Page 4 of The Slug Crystal

I point mutely at the cup. Alina lifts the lid slowly, like she is worried something is going to spring out at her.

The snail, sensing an audience, extends its eye stalks about the rim of the cup with the slow, dramatic flourish of a magician revealing the final card.

Alina leans in, face inches from the lip, and lets out a low, “Ho-ly shit.”

“I told you,” I whisper, as if the snail can hear us.

She sinks onto one of my barstools and cracks her knuckles. “Okay. One, we’re officially living in a Goosebumps book. Two, you have to tell Jake. Three, I call dibs on naming it.” She raises her eyebrows. “I’m thinking ‘Gary.’ You know, like SpongeBob’s pet?”

I shake my head so hard the room tilts. “This isn’t a pet, Lina. It’s my ex.”

She grins. “All men are basically equivalent to mollusks already, babe. I see no change.”

I snort and reply, “Okay, but he already has a name. It’s Alex…”

She shrugs, picking up the cup and twirling it around in her hand, seeming to inspect the snail from different angles.

I shake my head, then grab my phone and open a FaceTime with Jake.

He answers on the second ring, still in bed, his brown hair sticking up like someone tried to style it with the static from a balloon.

His background is a wall covered in old running bibs, all neatly laminated and arranged in perfect rows.

He blinks blearily. “It’s barely even ten. Who died?”

Alina waves. “No one, but check this out.” She reaches over and angles my phone toward the snail, which is now attempting to summit the rim of the cup with the focus of a tiny, squishy Everest climber.

Jake squints, then sits up, blanket dropping to reveal a white tank top and his entire right shoulder. “Is that… what I think it is?”

“It’s a snail,” Alina crows.

“It’s Alex,” I add, voice wobbling between panic and pride.

Jake pauses. For one glorious moment, I think he’s about to hang up on us forever. Instead, he rubs his eyes, then says, “Do you need me to stomp it?”

Shocked laughter explodes out of me so hard I nearly spill the snail onto my lap when I move to slap a hand over my mouth.

Alina, undeterred by my looming mental breakdown, launches into a TED Talk about the possible moral implications of turning people into snails. My attention wanes as she dramatically exclaims, “Is it technically murder if they’re happier as a snail? Discuss!”

Jake, still appearing half-asleep, clicks his fingers across the screen of his phone. “I’m looking up snail care,” he mutters, also ignoring Alina. “First hit is a Reddit thread titled ‘Help! My boyfriend is a slug now,’” he reports.

“Wait, wasn’t he supposed to turn into a slug??” Alina asks.

I shrug helplessly. “What’s the difference between a snail and a slug?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Jake says. “Internet says you need a terrarium and some fresh lettuce.”

I’m about to make a joke about organic produce when Alina claps her hands, startling the snail back into its shell. “Field trip!” she shouts. “Pet store. Now. We’re getting you a setup worthy of this curse.”

“Fine,” I say, reaching for my keys. “But you’re responsible for Alex if he tries to slime away.”

I can’t believe I’m going along with this, but the truth is, I don’t want to be alone with the snail.

Not because I’m scared of it, but because if it’s really my ex, if a spell actually did this, then someone else needs to witness what happens next with me.

Otherwise, it’s just another weird thing I’ll have to explain to my next therapist.

Alina giggles, already wrangling her tote bag over her shoulder. “Okay,” she agrees.

“I’ll meet you there,” Jake promises. “I have a deep scientific curiosity about snail-Alex, and also a coupon for 10% off all aquariums.”

I pop the coffee cup in my purse, after placing it in a plastic grocery bag for security, and hope that the pet store doesn’t have a “No Sorcery” policy posted on the door. Because at this point, I’m not sure what to expect .

Saturday, 11:12AM. The pet store is exactly how I remember it from my childhood.

It’s a boxy strip-mall relic with flickering lights, the faint ammonia tang of turtle tanks, and a soundtrack of distant parakeets absolutely losing their shit in the aviary aisle.

Alina finds a cart, Jake finds us, and I cradle the coffee cup like it’s a holy relic and I’m one step away from launching a new religion.

We are immediately greeted by a teenager in a purple vest, who introduces himself as a Customer Experience Lead.

