The Hot Mess Collective, Ch 2: Still Magic
Burdened by her empathy-draining gift, Imani confronts superficial modern spirituality after a trying day. A poignant journaling session reveals her deep internal conflict, her djinn heritage, and her
Some djinn whispered wishes into the wind; Imani had to breathe them out of her very core, and it always cost her.
The soft chime of the door brought Imani back to the present. The feeling of her last client's urgent plea still hung in the air like old incense. Now, Mrs. Gable sat before her. She looked like a small, grey cloud in Imani’s simple, calm office. Sunlight, softened by rice-paper screens, lit up dust floating above the low-polished table between them. Mrs. Gable’s old, worried hands twisted a damp tissue into a small, sad piece.
“It’s just… they’re so busy, Imani,” Mrs. Gable began, her voice trembling, threatening to crack. Her eyes, magnified by thick lenses, swam. “Always busy. Too busy for me, their mother.” She dabbed at her eyes, a gesture that did little. “My birthday… it’s next Thursday. Seventy-five. You’d think for seventy-five, they’d… they’d make an effort.”
Imani offered a small, encouraging nod. Her own stillness was a contrast to the older woman’s upset. She could feel Mrs. Gable’s deep ache, like a cold, empty spot where love should be.
“They used to,” Mrs. Gable continued, her gaze distant, lost in a warmer past. “When Arthur was alive… we were a family. Now… now it’s like I’m just… a note on their calendar. Something they have to tick off.” She took a shaky breath. “I don’t ask for much. Just… to know they care. To see them. Just for one day, for my birthday. Is that too much to ask?”
Her unspoken wish felt heavy in the room, so full of longing it made Imani’s teeth ache.
Imani’s look softened, but her voice stayed gentle and clear. “Making them be here for your birthday, Mrs. Gable… yes, that’s a wish I can grant. They’d show up. They’d feel a sudden, sharp need to be there.” She paused, letting that sink in. “But them being here, because of a wish like that… it would just be for the day. Like a flower you force open – beautiful for a moment, but it doesn’t change the plant itself. It wouldn’t be real caring, not the deep-down kind you’re looking for.”
Mrs. Gable’s hopeful look faded. The damp tissue fell from her fingers onto the table. “Then… then it’s no good?”
“Not with one simple wish, no,” Imani clarified, her voice low. “To really fix things, to make them want to be part of your life again… that’s much harder. We’d have to understand why things fell apart. What happened? When did the distance start? Was it one big thing, or lots of little things over time?”
Imani leaned forward a little, her bright eyes holding Mrs. Gable’s. “If we tried something like that, it wouldn’t be one big spell. It’d be… smaller things. Little nudges. Tiny shifts in how they see things, subtle reminders of how things used to be, trying to gently guide them back to… well, to you.” She took a quiet breath. The air in the room seemed to get very still. “That kind of work takes a lot from me. A lot of energy, a lot of focus. And for you, Mrs. Gable,” she added, her tone kind but direct, “it would be a significant cost. Changing how people feel, even gently, it’s not cheap.”
The older woman took this in, looking down at her wrinkled hands. The hope she’d felt moments ago fought with a new understanding of how big her wish really was. “So, either they come for one day, feeling… pushed into it?” she whispered. “Or… it costs more than I probably have to make them actually want to?” Tears started to fill her eyes again, this time not just from being lonely, but from facing a hard, painful choice.
Imani nodded slowly. “That’s the hard truth of it, I’m afraid. I can’t make someone love you if the feeling’s truly gone. I can try to clear away the obstacles, the misunderstandings, maybe. But they have to be willing to walk that path back to you themselves, if it’s going to be real.” She waited, letting the silence hold the seriousness of the decision. A sunbeam moved, hitting a crystal on Imani’s desk. It threw a quick rainbow across the rice-paper screen – a brief bit of beauty in the room’s quiet, serious mood.
