Her slender fingers caressed the brittle pages. Her eyes scanned over every word. Her breath hitched, her cheeks flushed, her eyes widened, her jaw dropped; she was becoming the main character of the book she clutched in her hands for dear life. She was watching an adventure unfolded before her very eyes. The author was writing away a part of her life, a part where she found the truth about her past, where she had to fulfil her duty; a part where she falls in love with a charming young gentleman that swept her off her feet and serenaded her to sleep. 

Somewhere, an author was writing a part of my life too. He was writing the part where I fall in love with her.