He asked me if I believed in magic, and I didn't answer.

A man who calls himself a boy, who writes "I love you" to the internet, who lives within a menagerie of life that he sustains. Who reaches for my hands when I'm flustered, who offers his body as warmth when I'm cold. Who wants the world to be a better place, and has moved his life to orient toward that goal.

So many of my relationships have been marked by loss. Losing respect, losing pleasure, losing hope. Feeling like I was bad at love, bad at being loved, bad with people in general. Never sure of what was a reasonable compromise and what was just a bad match. 

And everything's a spectrum, but I put everyone into a binary of being more on (whichever) side nonetheless. I loved him, but I didn't love how he made me feel. I loved him, but I didn't love who he was. Intellectual, emotional, or sexual compatibility: pick two. Or just one, sometimes.

So this one, I'm confused by how much I like him; how many things I like about him. He embarrasses me with the affection he stirs in me, when a frightened part of me would really prefer to keep him at arm's length. But instead, I put my hands in his when he opens them. And when he's still, I'm reaching out to put myself into his space, stretching for another kiss, hugging and hesitating to let go.

And after yet another span of hours spent together, I somehow still feel good. My guilty pleasure loses the guilt and becomes a stretch of pleasure instead. And in his absence, I read his words until I'm overcome with yearning, and listen to recordings of his voice until I somehow feel full.

The answer is no, I don't believe in magic. But many days, and in many hours of those days, I'd certainly really like to. Can you turn me into a believer?