare, voodoo dolls didn't work on random targets. They required an emotional connection between the creator and the subject. The stronger the emotional bond, the more powerful the link.

But here was the part that made my blood run cold:

"In rare cases, the doll may remain dormant until the target develops reciprocal feelings for the creator. When both parties share strong emotions—whether love, hate, or obsession—the sympathetic link activates automatically."

I read the passage three times before the implications sank in.

The doll didn't work when I first made it because Leo didn't care about me. Not really. He just acted his usual helpful self.

But now...

Now he walked me to the bus stop. Saved me seats. Asked about my essays and remembered how I liked my coffee.

Now he looked at me like I was more than just another classmate.

And the doll started working exactly when his feelings changed.

Which meant every time I accidentally hurt the stupid thing, I was hurting him. Every bump, every tear, every moment of carelessness translated into real pain for someone whose only crime involved starting to care about me.

I stared at the doll sitting innocently on my desk. Cotton and fabric and rice, stuffed with my good intentions gone horribly wrong.

The universe has a seriously messed-up sense of humor.

I couldn't destroy it—what if that killed him? I couldn't tell him about it—he'd think I was insane. And I definitely couldn't stop his feelings, because that would make me the worst person alive.

Which left exactly one option.

I had to protect this stupid doll for the rest of my natural life.

"Great," I whispered to my empty room. "Just great."

Outside my window, Leo's house sat dark and quiet, and I wondered if he was lying awake too, touching the bruise on his temple and trying to figure out why the world suddenly felt so strange and fragile.

If only he knew the truth.

His safety now depended on a lopsided cotton doll that I had to keep safe forever, and I was the only one who could do it.