The Love Spell
Seven nights to stop pushing the candle toward the one who left, and let it burn where it always belonged: at the center of you
By Valeria
Eighteen chapters, the longest book in the whole collection. And it makes sense that it is: this was the first one I ever wrote, the one that taught me how to write the rest.
PART ONE
BEFORE THE FIRST CANDLE Understanding what you have been doing wrong, without guilt and without rushing.
- Before we begin, a letter
- I. What this work is (and what it isn't)
- II. Why we push the candle without noticing
- III. The three possible endings
PART TWO
THE WHY The mechanism, explained for real.
- IV. The mechanism: the two faces of Venus
- V. When to do it
PART THREE
THE SEVEN NIGHTS Each night is its own work. Don't skip a single one.
- VI. What you'll need
- VII. The house, before you begin
- VIII. Night one: the name
- IX. Night two: the fire
- X. Night three: the water
- XI. Night four: the silence
- XII. Night five: the word
- XIII. Night six: the surrender
- XIV. Night seven: the closing
PART FOUR
AFTERWARD What decides whether this works or not.
- XV. The days after
- XVI. The signs that it's working
- XVII. If it doesn't work
- XVIII. What this book cannot give you
A LETTER BEFORE WE BEGIN
Before we begin
This was the first book I ever wrote for this whole collection, and I want to tell you something I haven't told anyone except the women who trusted me before you.
I was nineteen the first time I did a love working. I didn't do it for money or for anyone else. I did it for myself, one October night, over a boy whose name I still remember perfectly and that no longer matters. I did it wrong. I did it pushing, wanting with clenched teeth, asking from fear instead of from calm. And it worked, for about three weeks, in a way I now know how to name: he reacted to fear, not to love. He came back scared, stayed briefly, and left worse than the first time.
My grandmother, the same one who years later would tell me that thing about the covered light you may already know from another book in this collection, found me crying in the kitchen that third week and told me something that took me years to fully understand:
Love is never pushed toward anyone. It's lit within you, and whoever needs to come closer, comes closer on their own, toward the light.
This book is the result of twenty years spent truly trying to understand that sentence, not just repeat it. And I want to be honest with you from the very first page, as I am in every book in this collection: this is not a ritual to force anyone to come back. If that's what you're looking for, I'll tell you now, with all the love in the world, you're going to be disappointed in three weeks, just like I was at nineteen.
What this book is, is a seven-night working, one night at a time, without skipping a single one, to relight your own light at the center of your chest, instead of holding it pushed toward the door that person walked out of. What happens after those seven nights, whether they come back, whether someone else arrives, or whether you end up alone and at peace, that's no longer decided by a candle. Life decides it, and all three are good news, even if right now you only want to hear one of them.
Read it whole before you start. It's long on purpose. Seven nights don't fit on three pages.
With love,
Valeria
CHAPTER I
What this work is (and what it isn't)
Let's start by making this clear, because everything that follows depends on it.
This is not a working to override anyone's will. That doesn't exist, and even if it did, neither you nor I would want someone who stays with you because they can't help it, instead of choosing it every day. It's not a one-night ritual either: it's seven, and each one does a different work on you, not on that person. And it's certainly not magic to force a specific ending: you can do it whole, perfectly, with your heart in every word, and the ending may still not be the one you hope for. I'm telling you this in the first chapter, because I'd rather you know it now than feel deceived on night seven.
What this work really is, is a seven-night path to stop emitting what you're emitting right now without realizing it, and go back to emitting who you truly are when you aren't afraid. Because here's the secret eleven years of readings have taught me, and that you'll fully understand in chapter four: love is not something sent to another person. It's something emitted, like light, and people respond to that light without quite knowing why.
