Page 3 of The Slug Crystal

I open it. The entire body reads: “You left your navy hoodie here. LMK,” with no subject line.

Classic Alex. Somehow, even in the aftermath of an emotional Armageddon he caused, he’s still able to act like the world’s most reliable lost-and-found.

I stare at the email until the letters blur, debating if replying would even matter, then decide that passive-aggressively leaving it unread is the true power move.

Tossing my phone down on the counter, I move to the sink and gulp a pint of sink water instead. Then I move to my bedroom and pull on leggings and the first semi-clean T-shirt I can find. I force myself into shoes.

Once I’m dressed, I stand near the door of my apartment, not really sure what to do next.

Then, I decide to just get it over with and head to get my sweatshirt from Alex.

I try to hype myself up as I stand there.

This is it. It’s the final pilgrimage to my ex’s apartment, the ceremonial reclamation of my own goddamn hoodie, and possibly the first time in months I’ve gone outside before noon. I can do this.

The walk to Alex’s place is only six blocks, but it’s a gauntlet of small, urban humiliations.

Every dip in the sidewalk threatens to reawaken my hangover as I stumble over it.

Every passing jogger looks like an alternate-universe me who never developed a deep emotional dependence on carbs, so I glare at them.

And I’m pretty sure I see my old therapist walking her dog on the opposite side of the street.

I duck behind a parked SUV, breathing shallowly until she’s out of range.

I get paranoid that if she sees me, she’ll immediately know I spent $150 on a strange crystal from the internet.

It feels like a therapist superpower, that they can recognize when you’ve done something completely delusional with just a glance. Once she passes, I continue my journey.

Alex’s building is one of those hipster-renovated fourplexes with artisanal rust on the stair railings and succulents in every windowsill.

I buzz his unit, expecting his usual tinny “yo” over the intercom, but after thirty seconds, there’s only silence and then the telltale click of the door unlocking itself.

I push inside, climbing the stairs with the half-heartedness of someone heading for a root canal.

The hallway smells like freshly ground coffee and weed.

I pause outside Alex’s door, fist raised, rehearsing various neutral facial expressions (surprise?

nonchalance? vague, effortless grace?) in my reflection on the peephole.

I knock several times, banging aggressively against the door on the last effort, but no one answers .

I huff out a sigh, pulling my phone out of my purse to send Alex a passive-aggressive email about my hoodie, only to have my keys fall to the floor.

They clatter against each other as I pick them up, the clanking echoing loudly through the hall.

I’m attempting to hastily shove them into my purse to silence them and avoid a noise complaint when I realize that a tiny blue key still dangles off the key ring.

It’s the key to Alex’s apartment, which I apparently never returned.

I finger the key lightly, debating if it would be okay to let myself in and landing somewhere around, why the hell not?

I’ll grab my hoodie and leave the key on the counter.

I can lock the handle on my way out and shoot Alex a quick email once I get home.

With my plan decided, I unlock the door and step inside.

“Morning,” I yell into the apartment in case Alex is home, aiming for breezy but landing somewhere near unhinged insomniac, even to my own ears.

The living room is the same as always. There’s ugly minimalistic furniture, a laptop open on the glass coffee table, and a stack of unread marketing books doubling as a plant stand.

There’s a very intentional effort to look effortless, which would bother me more if I hadn’t once arranged my bookshelf by color, just for an Instagram post.

I scan for my hoodie, but my eyes are immediately drawn to the far end of the couch, where a lump of clothing, a pair of boxers, a faded college T-shirt, and socks, sits abandoned in a heap.

This is, of course, typical. Alex undresses like he’s racing an invisible clock.

But what isn’t typical is the strange, glistening trail leading from the pile to the side of the sofa.

There’s a wet silver ribbon that looks like someone spilled hair gel and then tried to mop it up with a paper towel.

I circle the couch, curiosity piqued. The slug trail…

is it a slug? Is this what happens when you hex a person?

Do they actually turn into a slug? Well, the trail makes a looping pattern before disappearing under the throw pillow.

I lift the pi llow carefully, half expecting a rodent or cockroach, but instead, nestled in the crevice of the couch, I find a snail.

