Jake Gyllenhaal is not my boyfriend. Even though I have a vision board dedicated to him.

Jake Gyllenhaal is not my boyfriend. Even though I photoshopped a picture of us together and we looked super cute.

Jake Gyllenhaal is not my boyfriend. Even though I wrote our names into a sigil and carried it in my wallet for months… Jake Gyllenhaal is not my boyfriend…

BUT…


I was doing my Jake invocations the night before my love spell went so badly wrong. I stopped doing love spells ever since then.
“I’ve never seen Jake in LA and I’ve been here for 10 years. It’s wild how we see him all the time now,” says my friend as she hands me calming hibiscus tea.
I shrug. “Ja, I’m really good at manifesting stuff.”

She nods. I’m nervous. I know he liked blondes like Kirsten Dunst and Taylor Swift and my friend is blonde. But she wouldn’t try anything, would she? No. She thinks he’s unattractive and nerdy. I’ve already brought it up. Besides, I’m more like his mom/sister vibe. Powerful, creative, brunette. We’re the opposite. I’m the type you marry. I complete my “I call in Jake Gyllenhaal” invocation and go home. And the next day it happens.


Before this, I’ve seen him dozens of times, and every single time I freeze and go mute. It’s completely unlike me. It’s like I regress to being 12-years old with glasses and braces at the school disco and instead of dancing with the kids, I’m pretending I’m a frog and leaping across the sports field on all fours because that’s way more fun and who likes boys anyway? Not me.

Once I tapped on the glass window of the coffee shop to say hi to my same friend and Jake turned to look at me because I was rapping the glass above his head. I just walked away as if I didn’t see him. If he wasn’t my future husband, I would have laughed and said sorry. Instead, I froze and pretended he was invisible.

The worst time was when he was in line for coffee in front of my table. He kept looking at me, I swear. I was fumbling in my bag acting important and busy and when I opened my wallet and my sigil saying Jake Gyllenhaal Loves Lauren Wallett (with all the vowels removed so it’s just the consonants) floated out my hands and slid across the floor toward him. I looked at it. He looked at it. I casually snatched it up and did not look at him again. 

I’ve sat down, and he’s next to me. Ignore.

I see him walking in. Ignore.

I’ve got to stop doing that. 


On my way home from the coffee shop, I get a text from my friend. “Come back! He’s here.” I run back. This is it.


She’s doing full-body turns and hair flicks in excitement. It’s worse than the last time when she did it “to get his attention for me”, she says. I pull out my laptop and start frantically writing a poem. Why does she keep looking at him and smiling? He’s up. She gets up to put money in the meter, she says, and then it happens. The speech I made up in my spell is coming out of his mouth, but horror beyond horror, he is addressing it to her.

“I keep seeing you here. What’s your name? I’m Jake.” 

I may die. I’m withering in my seat. Can barely type my poem. But there’s hope. She’s bringing him over to us. She’s beaming. I’ve never seen her so animated. 


“I always see you girls here. I love your accents. So cool.”

“Thanks” I mutter. I barely smile. I’m fixed on my screen. “What are you always typing?” He asks. “I’m a very busy person,” I say and then add something about how he should get onto Instagram. The rest is blurry. “We love taking poem breaks,” my friend gushes and giggles. What is she talking about? The poet is me. “I love poems,” he says, “my sister is doing a movie about being a schoolteacher who has this kid student who is a poet.” I knew we’d have so much in common. The hairs on his arm are perfect. Not too thick, but still black and masculine. His silver bracelet hangs off his wrist. Those fingers. His thighs in those shorts. He’s so close I see the colors of his teeth. 


I know Jake would be the little spoon. I do not know, but definitely, I’m one hundred percent right. We’d have a green lawn for the dog and he’d read the newspaper and wouldn’t have friends. Sometimes he’d cry because he’s so lonely and so happy and relieved he’d found me. Someone who understands him. He’d never watch sport. His mom and sister would love me. I’d read him poems, and we’d drink coffee in bed. He’d stop acting and focus on proper stuff like directing and writing. We’d get married…

“What are your numbers?” He asks, looking at us both. I freeze. He doesn’t want my number. He spoke to her first. I stay silent. She rattles hers off. Who is this colorful version of my typically tearful and depressed friend? He leaves. I’m gutted.

I beg her not to go out with him. “You don’t even like him!” I say. “I could like him?” “Because he’s a celebrity?” I’m disgusted with her. He is the cute boy at the coffee shop and I like him. I didn’t know Americans, so when I moved here I thought that Jake Gyllenhaal or Shia LaBeouf would be two great options for me. But Shia was having another breakdown, so I paused him for the time being. I liked Jake for the version of Jake I had in my head. The actor part was a problem I’d deal with once we were dating.
“It would be good for my career if the paparazzi saw me with him.” “What career?” I want to scream. Instead, I almost choke on my coffee. Wait. Do I even respect my friend?
“Let me meet him instead, or come with you,” I beg. “You’re crazy,” she says. This, from the girl who arrived at my last date in full makeup, flirted with him, then picked a fight when he said he didn’t like AA and we had to leave. She said he was a drug addict. (He was, in fact, a drug addict.) We did everything together. It would not have been crazy if I had tagged along.


She hikes with him the next day. I’m livid at her betrayal. Throw me away for a guy she doesn’t even like? A man I am in love with. I had blogged about him!
Suddenly she’s hinting that I’m insane for thinking he could like me when she was next to me. Maybe we aren’t actually friends?


She asks to meet me back at the coffee shop. I arrive first. Jake is there. On a date with a teenage brunette. See. A brunette. He glances up. I ignore him. Fuck that guy. My friend comes in, clocks the date. He ignores her. She’s already tearful before I start my speech. “I accept what you did, but I don’t respect you. You only went because he’s famous. Meanwhile, I’m obsessed with him and you don’t even think he’s attractive.” “Keep your voice down!” “He can’t hear us. No one cares!” I hiss. I’m not afraid of confrontation. “I’ll work with you on our project, but I don’t trust you anymore.”
The project wraps. Our friendship ends and I keep going to the coffee shop to write poems in peace.

Then one day, I’m sitting alone in the parking lot entrance. My legs are up on the second chair like I’m tanning on a lounger, diagonal, facing an empty bay. This big car pulls in. I can’t see the guy behind the wheel, but I feel his force-field and I’m instantly attracted. He opens the door. It’s like a lion walks toward me. That mane of hair. Those arms. It’s fucking Jake Gyllenhaal and I’m literally facing him. The only one there. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for. I do what must be done.

I ignore him. Fuck that guy. Jake Gyllenhaal is not my boyfriend.

P.S: If you enjoy these stories, buy me a coffee. I always want another one. Thanks x

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