In fourth grade, I had a fantasy universe in my head, in which I was a princess with magical powers and a plethora of unreasonably attractive siblings. It infringed heavily upon the copyright of Avatar: the Last Airbender, but with more dragons and Oreos.

As I grew, though, that world dimmed beneath the hubbub of grades and extracurriculars and grades, dammit, study for that test on Friday or you’re screwed. Matthew and Lark and Kristie, the friends I’d imagined, became puppets whose beaded eyes seemed increasingly unrealistic.

And by seventh grade, I’d forgotten about my enchanted world entirely.

I got into biology, writing and competitive flute. By sophomore year, I could write a persuasive essay and list the hormones produced by the pituitary glands (anterior and posterior, try me), but the powers I once had — of bending fire into miniature horses or fighting a monster by shooting ice at its eyeballs — were no longer.

But that isn’t to say that I’m not happy, or that this whole “growing up” thing is a tragedy.

Recently, I’ve been watching a show called “The Magicians.” It’s not a cinematic masterpiece, but I’ve stuck with it because its fictional universe is eerily similar to the one I fabricated in fourth grade.

My elementary school imagination couldn’t have scripted the sex scenes or character nuance, but in a way, “The Magicians” is an echo of the Miranda that once was.

Sure, it’s sad Old Miranda is gone: she was exuberant, wildly imaginative and energetic. But she hadn’t yet seen enough of the world to know that there were things that might interest her more than an imaginary dragon would, or things (love, vocational fulfillment, philanthropy) that are more important than being a princess with fourteen siblings.

It’s sad she’s gone, but I’m glad she is. I’m making room for whatever new pseudo-Narnia entices me next, because it will be better than the poorly scripted knockoff I made in fourth grade.

So here’s to the things we keep and the things we lose. To all of the bright and beautiful pieces of us that have come and gone, and to all of the bright and beautiful pieces that have not come yet.