But his name tag says ‘Dante’ in thick, black Sharpie, like he’s so new that he hasn’t even been given a permanent name tag yet.

He’s tall, with two-tone hair and black lipstick, and when he sees us eyeing the Bug, Reptile & Other section, his entire face lights up like a Christmas tree set to goth.

“Looking for a friend?” Dante asks, eyebrow ring doing the heavy lifting.

I clear my throat. “We have a snail emergency.”

Dante doesn’t miss a beat. “Aquatic or terrestrial?”

Alina chimes in, “Terrestrial, but possibly magical.” She flashes the coffee cup in my hands open, just enough to reveal the blue-gloss shell and the single eyestalk peeking over the rim.

Dante’s mouth makes a perfect O. “That’s the most beautiful gastropod I’ve ever seen. You must be very proud.”

Jake nods solemnly, as if introducing his own child and agreeing with a compliment received in response. “We need the Cadillac of terrariums.”

“Err, but portable,” I add in, thinking it’s likely Alex will need to accompany us to a different location at some point in the near future. This snail status isn’t going to be… permanent. I’m definitely going to fix it.

Dante bows slightly. It’s weird, but one of the least weird things about my day so far, so I ignore it.

“Right this way,” he says .

We follow through aisles of crickets, snakes, and hermit crab shells painted like NFL helmets, until we reach a row of gleaming glass tanks.

Dante launches into a monologue about airflow, humidity, and the dangers of overly enthusiastic heat lamps.

It’s clear he knows about snails, but it’s less clear whether he believes my snail is, in fact, the result of a magical crystal curse.

After Dante finishes showing us the terrariums, we all just stand there for a minute, taking stock.

Alina wants the deluxe model with LED lights and a fake waterfall.

Jake votes for function over form, opting for a very plain container with zero features.

I just want something that’ll keep the snail from escaping and haunting my nightmares. And is, once again, portable.

Dante pulls down a mid-sized glass terrarium with a green border and handle and sets it on the counter, and winks. “This one’s escape-proof. We recommend coconut coir for bedding, and you’ll want to add a few hides so your new friend feels safe.”

Jake loads up on supplies. Alina picks out a tiny log cabin for “aesthetic value.” I can’t stop staring at the snail, who is now exploring the rim of the coffee cup with the slow, almost sensual confidence of someone who knows they can’t be harmed.

At the checkout, Dante rings us up while narrating every step. “That’ll be two pounds of coir, a bag of cuttlebone, a waterfall fountain, and a log cabin. Anything else? Calcium supplements for shell health?”

Alina grins. “Do they make emotional support shells?”

Dante, without missing a beat, pulls out a bin of decorative shells in pastel colors. “Some people say it helps. Who are we to judge?”

We all laugh. Even Jake, who is usually allergic to retail humor.

After a brief “how did we get here?” moment in the parking lot. Otherwise known as Alina asking, “Do you think Dante would be into a date?”

And Jake responding, “I think he’d be more into destroying the patriarchy.”

We head back to my apartment and get to work.

Setting up the terrarium is almost suspiciously easy. Jake reads the instructions, Alina decorates, and I transfer the snail with a delicacy I reserve for only the most fragile and oracular life forms. It leaves a shimmering streak on my finger, which Alina assures me is definitely not toxic.

The three of us stand back and watch as the snail… my snail? My curse? My ex? Alex? It… Explores its new habitat. It circles the log cabin, then pauses, antennae outstretched, as if seeing the world for the first time.

We place a few pieces of lettuce and watch him nibble or his goo eat away at it? I’m not sure. I wash my hands again, just in case.

Alina raises a glass of Gatorade. “To new beginnings.”

Jake clinks his can of Coke against it. “To functional boundaries.”

I lift my mug of lukewarm coffee and say, “To never doing magic again.”

Dante’s words about escape-proof terrariums echo in my head. I’m not sure if he was talking about the snail or about me. But as I watch the little blue shell glisten in the half-light, I feel, finally, honestly, a little less stressed. Maybe even hopeful.

Maybe this is what closure looks like. Not a clean break, and not a neat ending, but a slow, steady crawl toward something new.