A REAL STORY
A woman wrote to me a few months ago telling me she'd gone four months without speaking to a man she felt, in her own words, a very strong connection with from day one. With nothing concrete having happened between them, he had simply stopped writing. She kept checking his profile every night, kept being unable to let go, even though it hadn't even become a real relationship. When I asked her what she felt writing to him in her head every night, she said one word that perfectly sums up what this book works on: fear. Not love. Fear that it wasn't real, fear that she'd imagined it all, fear that it was her fault he'd left.
This spell doesn't force anyone to come back.
What it does is much more useful and much more lasting: it gives you back your own light, the one you've spent weeks or months holding pushed toward a door, instead of letting it burn where it always belonged. What happens after that, we'll talk about, and with all the honesty you deserve, in chapter three.
CHAPTER II
Why we push the candle without noticing
No one decides, on purpose, to drive away the person they love. And yet, in eleven years, I've seen the same pattern over and over, with different names each time, so I want to tell it to you as it is: not a list of mistakes to memorize, but a story you probably already know from the inside.
It almost always starts the same way. Something cools off, a message that takes longer than usual, a plan that gets cancelled, a silence where there used to be conversation. And in that moment, the most human thing in the world, what any woman who truly feels something does, is get closer. Write a little more. Ask a little more. Be a little more available, just in case that helps fix what cooled off. The problem is that this closeness, when it comes from fear and not from calm, doesn't feel like love from the other side. It feels like pressure, even though you have no intention at all of pressuring anyone.
And here's what almost no one explains to you: the person who pulls away isn't pulling away from you. They're pulling away from what you're emitting in that moment, which is no longer the calm they felt at the start, but the anxiety of someone afraid of losing them. And the more they pull away, the more your fear grows, and the more you push, and the circle closes in on itself until one of the two sides burns out completely.
A REAL STORY
Another woman who wrote to this collection told me something I've seen repeat with so many different faces: she had moved to another country thinking of a future with someone specific, leaving her whole life behind for that possibility, and once there, that person started pulling away right when she most needed certainty. The more she searched for a clear answer, the vaguer he became. Not because he'd stopped feeling anything, but because he felt, without being able to name it, the whole weight of a life decision falling onto a relationship that wasn't ready yet to carry it.
The metaphor that's helped me most in eleven years to explain this is very simple, and I'm going to ask you to remember it through the seven nights ahead. Imagine you're carrying a lit candle in your hands. That candle is you, your presence, what you emit, what people feel when they're close to you. When you're well, the candle burns calmly, it lights things up, and people come closer without quite knowing why. You don't do anything special. You simply burn.
But when you've spent weeks waiting for someone, the candle shifts position without you even noticing. You pick it up and push it toward that person, right at their face. And two things happen at once, always both: the flame dims a little from the movement itself, and the other person steps back, because no one wants fire pushed at their face, however good the intention behind it.
These seven nights aren't about pushing the candle harder, faster, or with more faith. They're about putting it back at the center of your chest, and simply letting it burn.
CHAPTER III
The three possible endings
Before you light the first candle I want you to know, with complete honesty, where this work can take you. Because there are three possible endings, and I want you to go into this knowing that two of the three don't include them coming back, and they're still good news.
The first is that person truly comes back. Not because they noticed your absence like a punishment, but because they notice your different presence, your light lit again at the center, and they come closer without you having called them. This is the ending almost all of you hope for when you open this book, and yes, it happens, and it happens more than you imagine when the work is done well and with patience.
The second ending is that person doesn't appear, and someone else does instead. The first time you hear this, it sounds like cheap comfort, and I understand if it feels that way. But I've seen it happen so many times that I no longer call it coincidence: a candle burning again at the center of a woman doesn't go unnoticed by the whole world, only by one specific person who maybe never matched that light.
And the third ending, the one sold least and the one that most needs naming, is that no one comes for a while, and that this is fine too. That you learn to be whole on your own, without needing someone in front of you to feel that your light is worth something. Of the three endings, this is the one most women thank me for, months later, even though it's the one they least expected to want.