Mrs. Gable’s shoulders slumped. “More than I have,” she confirmed, her voice very quiet. “I… I just wanted… perhaps just a little less of this awful feeling. Just for a while.”
Imani’s expression softened more. “There is something else we can do,” she offered gently. “Not a wish to change them, or to make them do anything. But a wish for you. To make this heavy feeling a little lighter, just for a time. To bring a little peace to your heart, especially with your birthday coming.”
A tiny bit of hope returned to Mrs. Gable’s eyes. “Peace?”
“Yes,” Imani said. She stood up smoothly and went to a small cabinet. She took out a thin stick of light grey incense and a small, plain ceramic burner. “It’s a quiet wish. It won’t fix the bigger problem, but it can help make the pain less sharp.”
She put the burner on the table between them and lit the incense. A thin line of smoke, smelling a bit like sandalwood and clean rain, curled up. Imani closed her eyes for a moment, her hands resting in her lap. Her lips moved, but she made no sound, just breathed softly and evenly. It seemed to pull the tension out of the room.
She didn’t touch Mrs. Gable or make any big movements. Instead, she focused inside, her forehead creasing a little as she concentrated, as if gathering something soft and easily broken. The air around them grew still. The dust specks seemed to hang in the air. Imani pictured Mrs. Gable’s loneliness, the cold ache in her heart. Gently, with her mind, she started to pull bits of that grey feeling towards herself, soaking it up like a sponge sops up spilled water. She wasn't getting rid of the sadness, just making it feel less heavy. Then, she pictured a tiny, warm spark – maybe a memory of a happy birthday, or the simple comfort of a quiet afternoon – and carefully, she sent that small warmth towards the older woman.
It was hard to see what was happening, only the incense slowly burning and Imani’s face growing calmer, though a small line of effort showed between her eyebrows.
After a few minutes, which felt like a long, peaceful time, Imani opened her eyes. The incense was now just fine ash.
Mrs. Gable was looking at her, a slow, surprised smile appearing on her face. She had stopped twisting her hands. A single tear ran down her cheek, but it was different from the ones before – less sad, more like a release.
“Oh,” Mrs. Gable breathed, her voice soft, almost amazed. “Oh, my. I… I feel…” She touched her chest. “Lighter. Yes, that’s it. Lighter.” Her smile grew wider, a real, warm look that smoothed some of the worry lines from her face. “Thank you, dear. Thank you so much.”
She fumbled in her handbag and took out an old leather coin purse. From it, she carefully counted out a few bills and some coins. She put them on the polished table. It wasn’t much money, but she clearly gave it with true thanks.
Imani nodded, a calm smile on her own lips. “You’re welcome, Mrs. Gable. May your birthday bring you some measure of joy.”
As Mrs. Gable got ready to leave, moving more easily than when she came in, she gave a final, thankful nod. Imani stayed seated. Her calm, professional look didn't change. But inside, a familiar tiredness settled in. Her arms and legs felt heavy, and there was a dull ache behind her eyes. The sadness she had taken in, even a small bit, left its mark. It was the price of these quiet wishes, paid not with money, but with her own spirit. She closed her eyes again, breathing deeply, trying to push away the growing tiredness before her next client came. The smell of sandalwood and rain still lingered, a sweet and sad reminder of what had happened.
Imani left the quiet lobby and stepped into the sudden roar of New York City in late afternoon. The change was sharp and loud. Horns blared. A jackhammer pounded the pavement. A crowd’s chatter washed over her, full of other people’s rush and problems.
***
The unfiltered sun beat down, hot and bright, bouncing off glass and metal. Imani squinted. The air felt heavy, thick with car exhaust and the sweet smell of roasted nuts from a cart. The city's noisy energy, usually a barrage she could filter, today pressed in. Each horn seemed to jab directly at her temples, the collective hum of voices a physical weight on her shoulders, adding to the burdens she already carried.
