Why use magic to tell a story about heartbreak? In If I Could Turn Back Time, Kayla Gilheany’s witch isn’t just a plot device—she’s the screaming, eye-rolling, truth-telling manifestation of Elaine’s subconscious. This fourth installment explores how Kayla uses magical realism to externalize the war between hope and self-preservation. When emotions are too complex for words, sometimes you need a supernatural bargain to reveal what’s really at stake. The result? A hauntingly accurate portrayal of love’s irrational grip that’s more psychological thriller than fairy tale.
The witch’s cove functions as Elaine’s mind palace. Her offers—rewind time, force love, erase pain—aren’t real magic but the fantasies we all cycle through after rejection. Kayla brilliantly physicalizes Elaine’s bargaining stage of grief: The witch’s sarcastic quips (“Prince Charming”) mirror Elaine’s buried self-doubt, while the time-travel deal embodies her if only thinking. Like Eternal Sunshine’s memory-erasure tech, the supernatural elements make abstract anguish visceral. Readers don’t just understand Elaine’s pain; they feel the dizzying spin of her levitating body as she clings to false hope.
Notice how magic fails Elaine every time. The witch’s spells transport her to pivotal moments, but she’s powerless to change Jack’s heart. This isn’t a plot hole—it’s the point. Kayla subverts the manic-pixie-dream-witch trope: No spell can manufacture mutual love, just as no amount of Elaine’s devotion could. The crows circling during incantations? They’re omens Elaine ignores. Even the witch’s green eyes (traditionally symbolic of envy) hint at the jealousy poisoning Elaine’s perspective. The magic system itself rejects rom-com logic, screaming what Elaine won’t admit: Love isn’t alchemy. You can’t transform crumbs into a feast.
The book’s most devastating scene—where the witch yanks Elaine mid-kiss—is emotional realism disguised as fantasy. That abrupt return to the present mirrors how reality crashes over us when we’re lost in what ifs. Kayla could’ve written a straightforward breakup scene, but the magical interruption heightens the tragedy: Elaine never even sees Jack’s reaction. Why? Because in real heartbreak, we rarely get clean answers or closure. The witch’s cruel mercy forces Elaine (and readers) to sit with the unresolved—the very thing we’d sell our souls to avoid.
Magical realism works because it honors how irrational love feels. Elaine’s world literally darkens when she sees Jack’s engagement photos; the town sign loses its “L” (Loveville → oveville). These touches aren’t whimsy—they’re emotional autopsies. Kayla told us: “When my heart broke, colors dulled. The witch let me show that.” Unlike traditional fantasy, the magic here doesn’t solve problems—it diagnoses them. For readers drowning in post-breakup surrealism, that’s the comfort: You’re not crazy for feeling haunted. The ghosts are real. (They’re just not usually this sassy.)
The witch’s final lesson—”You had the power all along”—isn’t a cliché. It’s Kayla’s mic drop. Magic didn’t heal Elaine; it revealed her own agency. Next time, we’ll analyze the book’s controversial ending: Why Elaine’s unanswered questions are its greatest strength.
