i’d almost forgotten what it was like to lose yourself in a novel. to take it with you wherever you go and sneak a few chapters while you’re waiting for your friend to show up or before your food gets to the table. to think about the characters while you’re driving, or walking, or standing in the shower. to feel like doing nothing else but lying in bed, devouring page after page.
even if you can’t get seem to get comfortable. even if it’s late and you should have gone to bed three hours ago. even if your roommate comes home and you really should say hi but it’s just getting so good and you can’t close the book not even for a second.
and so you read, sometimes skipping paragraphs because you’re so hungry for the story but going back because you don’t want to miss anything, and you count the pages–how many are in the book and how many more to go, and just as you’re falling in love with the characters, just as you feel like they could be your best friends, you find the last page, but it can’t be the very last page, you think, that can’t be the end, so you turn another hoping there is more, but there isn’t, and so you read the last chapter again and this time you let the words linger and you fall asleep wondering what might have happened to everyone if happily ever after never came, and you wake up the next morning with your light still on and the book pressed up against your body half-wrapped in the covers.