She still felt Mrs. Gable’s quiet desperation like an ache in her chest. But it wasn't just Mrs. Gable. Before her, Mr. Henderson’s deep sadness over his lost pet had felt huge. And the young woman, sure a rival had cursed her new career, whose frantic worry had left Imani worn out. Each person took a little piece of her. These quiet wishes, these small changes to feelings, were the hardest. She had to absorb so much, and some of it always stayed. There were times, rare and fleeting, when a wish resolved with a clean snap, leaving behind a sense of rightness, even a fragile joy. But those were exceptions. Mostly, it was this slow accumulation of sorrow.
She walked slowly. A cyclist sped by, shouting at someone in the bike lane. The smell of old beer came from a bar. Loud music from a car vibrated through her sandals. It was too much. Too loud. Too raw.
Her eyes pricked, not with her own sadness, but from carrying too many of other people's feelings. Her shoulders ached, not just from sitting, but from the weight of all their hopes, fears, and wishes. She just wanted quiet, a still place where no one needed anything, far from the constant hum of human desires.
A sudden, sharp memory pierced through her fatigue: her mother, Safiya, years ago, her face serene after one of her women's circles, saying, "Even in the city, baraka can be found, if you know where to seek it." The community center in Williamsburg, a few blocks from where she had grown up, flashed into her mind. Safiya had held her gatherings there. Imani hadn’t been in years, but now, a desperate, half-formed yearning for something – an echo of that peace, a sliver of that remembered sanctuary – pulled her feet in that direction. She had passed it countless times, a small, nondescript building. Now, its door felt like a specific invitation.
She stepped inside. The air felt cooler. Sunlight streamed through skylights, casting bright, clear squares on the worn carpet. Voices carried from a class, but they sounded cheerful.
An old notice board near the entrance, usually covered with flyers for community meals and kids’ programs, now had a shiny new poster: “Unleash Your Inner Goddess! A Manifestation & Empowerment Workshop – Find Your Fierce!” Below it, more shiny notices advertised “Crystal Healing for the Modern Woman” and “Mindful Mogul Meditations.” This wasn't the community center she remembered. Her mother, Safiya, used to teach classes there about old ways of using herbs for healing. She also led quiet circles by candlelight for local women, where they shared old stories and wisdom from their families. Imani recalled the scent of burning sage and sweetgrass her mother favored, the low murmur of voices weaving together, the air thick with a shared, quiet power. Her mother called it a place of baraka, a blessing, tangible and real.
Now, the main hall had been changed. The scent of brewing chai and shared secrets was replaced by something vaguely citrusy and artificial. The old, mismatched chairs were gone, as was the worn carpet. Now there was shiny bamboo on the floor. New, simple furniture was set up neatly. Soft, cheerful pop music with no words played from hidden speakers.
Through an open doorway, Imani could see a workshop happening. A woman with very bright streaks in her hair and a microphone headset walked quickly back and forth. She was in front of about twenty women. Most sat on yoga mats with open notebooks.
“Alright, goddesses!” the leader said cheerfully. Her voice sounded loud and a bit metallic through the microphone. “Let’s talk about having plenty of everything! You have to feel rich to get rich! What good things will you say about money today? Let’s hear them! Say them loud!”
A few women shyly said things like, “I am a money magnet,” and “Money comes to me easily.”
The familiar weariness washed over Imani, heavier this time, tinged with a fresh layer of disappointment.
Just as she was about to turn and leave, a voice called her name. "Imani? Child, is that you?"
Imani looked up, surprised, to see an old friend. "Mrs. Jain, hello! It's been a while. How are you?"
Mrs. Jain smiled warmly. She had known Imani since she was a little girl, a contemporary of Safiya’s who had often joined those quiet circles. When Imani's mother died, the older woman had been a strong and loving presence in her life. "Very well, child. But what brings you here, of all places? A bit far from your usual haunts, isn't it?"
