I read. Right before I sleep and as soon as I open my eyes in the morning. If there’s one thing in the world that I allow possessive power over me, it would be reading.
It can consume my whole day and it can keep me up all night. There’s nothing else that turns my hours into seconds and my reality to fantasy.
This habit, for a lack of a better word, has transcended from words in a book to eyes, behaviors, and moments.
I solemnly believe that everything lives between the lines and I’ve made it my mission in life to dissect the unwritten and the unsaid.
But just like my collection of books, I’ve collected my fair share of memories, heartbreaks, and connections.
There are the books which absolutely engrossed my mind.
There are the books which I despised but was curious to see them all the way to the end.
There are the books I keep stacked on my bedroom shelf which I still haven’t gotten around to opening.
And then there are the books which I never finished.
Similarly, the people in my life fall into such categories.
The ones I love.
The ones I don’t feel very strongly about.
The ones I haven’t discovered or met yet.
And the ones who have left me with missing pieces of myself when they left.
See, if you know yourself – you’re probably laughing at my long introduction of reading and books.
Because you know.
You know that all I want to say out of this is a simple, heartfelt confession.
Darling, you’re the best damn book I never finished.
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