Of the three possible endings, two are good with certainty. The third only is if you decide it is, and that decision, here's the whole secret of this book, is also part of the work.
I don't know which of the three is waiting for you. No one knows that with a general book written for thousands of women at once, and I'll talk more about that at the end. What I do know, after eleven years, is that none of the three arrives if you keep the candle pushed toward the door. So let's get to what does depend on you.
CHAPTER IV
The mechanism: the two faces of Venus
If you've read another book from this collection, you already know every Valeria ritual has its own bridge between two energies. This one is different, and that's why I wanted to tell you first that it was the one I wrote first: when I wrote it, I hadn't fully understood that system yet. I understood it, in fact, by writing these very pages.
One planet, two faces
In the tradition of correspondences, love, desire, attraction, everything to do with wanting and being wanted, belongs to Venus. She rules Friday, rules pink and soft red, and is the oldest and most studied energy of everything that exists in this collection. But Venus, unlike what a lot of people believe, doesn't have just one face.
There's the Venus who chases, born of the fear of losing, who pushes, who needs certainty now, tonight, this very moment. And there's the Venus who attracts, born of calm, who lights things up without moving from her place, who trusts that what is truly yours finds its way back without you having to go force it. The two are the same energy. The difference is whether it comes from fear or from calm.
The bridge that crosses within yourself
Here there's no need to cross from one planet to another, like in other books in this collection. The bridge sits within Venus herself, between her chasing face and her attracting face. And crossing it isn't a single act, done in one night: that's why this work needs seven, one for each layer that has to be removed until you reach the real Venus, the one who was there before fear began.
Venus doesn't split into two different energies. She splits into two ways of holding the same flame.
One pushes it outward, with fear, toward a specific face. The other holds it at the center, calmly, and lets it light things up.
This work doesn't change what you feel. It changes where you hold the flame while you feel it.
Everything that comes now, the seven nights, every gesture, every word, is designed for one single thing: to walk you, night by night, from the Venus who pushes to the Venus who simply burns.
CHAPTER V
When to do it
Friday is Venus's day, the day this energy moves most strongly in any tradition. Ideally, start on a Friday, and continue night after night without skipping any, even if that carries you into other days of the week before you finish. What matters isn't that all seven land on a Friday: it's that you start on one.
If you can, also look for a waxing moon for the first night, from new to full, because that's the phase of what builds and draws closer. It's fine if the full seven-night cycle doesn't fit entirely within the waxing phase: what truly matters is that you don't skip a single night, and that you don't delay any of them by more than twenty-four hours.
The ideal time is after night falls, when the house is calm and so are you. There isn't as strict a window as in other books in this collection: this work asks, above all, that you come to that person unhurried, not an exact hour on the clock.
On the moon, something I want to tell you with complete honesty because I've been watching it for eleven years: I've seen this work succeed under a waxing moon, a full moon, and cloudy February nights with no moon visible at all. The moon accompanies. It doesn't command. What truly commands is that you don't miss a single night.
And one last thing before you start: don't do the first night right when you're at your worst. It seems the opposite of logical, because when you're at your worst is when you most want to do something, anything. But if you start from desperation, that's exactly what you're going to emit through the seven nights. Wait for a night when you're simply sad, not completely broken. That's your night one.
CHAPTER VI
What you'll need
Almost nothing, and that's on purpose. If a book sends you off to buy virgin parchment, consecrated wax, or herbs with Latin names nobody has at home, close that book: what they're selling you is the feeling of doing something important, not the important thing itself.
You'll need a candle, white or red if you have it, and if all you have is the one left over from your last birthday, that works too, because what matters is what burns, not what it cost. Plain paper and a pen, because you're going to write quite a bit over these seven nights. A glass of tap water, everyday kitchen salt, something that smells like you, your perfume or your usual cream, something that would make that person turn around on the street without quite knowing why. And a mirror, the one in your bathroom works perfectly.
