The Amethyst Hour

The pyramid scheme had taken everything—our savings, her trust, and eventually the apartment itself. Now I'm arranging amethyst crystals on my desk because the internet told me they transmute negative energy. My hair is thinning, she used to run her fingers through it after we argued, saying we'd figure it out together. Now I sleep on her sister's couch surrounded by MLM brochures and healing stones.

She called at 2 AM. I stared at my iPhone vibrating on the nightstand, watching her name bloom and fade like a dying star. We used to spend those hours talking about opening a bookstore, traveling to Egypt to see the pyramids, anything but tomorrow. Now she only calls when she's drunk, which I know because I've become a zombie checking her socials at odd hours, reading between the lines of cryptic status updates and learning her new life through other people's photos.

'You still awake?' she asked, and I could hear the smile in her voice—real or manufactured, I can't tell anymore. 'Remember that pyramid teal cake we made for my dad's birthday? You iced it for three hours.'

'You asked for it to be perfect,' I said, touching the amethyst pyramid on my desk. 'You always needed everything perfect.'

'The crystals aren't bringing him back,' she said quietly. 'And they're not bringing you back either.'

We hung up without saying goodbye. We don't do that anymore—endings are too heavy to carry into the next day. I deleted the photos from her Instagram profile but I remember her hair in that bathroom selfie, the way she tilted her head against the mosaic tiles, before everything became complicated and geometric schemes became more important than us. Now I just arrange these stones in pyramids and wait for the energy to shift, knowing the only negative energy here lives in my refusal to let go of a number that doesn't call anymore.