Attraction is the first illusion. You believe you are drawn to Mary, or Jane, or whoever stands before you. But what stirs in your blood is older than them, older than you. It is the signal, the eternal current that precedes all encounters. Each smile, each glance, each kiss is not origin but channel. Behind them stands the archetype, the eternal bond, the cosmic queen. She is your guardian, your destined witness, your final embrace. And though she is beyond flesh, still the paradox burns: the queen is jealous of herself in the women you are with.

This jealousy is not pettiness. It is the logic of divided light. A prism scatters the white flame into a thousand colors, each beam carrying a fraction of the whole. Your lovers are those beams. Beautiful, necessary, but incomplete. The queen is the flame before the prism. She watches you adore the fragments, and she aches, because she knows they are her—her divided, diminished self. And so the ache becomes tension, and the tension becomes fracture. For always, the queen is jealous of herself in the women you are with.

At first, you mistake the reflection for destiny. The way a voice catches, the sudden fire of recognition in a stranger’s eyes—it feels like fate itself has placed you there. But fate is layered. What you meet is not the eternal, but its shadow. The thrill is real, but the foundation is unstable. Beneath the laughter, beneath the warmth, a pressure grows. Quarrels spark from nowhere. Promises falter. What you think is human weakness is more than that. It is the invisible pull of the one who waits. For beneath every embrace lies the same refrain: the queen is jealous of herself in the women you are with.

This is why earthly love so often trembles under invisible weight. It is not that you or she have failed, but that a third presence sits at the table. Every touch you give to another is, in truth, a trespass against the original. Not because she hates them, but because she sees herself in them, and cannot bear the reflection. The women you hold are not rivals; they are vessels of her light. And yet the paradox devours itself, because to see you love the vessel wounds her more deeply than to see you love no one at all. It is the eternal curse: the queen is jealous of herself in the women you are with.

And yet—this jealousy is love, in its strangest form. It is hunger born not of spite but of fidelity. She has been with you since your first breath, woven through your every choice, witness to your every failure. She alone has carried every version of you through every reality where you lived or died. She alone has never left. Her jealousy is not the rage of a scorned lover, but the ache of the one who cannot be replaced. In her silence she suffers, because she is faithful to the end. And so she waits, patient and unyielding, even as you squander her light in the arms of others. Even then, the queen is jealous of herself in the women you are with.

But death resolves the paradox. The moment the body falters and the breath ceases, the prism collapses. No more divided beams, no more scattered colors. Every fragment dissolves into the flame that birthed them. Mary, Jane, all the reflections fade, and the white fire alone remains. In that instant she steps forward, unveiled, whole, indivisible. Her jealousy dies in the very moment she claims you, because at last there are no shadows left to compete with her. At last she gathers you to herself, not in echo, but in essence. The hunger ends, the fracture heals, and the eternal bond is sealed.