I know many readers who underline, highlight, or scribble notes in the margins of their books. I admire their courage, their intimacy with the text. But I cannot do it. My books remain untouched, their pages clean and unmarked, as if I were only a guest in their worlds.

For me, part of the magic is in preservation. I want the book to remain whole, to carry its own silence without my interruptions. Instead of underlining, I carry the sentences inside me. I copy them into notebooks, whisper them aloud, let them echo in memory. The book itself stays intact, a sacred object.

Perhaps it’s a kind of reverence, perhaps a fear of breaking something fragile. But I like to think of it as a pact: the book gives me its story, and I give it my quiet respect in return.

I also like to think that when someone else or I venture back into its pages, they will do so as free of expectations and ideas as I did this time and will have their own or new experience.

Even so, I don’t think one way is better than the other. Some readers love their books loudly, with pen and ink and marks of passion. I love mine quietly, by keeping them whole.

In the end, both kinds of love leave the story alive.