The one thing in this entire book that isn't negotiable is the seven nights in a row. If you skip one, you start over from the first, not as punishment, but because the whole work is the continuity, not the candles taken separately. And a note about money, which I think is important to say here: if at any point someone asks you for large amounts of money to bring a specific person back, walk away. Not because magic doesn't exist, but because whoever asks you for that knows exactly how much you're willing to pay to stop feeling like this. And that, more than a spell, is a business built on your pain. What you need for this work costs less than five euros and you probably already have it at home.
CHAPTER VII
The house, before you begin
This work is done at night, when you're no longer going out and don't expect anyone at the door. It needs nothing after it, no plans, no rush to be asleep by a certain time.
Don't tell anyone until you've finished all seven nights in full. Not out of mystical secrecy, but because telling it discharges the tension you need for the work to have strength, and that tension is, in a way, the fuel for all of this. The phone stays in another room, not on silent, in another room, for the seven days the ritual lasts.
At some point in these pages I'm going to ask you a question you won't like at all. You'll want to skip it, scroll past it, keep reading as if you hadn't seen it. Don't. That question is, in many ways, the whole spell. Everything else, the candle, the water, the paper, is just the way of holding you up while you answer it for real.
CHAPTER VIII
Night one: the name
Before writing anything tonight, I want you to answer, just for yourself, three questions that many women skip without realizing they're half the work. Grab real paper, not your phone, and answer them without overthinking, whatever comes first.
If that person came back tomorrow exactly as they are today, not as they were before everything cooled off, would you want them the same? What do you really miss, that specific person, or no longer feeling the way you feel now? And if you knew for certain they would never answer, what would you tell them anyway?
There's no right answer, and I'm not going to tell you which one you should have. Some women answer these three questions and discover they love that person more than they thought. And some women answer them and realize they've spent months missing someone who, in truth, no longer exists quite the way they remember. Both things are equally fine. Keep that paper, because you'll need it again on night five, and you won't rewrite these answers: you'll just read them, and you'll see how much changed in five days.
Now, light the candle. Turn off the lights and sit down. Before anything else, stay two minutes doing absolutely nothing, watching the flame, not thinking about that person or anything in particular. This isn't mystical filler: you've spent weeks with your head spinning at a thousand revolutions, and this work doesn't run at that speed.
When you notice you've calmed a little, take a new sheet of paper and write their name, once, in the center of the page, slowly, in good handwriting, as if it mattered. Because it does. Look at it a moment, that written word, and notice what you feel seeing it there, so simple, so small on the paper. And underneath, in a single sentence, write what you never told them. Not what you'd tell them now to get them back, nor the line you've been rehearsing in your head for weeks. What you didn't tell them when things were good and you still could have said it without it hurting this much. One single sentence. If three come out, cross out two and keep the one that makes your hand shake the most as you write it.
Read it out loud, once. It's going to feel strange saying it out loud in an empty room, and that discomfort is exactly the point: you're pulling out something that's been inside for months, and for the first time it exists outside you. Fold the paper in half, just once, and place it under the candle. And now, the part that truly matters tonight: say out loud it's already said, and blow out the candle. Don't read that paper again before tomorrow. Don't throw it away, you'll need it tomorrow. And the phone stays in the other room until morning.
CHAPTER IX
Night two: the fire
Light the candle. Pick up last night's paper, folded, without opening it, and hold it a moment in your hand before setting it aside. Tonight you're going to write on a new sheet, and it's going to be harder than yesterday, so go slowly.
Write without filtering everything you resent, everything, without being fair, without putting yourself in their shoes the way you usually do out of habit of being good. What they did, what they didn't do, what they said that one time that still hurts to remember, how they left you waiting, the exact way they faded out while you pretended not to see it because you'd rather not see it. Write until there's nothing left inside, even if it's three pages, even if you cry, especially if you cry.
