If there was one thing you loved in life, it was books. You loved to read, not casually but obsessively. There was never a moment in your life that a book was not within reach. You carried them with you everywhere.

Anytime you traveled, you kept in mind the necessary space for any books you were bringing with you. When you bought a purse, you made sure it was large enough to fit a book. Even some of your jackets had large enough pockets for small books.

Next to your nightstand was a precarious pile of books to read. It never shrunk, just grew as you found more and more. Your apartment even smelled musty, like the lovely scent of an old book.

You sometimes wondered if you’d ever get tired of reading.

If there was something better out there.

If you could love something else besides a book.

It seemed impossible.