Everyone Has a Christine

He Mastered the Universe, but Not This

Christine wasn’t a villain. She wasn’t a hero.

She was something deeper: the wound that time magic couldn’t heal. The chapter he keeps rereading in a book that refuses to close.

We’re all drawn to the myth: the brilliant, untouchable man who loses everything, then rises from the wreckage—sharper, wiser, unstoppable. Like Dr. Strange, whose world shattered and rebuilt itself around a glowing cape and a necklace that holds time. He lives in a house that exists in multiple cities at once. He commands the impossible. He becomes a god.

It’s the perfect narrative. Power. Transformation. Control.

And then—Christine.

That one person. That memory. That fragile thread that undoes him every time. The soft spot no magic can seal. The part of the story that doesn’t fit the script. The part you want to erase to keep the hero pristine.

But real life isn’t a script. It’s not clean lines and perfect arcs. It’s not a dictionary where everything is defined and in order. People are messy. They’re layered. They carry broken watches they still wear. Hidden rooms they don’t let anyone into. Love stories that never found their ending.

That’s the truth: there is a Christine for every Dr. Strange.

No matter how powerful, how healed, how elevated you become—there will always be that one person, that one thread, that keeps you human. And it’s not a flaw.

Christine isn’t weakness. She’s the shadow that gives shape to the light. The part of you that still feels. Still hopes. Still aches. She’s what reminds you you’re alive.

Because real strength isn’t perfection. It’s the courage to live with what can’t be fixed. To carry the scar and still fly. To love, even when it hurts.

In the multiverse of identities we build—the versions of ourselves that win, conquer, impress—the truest one is the version that admits: Yes. I have a Christine. And maybe I am someone else’s.

Not a burden. A reminder.

That we’re real.

And real is worth everything.