"I just finished with a client," Imani explained, the weariness evident in her voice. "I was just… I remembered Mama used to find some peace here. Thought I'd pass by."
"Too long since you have," Mrs. Jain said kindly, her eyes holding a gentle understanding that asked no further questions. "And how is that business of yours?"
Imani was grateful for the change in subject. "Well enough, thank you. I'm keeping busy."
"Hmmm," Mrs. Jain mused. She was looking at the poster by the door. "Unleash your inner goddess," she read aloud, a slight smile playing on her lips. "Well, everyone needs to find their strength, don't they? It’s good the young women have these things now. So many ways to feel powerful." Imani offered a faint, noncommittal smile in return.
Powerful. Yes, that was one word for it. But the power Mrs. Jain seemed to be gesturing towards – this bright, marketable, 'fierce' version – felt miles away from the quiet, draining empathy that defined Imani’s own abilities. It was like comparing a firework to the deep, unseen currents of the ocean.
"It's certainly... popular," Imani managed, the word feeling inadequate.
"And your work, child," Mrs. Jain continued, turning her kind, knowing gaze back to Imani. "It’s a blessing you have, helping people find their way. Such a gift. You must feel so fulfilled, bringing peace to troubled hearts."
Fulfilled wasn't the word Imani would have chosen. Drained, often. Burdened, sometimes. Necessary, always. But fulfilled? That implied a lightness, a replenishment she rarely experienced.
Mrs. Jain’s words, meant to be encouraging, landed like soft, well-meaning pebbles on a very deep well. They skipped across the surface, never touching the true depth of what Imani carried.
"I try to help where I can," Imani said, her voice softer than she intended. The disconnect was a familiar ache, a subtle reminder that even with those who had known her longest, who loved her, there were parts of her experience that remained untranslatable.
"And that is all anyone can ask," Mrs. Jain said, patting Imani’s arm comfortingly. "The world needs more people like you, with a good heart and a willingness to listen. Keep shining your light, dear."
Shining her light. Imani thought of the shadows she absorbed, the quiet desperation she filtered. It felt less like shining and more like carefully tending a very small, very fragile flame in a vast darkness, trying to keep it from being extinguished by the sorrows of others.
"Thank you, Mrs. Jain," Imani said, genuine warmth in her voice for the older woman's kindness, even if the words themselves didn't quite reach her. "It’s always good to see you."
"You too, child. Don't be such a stranger to this place. Even if it changes, some good things remain. And perhaps," she added, her eyes twinkling a little, "some of the old ways of finding peace still work, even if they aren't on a shiny poster."
Mrs. Jain gave her arm a final squeeze before turning towards the main hall, perhaps to observe the 'goddesses' in action. Imani watched her go, a faint sigh escaping her lips.
In the hall, the workshop leader was getting the participants to stand up and dance with their notebooks, shouting their affirmations about money. The air still felt heavy, despite the sunlight. The old tiredness was deeper, the feeling of absorbing and carrying a burden she had never chosen, one she had only accepted because some deep, unnameable part of her couldn't refuse the call of a genuine plea, however much it cost.
Imani went out the door, back into the bright, loud world, and walked home.
Later, after dinner, Imani was sitting quietly in the middle of her bedroom. She brought out her journal, an old, battered notebook filled with loose scraps of paper, dried herbs, and bits of string – mementos and reflections from past encounters.
She began sorting through it, looking at all the little reminders she kept. Notes about tiny wishes, like a woman whose wedding ring she had found and carefully returned. Mementos from more serious cases, like a pressed flower from a family who needed to find a lost child. Tokens from simple things, like a feather from a lost cat’s favorite toy, or a faded ribbon from a birthday party.
She began writing, exploring how she felt about her work. It was part journal, part diary, part grimoire. There was an old, leather-bound book, her great-grandmother's, that her mother had given her, but this was her private one. Her thoughts.
