When my mother was alive, magic was the only string that kept her and I together. The silly card tricks, even pulling a rabbit out of the hat. It all connected me to her, pulling me into a seemingly better reality than where I was. But in the blink of an eye, she was gone. That string snapped. Magic was only real if you believed, and at that point, it was just a game to me. All it did was provide false hope. I forced myself to keep performing for her, deceive others into thinking that what they saw was real. Seeing magic fill others with joy made me question; why. Why would seeing something impossible make someone so happy? Because seeing is believing. And the closer you look, the less you'll see.