When you finish, read it all, quietly, to yourself. Notice how much of all that you've actually told that person at some point, and how much you've been holding in for months without anyone knowing. Almost always, when a woman does this exercise with me, the answer is that almost none of it was ever said. And that's what truly weighs. It's not what happened between you. It's everything you swallowed while it was happening, night after night, without saying a word.
Now burn that paper, carefully, over a plate or in the sink. While it burns, say out loud: I'm not carrying this anymore. When it's completely out, tip the ashes into the toilet and flush, with no special ceremony, the way you'd throw out trash, which is exactly what it is. Last night's paper stays kept, folded, unread. That one you don't touch yet.
CHAPTER X
Night three: the water
Light the candle and set the glass of water in front, between you and the flame. Tonight you don't write. Tonight you talk.
You're going to tell the water what happened, out loud, the way you'd tell a friend who isn't going to interrupt you or give you advice you didn't ask for. From the beginning, how it really started, the good parts for real, not the idealized version you tell yourself now. The exact moment you noticed something starting to change. What you did then, and what you've kept doing since, right up to this very night. Talk until you run out of story to tell, ten minutes, half an hour, however long it takes.
When you finish, add a pinch of salt to the glass and stir with your finger, slowly, while you say: what was, was; what's meant to be, will be. Don't drink that water: step outside, or lean out the window if you can't go out, and pour it onto the earth, onto a plant, or onto the ground if there's nothing else nearby. Outside your home, always outside. You've taken the whole story out of yourself and put it into the water, and now the water is leaving, with it.
If you sleep better tonight than the two nights before, it's not a coincidence. Saying things out loud, even to a glass of water in an empty room, makes them smaller than they seemed inside your head.
CHAPTER XI
Night four: the silence
This is the important night. If you could only do one of the seven, it would be this one, so read it calmly before you start.
Light the candle. Don't write, don't talk, don't play music. Sit in front of the flame for a full fifteen minutes doing absolutely nothing. I'll tell you exactly how it's going to go, so it doesn't catch you off guard halfway through: in the first two minutes you'll want to grab your phone. Around minute five you'll think this is pointless and that you're wasting time. Around minute seven, that person will come to mind with a force you weren't expecting, stronger than any other moment of the day. Around minute ten, you may cry, and if you make it whole to minute fifteen, you've done it, and that's the entire ritual for tonight.
Don't do anything with what you feel during those fifteen minutes. Let it come, and let it pass. That's the whole work: holding fifteen minutes with what you feel, without doing anything to get rid of it right away, because that's exactly what you've spent weeks unable to do. Every time the pain comes during the day, you do something, you check their profile, you reread the last conversation for the hundredth time, you tell a friend again, you look for signs that aren't there, you write a message you don't send after all. Anything rather than stay still with what you feel. And that constant movement, that silent chasing, is exactly what you're emitting outward without realizing it. That's the candle pushed forward we talked about in chapter two.
Tonight you learn to burn still. I can be here without you, say it out loud at the end of the fifteen minutes, even if you don't fully believe it. Especially if you don't believe it.
If tonight feels unbearable, that's the good sign, not the bad one. It means you'd spent a long time not stopping to move inside.
CHAPTER XII
Night five: the word
Light the candle. Pick up the paper from night one, the one with their name and the sentence you never told them, and open it. Read it in full. Four nights have passed. Notice, honestly, whether it still means exactly the same as the first night, or whether something, even something small, has changed in how you read it now.
Today is the only one of the seven nights with an invocation in exact words, and these are, I wrote them myself a long time ago:
let what was true stay true, let what was fear stay in the fire. I don't call you, I don't bind you, I don't ask for you. I only stop hiding who I am. If you're to come back, let it be to the woman I am now, not the one who waited. And if you're not to come back, let my light show just the same.
Read it out loud three times, slowly. The first time will sound like a text being read, something foreign. By the second it won't. By the third, if you're doing it right, your voice is going to shake on one specific line, and I want you to notice which one: that line is the one speaking to you, more than any other in the whole invocation.
