I cannot pinpoint exactly when we all stopped believing in the magic.
It didn't happen all at once, that's for sure. It was like a gentle tumble, a misunderstanding at first, a joke when thought of alone at night.
No matter what it is now, surely I will get my happy ever after.
Surely it will involve Someone- someone who sees the cracks even after I've filled them up,
Someone who watches me smile in solitude, wrapped up in a book,
Someone who understands my need to feel helpless sometimes, only to end up figuring everything out later.
Surely, they will come.
We talked amongst each other, traded tips and tricks and stories and hearts,
Friends to friends, on how this feeling of despair won't last forever.
But I seem to not be having these conversations all that much lately.
We seem to not bring them up, or not give them a place at the table for too long- far less hurtful things must be discussed, thoughts that can be thrown away at the end of the meal.
We do not discuss heartbreak and mistakes with the ease and hope that was so readily available in our youth.
Maybe it is here to stay, maybe it's the one truth our mothers could not explain to us, no matter which language they spoke.
Maybe there are no words for what is written, no matter what choice you make.
I cannot pinpoint when exactly we stopped believing in the magic.
But I do know that the magic exists.