"Even if the world forgets, I will remember the wonder."
Dear Diary,
I know I'm supposed to be growing up.
People say things like "face reality" and "that's not how life works."
They talk in straight lines and sharp edges.
They say magic is for children — for storybooks and sleepovers and cartoon afternoons.
But I still believe in it.
Not the kind with wands and potions (although that would be fun).
But the quiet kind.
The kind that lives in the soft corners of the day when no one's looking.
Like when the wind suddenly whispers my name.
Or when I see the moon following me home like a shy friend.
Or when two people laugh at the same time and you can feel their hearts dancing.
Magic is when a stranger smiles at you on a bad day and it feels like medicine.
Magic is when the sky turns that rare purple-pink before it rains, and for a second, you forget everything heavy.
Magic is when you hear a song you haven't heard in years and suddenly your soul remembers who you used to be.
I believe in the kind of magic that's stitched into everyday moments —
the kind that doesn't need proof to be real.
I think hope is a kind of spell.
Imagination is a kind of portal.
And love — real love — is the most powerful magic of all.
People roll their eyes when I say these things.
They think I'm being naive.
But I'd rather believe in too much than settle for too little.
I've seen miracles in quiet places.
I've felt wonder in the middle of an ordinary Tuesday.
And if that isn't magic… then maybe magic is just another word for paying attention.
So no, I won't stop.
I'll keep wishing on eyelashes and blowing dandelions into the wind.
I'll keep writing letters to the moon and naming stars from my window.
I'll keep believing.
Because somewhere deep inside,
I know that believing in magic isn't about escaping the world —
it's about finding the courage to see it differently.
And I choose wonder.
Every single time.
Till tomorrow,
Wunor 🌙✨
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