There’s something very romantic about books, old books especially. Broken spines, torn paper and watermarked pages—it’s all very relatable to one’s life, in a sense. Anna had a habit of spending hours after work at the bookstore and finding the most hideous and abused books, hidden amongst shelf after shelf after shelf. She would bring them back to her apartment and wedge them into her own bookshelf as it began to collect a new layer of dust in its new home.
She read the books of course, but the rate of buying books and reading them was terribly unbalanced. For every book she read, she bought 5 more, leading to an expansive collection of pages she’d never even touched. Coming home to shelves of books made her feel comforted and safe, as if their covers and stories could protect her from realizing the outside world wasn’t always such a nice place. After all, why bother pondering the real world when she had hundreds of happy endings right inside of her own home? Because happy books suck.