As she wrote, she let the emotions wash over her, as if her pen could drain the feelings that lingered after helping each client. She let her thoughts wander, her hand moving on its own, a mix of English, Arabic, and even a little bit of the old language, the one her ancestors brought over from Africa centuries ago.
Sometimes, it's easy, she wrote. But sometimes, it hurts.
Carrying all these burdens, all these worries. People's hopes and dreams, their sadness, their fears. They're not mine, but it feels like they are, just for a little while. I feel the ache. And the loneliness. And the grief. As if it's happening to me, not them.
Sometimes, when the feelings are deep, they take a while to leave. Like a shadow. It stays in the room after they've gone. In the air, in my heart. I carry their sorrow for a while. And it hurts. And yet... to turn away from a true need, to let the power within me lie dormant when it could ease even a fraction of another’s pain... that feels like a different kind of hurt, a stifling pressure.
She paused, tapping her pen on the paper, leaving little ink dots. She knew why it happened. All that heavy feeling had to go somewhere, and it found its way to her. But why did it always hurt?
Is it the nature of the gift? she wondered, the pen scratching softly. Or am I simply… unshielded? Mama spoke of protections, of grounding, but her ways… they were so tied to a faith that feels both too small and too vast for me. All those rules, those pronouncements. They felt like a cage, even as a child. And these new ways… She thought of the bright, loud workshop, the chanting women. ‘Unleash your inner goddess.’ It sounds like a brand, not a belief. So empty. So shallow. Where is the soul in that? Where is the baraka Mama found in quiet circles, in the scent of burning sage, in whispered prayers?
A deeper ache settled in her, one that had nothing to do with her clients. It was a hollow space within her own heart, a yearning for something she couldn't quite name. It wasn’t just spiritual solace she craved. There was a different hunger, too, a quiet whisper for connection that didn’t involve the one-sided flow of her work. A desire for… intimacy, perhaps. Not the fleeting, surface-level connections she sometimes saw others pursue, which seemed to leave their own particular emptiness, but something else. A closeness that might nourish rather than drain. A touch that didn't come with a request or an outpouring of another's pain. Could such a thing even exist for her? To be seen, truly seen, without the filter of her abilities, without the expectation of a wish granted?
Her djinn blood hummed a low, restless song beneath her skin, a counterpoint to the human part of her that longed for simple peace, for quiet understanding. The power that flowed through her, the ability to touch and shift the subtle currents of fate and feeling, it often felt like a storm raging inside a too-small vessel. Too much emotion, too much perception, too much… everything. She felt it when she worked, this overwhelming surge. And she felt it now, in the solitude of her room, this intense, formless desire that had no clear object, only a profound, aching need.
Am I too much? she wrote, the question stark on the page. Too much for others to bear, if they truly knew? Or not enough? Not human enough for simple joys, not djinn enough to command this power without it devouring me from the inside out? I walk between worlds, belonging to neither, carrying burdens from both.
She pictured her mother’s face, stern but loving, reciting lines from the Qur’an, her faith an unshakeable fortress. Imani had admired that strength, that certainty, but she could never fully inhabit it. The words, beautiful as they were, didn't quite map onto the wild, ancient magic that was her inheritance. Then she thought of the smiling workshop leader, promising abundance through affirmations, and a wave of weariness washed over her. If this was the alternative, this glossy, superficial spirituality, then she felt truly adrift.
There must be another way, she wrote, a familiar prayer, a desperate hope. A path that honors all of me. A way to use this gift without being consumed by it. A way to connect without being broken.
She closed the journal, the weight of her thoughts pressing down on her. The room was quiet, the city’s hum a distant drone. But inside Imani, the storm still brewed, the questions still echoed, and the longing remained, sharp and insistent as a freshly opened wound.
Perhaps in time, she thought, a small, sad prayer of her own. Perhaps someday, there will be a way to find peace.
But tonight, there was no peace. There was only the quiet ache, the restless hum, and the unanswered questions, their answers lost in the storm.
***