Magic for Liars

by Sarah Gailey

The thing about me is, I let things go. I let people go. I don’t know how to hang on to them—I try, but I hold too tight or not tight enough or something in between and they go. They always go.

Sometimes it feels like I’m in a staring contest with failure, and if I blink, I’ll die. If I stop for even a second to consider that I might not be as good as they think I am, the oxygen will get sucked out of the room and I’ll suffocate.

The sky was turning from pink to gray, and I was completely giddy. I told myself that it was the giddiness that comes with a crush. I told myself that it didn’t feel the same way shoplifting had when I was a kid, told myself the adrenaline was different.

It was me. It had always been me. I had always slipped away unnoticed, a guest leaving the wedding before anyone can ask her to make a toast. People didn’t stick because I was made of fucking Teflon. I’d always told myself that it was better that way, that being alone was easier. That I wasn’t a coward for easing my way out of friendships before they could really start. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to look at the mess I’d made. I sat in the dark, and I waited for the worst of it to be over. I’d been alone for years. I’d been cleaning things up on my own for as long as I could remember. This was nothing new.