Mazie Dwyer, a 24-year-old indigenous witch based in New Canaan, Connecticut, is part of this modern magical movement. Born with what she calls clairvoyance, Dwyer’s journey started early—with tarot readings and an intuitive sensitivity that later expanded into reiki and somatic healing. Now, through Etsy, she offers tailored spells for romance, healing, and removing third parties — an especially popular request in today’s age of poly-lust and broken trust.

Her prices range from $20 to $200, but she makes one thing clear: she doesn’t guarantee outcomes. That, she says, would break both her ethical code and Etsy’s policies. Instead, she aligns with her clients’ intentions and harnesses her intuitive drive “to genuinely help people.”

Still, the demand is unmistakable — and growing. Between economic instability, burnout, and soulless swiping on dating apps, thousands are searching for something more soulful. And witches like Dwyer are filling that void.

But there’s a twist.

Etsy, the very platform empowering these metaphysical entrepreneurs, has quietly declared war on the spiritual services that made it famous. The company explicitly prohibits listings that advertise metaphysical outcomes — think "find love," "win court cases," or "get rich spells." Instead, sellers must now include a tangible product, such as a crystal or spell jar, and steer clear of outcome - based language. Yet despite the rules, many shops still openly promise love, revenge, and transformation.

Why does Etsy walk this strange tightrope — hosting witches while policing their craft? Is it legal liability? Ethical ambiguity? Or capitalism’s awkward embrace of mysticism, as long as it comes with a shipping label?

The rise of witches like Mazie Dwyer reveals more than a quirky cultural trend. It exposes a global crisis of trust— trust in love, money, opportunity, and institutions. When dating apps feel robotic, work feels meaningless, and therapy feels expensive, people turn to magic.

Lia wasn’t supposed to see the letters.

Especially not the day before her wedding.

She had woken early, sunlight creeping through the hotel curtains like an unwanted guest. Her bridal suite was quiet. Too quiet. Even her mother hadn’t started the chaos yet.

On the small coffee table near the window sat a brown envelope. No address. No stamps. Just her name.

LIA — in handwriting she hadn’t seen in a decade, but recognized instantly.

Her hand trembled.

Noah.

Her chest tightened like it did whenever she thought of him — which, despite her best efforts, still happened too often. He was her unfinished sentence, her half-played melody.

She opened the envelope slowly, unsure if she was peeling back the past or a wound.

Inside were ten letters.

Each sealed. Dated.

Every single one written on her birthday — July 15th — starting from the year they broke up until now.

Ten years.

She sat. Breathed. And opened the first one.

---

Letter One — July 15, 2015

> Dear Lia,

I don’t know why I’m writing. Maybe I just want to feel like I’m talking to you. Today would’ve been your 26th birthday. I used to plan whole days around it.

You probably hate me. Maybe you should. But I still remember the way you laughed at my terrible French toast. The way you corrected song lyrics mid-sentence. The way your fingertips felt when you traced my spine like I was some ancient poem only you could read.

I’m sorry I left.

— N

---

Lia’s eyes blurred. Her thumb brushed the paper as if touching it might take her back.

They had been together five years. Engaged. Happy — or so she thought.

And then he left. No explanation. No fight. Just a soft goodbye and a broken promise.

Everyone said, “He wasn’t the one if he could walk away like that.”

So she believed them.

She had to.

---

By the time she read the fourth letter, the tears had dried. Now she just felt the ache. The ache of every unanswered question. Every second of silence he’d given her.

Until the seventh letter.

---

Letter Seven — July 15, 2021

> You ever hear that phrase?

“If you love someone, let them go.”

What they don’t say is how it kills you slowly afterward.

Lia, I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you. I left because the doctor told me I had a 40% chance to live. I didn’t want you to waste your life waiting for me to die. I signed the surgery papers the morning after I packed my things.

I didn’t tell you because I knew you'd fight to stay. You always fought for people. And I didn’t want to be another war you had to survive.

The surgery worked. I made it. I should’ve called. But I didn’t know how to be someone worthy of your forgiveness.

I still don’t.

— N

---

She dropped the letter.

The air around her thinned. The walls felt too close.

Her hands were ice. Her heart thundered.

He had cancer. He almost died. He left to spare her.

And he never told her.

Lia looked up as the door opened — her best friend, Ava, walked in holding a coffee and phone.

“You okay?” Ava asked.

Lia didn’t answer. Just held out the seventh letter with shaking fingers.

Ava read. Her mouth fell open. “Holy—Lia. This changes everything.”

“I don’t know what to feel,” Lia whispered. “Angry. Sad. Relieved. Like…he’s been living in my shadow all these years.”

“What are you going to do?”

Lia looked down at the remaining three letters.

---

Letter Ten — July 15, 2024

> I heard you're getting married tomorrow.

I’m not writing to stop you. I just needed you to know — I’ve never loved anyone the way I loved you. I tried. God, I tried. But I still wake up hoping you’re beside me.

You always deserved more than broken timelines and what-ifs.

But if there’s even 1% of you that wonders…

I’ll be at our bookstore tomorrow at 5 p.m. The one with the crooked door and the cranky cat.

I won’t call. I won’t text. This is the last letter I’ll ever send.

If you don’t come, I’ll know you’re truly happy. And I’ll finally let go.

But if you do…

Well. You always said our story needed a better ending.

— Noah

---

Lia stared out the window.

The sky was clear. The town buzzed below — people moving forward, unaware that someone’s whole world had paused.

She looked at her phone. 3:22 p.m.

Her wedding was scheduled for 6.

---

“You don’t have to go,” Ava said gently. “But if you don’t, will you ever stop wondering?”

---

Lia stood up.

She didn’t pack a bag. Didn’t change her clothes.

She just grabbed the letters, slid on her sneakers, and left the hotel.

---

The bookstore was still there.

The crooked door. The cat. The dusty shelves that smelled like forgotten memories.

And Noah.

Sitting on the floor by the poetry section, holding a book she once made fun of him for crying over.

He looked older. Softer. Sadder.

But when he looked up and saw her — the whole room exhaled.

Lia didn’t speak.

She just walked over, dropped the letters on his lap, and sat beside him.

For a moment, they said nothing.

Then she whispered, “You absolute idiot.”

Noah smiled — small, broken, and full of hope.

“I know.”

She looked at him, eyes wet. “I’m supposed to be getting married.”

“I know.”

“I don’t know what this means yet. I don’t have answers.”

“I’m not asking for answers,” he said. “Just…a beginning.”

She leaned against him, forehead to his shoulder.

“I hate that I still love you.”

He closed his eyes. “I love that you still love me.”

---

One Month Later

The news of her called-off wedding had spread like wildfire. Everyone had opinions.

But Lia didn’t care.

She was sitting on a park bench, hand in Noah’s, sharing terrible coffee and worse jokes.

And for the first time in a decade, her heart didn’t ache.

It hummed.

Like maybe, just maybe —

this was the ending she was always meant to have.

---

THE END

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