The Little Ways We Believe in Magic

There’s a quiet tenderness in the way we live, soft rituals stitched into the fabric of our days.

The way we blow a fallen eyelash from the back of our hand, holding onto the fragile hope that wishes still find their way into the world.

The way two pinkies entwine, carrying a promise more sacred than words could ever hold.

The way heads tip back in the rain, as if the storm could wash away every unspoken weight.

The way a small, happy dance escapes when we taste the comfort of our favorite food.

The way we pause at sunsets, letting skies painted in pink and purple feel like love letters written just for us.

The way a handwritten note lingers longer than any gift, pressed between pages, pressed against memory.

I think a part of us, subconsciously, unintentionally, holds on to these moments. Perhaps because we are searching for peace, for faith, for belonging in a world that teaches us deadlines matter more than smiles, that grades are heavier than joy, that noise should drown out stillness.

But innocence never leaves us; it only hides.

It slips into the smallest gestures, into the ways we still believe in magic, in connection, in love.

And maybe that is the quiet beauty of being human,

that even in a world that asks us to grow up too fast, we find our way back to wonder.