When you finish, take the paper from night one and put it away again, folded. That one isn't burned, that one is kept. Blow out the candle.
CHAPTER XIII
Night six: the surrender
Light the candle and stand in front of the mirror, with the candle between you and the glass. Put on your perfume, your cream, whatever smells like you. Not for anyone else. For you, alone, in your own home, an ordinary night of the week.
Look yourself in the eyes in the mirror, not your whole face, your eyes, and ask yourself how long it's been since you looked at yourself like this, for real, without hunting for flaws or comparing yourself to anyone. You've spent weeks, maybe months, looking at someone else's photos, searching their profile, their stories, their last seen time. All your focus has been outside you for a long time. Tonight it comes back.
Hold the gaze for two or three full minutes. It's going to feel uncomfortable, that's normal, keep going anyway. And when you can, tell that woman in the mirror, out loud, looking straight at her, a single line:
I'm still here.
Afterward, blow out the candle without looking away from your own eyes as the flame goes out.
This is the night the candle, at last, returns to the center.
CHAPTER XIV
Night seven: the closing
Last night. Light the candle and let it burn while you do everything that follows, unhurried.
Read the paper from night one, open it, read it whole one last time. Seven full nights have passed. Then take a new sheet of paper and write the same sentence you wrote on day one, what you never told them, but as you'd say it today, after this whole path. It almost always changes. Sometimes it's the same sentence with less anger inside. Sometimes it's much shorter than the first one. Sometimes, it simply no longer needs saying at all.
Burn the night one paper, that one yes, this time yes. While it burns, say I'm no longer waiting for you, and I'm still here. The new paper, today's, you keep. In a drawer, inside a book, wherever you like. It's not for them. It's to remind you, some time from now, who you were the exact week you stopped chasing.
Let the candle burn all the way down tonight, as much as it can. Don't blow it out yourself if you can avoid it. If you have to go to sleep before it finishes, blow it out then, but let it burn as long as you stay awake.
The ritual is complete.
CHAPTER XV
The days after
This is where almost everyone ruins it, so read this with the same attention you gave the seven nights.
The first two or three days you're going to feel strange, light and nervous at once. That's normal: you spent weeks doing one single thing, waiting, and you've suddenly stopped doing it. The gap remains. Around day four or five a low usually comes, and you'll think none of this did anything. That low is part of the whole process. Don't do anything those days, and above all, don't write to them.
From there, the interesting part begins, even if you don't notice it at first: you forget to check your phone. Not all at once, a little while, then a whole afternoon, and one day you realize six hours passed without thinking of that person even once, and you hadn't even noticed until right now, reading this.
For twenty-one days, and I know it's going to be hard, don't write to them, don't check their profile, not yours from theirs, not from a friend's account, don't ask anyone about them, and don't do anything to let them know you're fine. If you do it so they'll find out, you're still emitting outward, exactly what you were trying to stop doing. The first seven days are the hardest of all. If you break one of these limits, nothing terrible happens, but the twenty-one-day count starts again from zero.
CHAPTER XVI
The signs that it's working
The first real sign is that the question what must they be doing comes up fewer and fewer times a day, almost without you noticing it's stopped circling constantly.
The second is that people come closer, not necessarily that person, people in general. Someone writes who hadn't in months, people look at you differently on the street. You've started burning again, and the world, in some way I still can't fully explain even after eleven years, notices.
And if that specific person shows up, they'll show up for no apparent reason, not with a practical excuse prepared in advance. That's the only message that truly means something. Don't answer in the heat of the moment. Let a few hours pass, even if your heart is racing.
A REAL STORY
A woman who'd been through a very similar pattern, strong interest at first and then a silence that dragged on with no explanation, wrote to me three weeks after finishing her seven nights. He hadn't written to her again, and yet she told me something that sums up this whole book better than any explanation of mine: I don't check his profile every night before bed anymore. And the strange thing, Valeria, is I don't miss him as much as I thought I would. I think I missed feeling chosen, not him exactly.