A real, actual snail. Not the brown, humble garden kind, but something out of a sci-fi reboot.

It has a glossy blue shell, iridescent and slightly translucent, with a body the exact hue of cornbread before it’s baked.

Its eye stalks wave with insouciant slowness, as if to say, “Could you leave me be? I’m busy. ”

I drop the pillow and take a full step back. “Um. That’s… not normal.”

“Alex?” I call again, backing away from the snail a little further, then turning on my heel to check out the rest of the apartment. I make my way room by room. There are only three others, the bathroom, the kitchen, and the bedroom, but there’s no sign of Alex.

I do, however, find a pile of my stuff on the kitchen counter.

My hoodie, a pair of glittery socks, two half-used tubes of mascara, and a paperback with a dog-eared page marking where we stopped reading out loud to each other.

I shove everything into my tote bag, desperate to escape before the emotional gravity gets any heavier.

Finally, I return to the living room with my nerves flaring.

I squat down, inspecting the thing from a safe distance.

The snail is inching its way toward the pile of clothes on the couch, making wet, determined progress.

For a second, I’m convinced it’s drawn to me, or maybe to the faint scent of leftover heartbreak embedded in my laundry.

“Maybe it came in from the hallway?” I suggest to myself, even though I know this is biologically improbable, given that the building is, like, three stories of concrete and not a single potted fern in sight.

Maybe… this is a sign. The word punches through my hangover fog and lands somewhere in my gut, cold and urgent.

Did the spell work? Is this the cosmic equivalent of a read receipt?

Is this Alex? Wasn’t he supposed to turn into a sl ug?

I stare at the snail, which has now fully conquered the pile of clothes and is leaving a layer of goo all over everything.

I glance around the apartment a final time, then eye the snail.

I want to confess everything. The hex, the spell, and the iridescent crystal, which is still on my kitchen table, like it will fix it or end this nightmare.

But I don’t. The part of me that’s built entirely from sarcasm and self-preservation says, “At least it’ll be less demanding than my last relationship. ”

When you have nothing else, denial is always a strong ally.

I scoop up the snail in my palm, trying not to squeal at the goo.

I move back into the kitchen and find a disposable coffee cup, placing the snail inside.

Then I leave the apartment, locking it behind me.

I decide to keep my key in case Alex the snail needs anything from his apartment.

I stifle a panic chuckle at the thought and start walking down the hallway faster.

Outside, the morning is a shock of sunlight, and the city already smells like fried food and hot asphalt.

I walk the six blocks home with the snail cup in one hand and my dignity in the other, replaying the last fifteen minutes in my head until the details are as sticky as the trail on Alex’s couch.

When I get back to my apartment, I set the cup on the table next to the Vermis Transformo crystal. The snail seems completely at home, unbothered by its sudden relocation. I tap the side of the cup, and the snail pauses, eye stalks rearing up in what I swear is recognition.

I swallow, heart pounding, and whisper, “Welcome to your new life.”

The snail blinks, or does whatever the snail equivalent of blinking is, and inches toward the edge of the cup with stubborn optimism. I sit on the floor, back against the wall, and for the first time since the breakup, I have absolutely no idea what comes next .

I text Alina, “You busy?”

She replies in less than ten seconds, “Never too busy for you. WTF now?”

I take a photo of the snail and send it with the caption, “I think the spell worked.”

The three dots appear and vanish. Appear. Vanish.

Then she finally responds, “Be right over. Do not let that thing out of your sight.”

The snail is still glued to the inside of the coffee cup when Alina arrives, which is impressive considering how many times I’ve opened and closed the lid to check if it’s dead, reincarnated, or plotting its escape.

Alina bursts through my front door like she’s on a police raid, no knock, clutching a lemon-lime Gatorade and an enormous tote bag overflowing with pamphlets. It looks heavy enough that it could double as a weapon, but I’m too overwhelmed by the snail to ask what the hell is going on with her bag.

She beelines for the kitchen, eyes the closed cup and the crystal arranged on my counter like a still life painted by someone on mushrooms, and sets her Gatorade down with a slap.

“Where is it?” she demands, already scanning the apartment for signs of supernatural mayhem.