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They always ask about favorite books, favorite chapters, favorite lines. But no one asks about the pages you read over and over, quietly, in the dark, because something about them feels just for you. The words no one underlined. The moments no one noticed. Unread by the world. And yet… they stay. Some people are like that too.
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Love doesn't hit like a storm. That's a lie people like to tell themselves to justify the wreckage.
No... love drips. Quietly, and slowly. A glance across a bookstore aisle. The way they say your name like it's theirs to keep. An empty mug left in the sink- proof they were here, even after they're gone.
You don't fall all at once. You collect pieces. Moments. Smiles. Breaths they didn't know you were counting.
And by the time you realize you've given them everything… you've already memorized how they close their eyes when they laugh.
They call it love. But sometimes, it feels more like possession with better PR.
Some books don't stay shut. You place them back on the shelf, carefully, deliberately; but somehow, the next time you look, they're open again. Pages parted, spine soft from being read too often.
It's almost like they're asking to be revisited. Like they know you weren't finished with them. Not really.
And maybe that's the problem. Some stories don't have a clean ending. Some leave their last line hanging in the air long after the cover closes.
And no matter how far you try to distance yourself... how many new titles you place between them... you always, always find your way back to the same page.
You can tell everything about a person by the books they keep. Not the ones they display proudly on coffee tables, no... those are for show.
Look lower. To the worn spine half-hidden on the second shelf. The one with pages soft from turning, stained by a forgotten glass of wine or maybe tears they'd never admit to shedding. That's the one that mattered.
We all have that book. The one we return to when no one's watching. The one that knows who we really are.
People lie. Books never do.