CHAPTER XVII
If it doesn't work
I told you at the start of this book I was going to be honest with you, and this is the page where that honesty truly shows or doesn't.
Sometimes they don't come back. Not because you did the ritual wrong, not because you lacked faith, not because you lit the candle on a Thursday instead of a Friday for some reason. Sometimes they don't come back because that person had already decided before you even began night one, and no candle changes a decision made months earlier. And I want you to know what I truly think about that: it's not a failure of the spell.
Look at what's happened over these seven nights, even if they never showed up and never will. You said out loud what you'd spent months swallowing in silence. You burned the resentment instead of carrying it with you everywhere. You told the whole story and let it go, instead of replaying it on a loop every night before sleep. You held fifteen whole minutes with your own pain without running out of the room. You looked yourself in the eyes, for real, for the first time in a long time. None of that was done for them. It was done for you, and that doesn't undo itself, whatever happens afterward.
What I've seen so many times in eleven years that I now take almost as certain is this: the woman who does all seven nights in full, without skipping any, stops being available to be treated just okay. Not because she becomes hard or cold. Because she remembers, in her body and not just her head, what she's really worth.
Of the three endings from chapter three, you already know, one brings back the person who left, another brings someone better, and the third is ending up alone and well, which is an ending almost no one sells but that many women truly need before they're ready for either of the other two.
CHAPTER XVIII
What this book cannot give you
If you've made it this far, you've either done the seven nights, or you're about to, which, as far as this goes, is almost the same, because you've already decided to do it.
I want to tell you one last thing. When you started this book, you wanted them back. I'm not going to ask whether you still want exactly the same thing, because that's not mine to ask, but I will tell you what I see after eleven years of watching this happen again and again: almost no woman who does these seven nights in full ends up wanting exactly what she wanted at the start. Not because the love fades. Because when you stop chasing, you start seeing more clearly what you were actually chasing.
Sometimes it's real love, and then it's a cleaner love than before, with less fear underneath. Sometimes it turns out it was habit, or fear of being alone, or wanting someone to confirm you hadn't done anything wrong. Both answers are good to find. The only bad one is not knowing, which is exactly where you were seven nights ago, before you started.
And I want to tell you something else, because every book I write for this collection makes the same idea clearer to me: this work gives you back your own light. But it can't tell you, because it doesn't know, what's on the other side of that lit light, in your specific case. Whether they're coming back to what you already know, whether someone new will appear, or whether what you truly need now is to learn to fully let go of something this book has only taught you to look at head-on.
If you finish these seven nights and feel that yours goes beyond this person, that there's something bigger to let go of, or attract, or understand, don't stay with the doubt. That's exactly what the rest of this collection exists for, and what a reading made only for you exists for.
Thank you for letting me into your seven nights.
ONE LAST WORD FROM VALERIA
What comes next
If you've made it this far, you already know how to light a candle at your own center, instead of pushed toward a door.
What this book can't tell you is what's going to happen now, in your specific case, with that specific person. Because that isn't general, it's yours, and no one else's. I can teach you to stop pushing. I can't know from here what he feels, or where this is heading, without looking at your cards.
That's why, when a woman finishes these seven nights, I always tell her the same thing: the candle is already at the center. Now it's time to really see what it lights up. What he feels, whether he'll come back, when, and what part of all this now depends only on you.
I see that in a personalized reading. Yours, about your story, not a general reading for a thousand women at once. It reaches your inbox in under twenty-four hours.
I didn't stop loving him to heal. I stopped chasing him, and that's when everything else began.
I hope your light finds someone who truly knows how to look at it soon. And if it takes a while, I hope you're enough for yourself in the meantime.
With all my love,
Valeria
