Give Me Magic

Give Me Magic

By sixteen, everyone I knew had a thing.

Not an actual talent, just something they could point to when teachers asked what they wanted to be. Something achievable. Acceptable. A future that fit into a sentence.

I had none.

What I had was a constant, low-grade disappointment with reality. I didn’t say that out loud, obviously. I said things like “I don’t know yet” and “I’m keeping my options open,” which sounded responsible and made adults nod like they’d done their job.

But inside, I was bored in a way that felt endless.

Magic ruined me early. Not real magic. Stories. Movies. The idea that something impossible might choose you. That there was more happening just beneath the surface, waiting for the right person to notice.

Every morning, I woke up disappointed that nothing had changed.

School didn’t help. Hallways smelled like cleaning spray and old gum. People moved in predictable patterns, conversations looping like reruns. Even drama felt dull. Breakups. Rumors. Someone crying in a bathroom stall over something that would be irrelevant by Friday.

At lunch, my friend Noor slid into the seat across from me and dropped her tray.

“You look like you’re planning to start a cult,” she said, laughing.

“I’m just tired,” I said.

“You’re always tired.”

“I’m tired of this,” I clarified, gesturing vaguely at everything.

She followed my hand, then sighed.

“Yeah. Same. But what do you want instead?”

That was the problem. I didn’t know. I just knew it wasn’t this.

After school, I took the long way home. Past the closed-down gaming store. Past the fence where someone had spray-painted a galaxy that was already peeling. Past the park where kids still believed things could happen.

I sat on the swings, even though I was probably too old for that, and kicked at the dirt.

“Give me magic,” I said quietly, to no one.

Not sparks or spells. Just something that felt alive.... Nothing happened. Of course, nothing happened.

That night, I lay on my bed staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars I’d stuck to the ceiling when I was ten. Half of them had fallen. The rest barely glowed anymore.

I thought about ripping them down.

Instead, I closed my eyes and imagined leaving. Not running away, exactly. Just stepping sideways into a life that felt less ... boring. A version of me that knew where she was going.

The next day, our English teacher assigned a project. Creative. Open-ended. The class groaned. My stomach tightened.

“Anything you want,” she said. “A story, a concept, a question. Surprise me.”

At lunch, Noor leaned over. “What are you doing later?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Probably nothing.”

She squinted at me. “That sounded like a lie.”

At home, I sat at my desk for an hour doing nothing. I scrolled social media. I stared out the window. I thought about how unfair it was that some people woke up knowing what they were good at.

Then, without really deciding to, I started writing.

Not a story. Not exactly. Just fragments. Images. Feelings I didn’t have names for. A girl who felt like she was standing outside her own life. A world that refused to reveal itself.

I didn’t stop until my hand cramped. When I finally looked up, it was dark outside. I felt strange. Not better. But awake.

The next day, I didn’t volunteer to share. I never did. But when my teacher walked by and glanced at my pages, she stopped.

“This,” she said carefully, glancing at the first paragraph, “is quite interesting.”

That was it. Just that. It shouldn’t have mattered. But it did.

After class, Noor grabbed my arm. “What did she say to you?”

“Nothing,” I said. Then, quieter, “She noticed my writing.”

Noor smiled. “See? Magic.”

I wanted to argue. I wanted to say that noticing wasn’t the same as escape, or destiny, or something extraordinary.

But walking home, I realized something.

Magic didn’t arrive with thunder. It didn’t fix things all at once. It showed up as attention. As choosing to make something instead of waiting to be chosen.

That night, I added new stars to my ceiling. Not glow-in-the-dark ones. Paper ones. Messy, uneven, cut by hand.

They didn’t glow. But I knew they were there. And for the first time in a while, that felt like enough.