It is possible to be in love with you just because of who you are.
Books are more real when you read them outside.
You’re like a song that I heard when I was a little kid but forgot I knew until I heard it again.
I’d found heaven and grabbed it as tightly as I could, but it was unraveling, an insubstantial thread sliding between my fingers, too fine to hold.
As the hours crept by, the afternoon sunlight bleached all the books on the shelves to pale, gilded versions of themselves and warmed the paper and ink inside the covers so that the smell of unread words hung in the air.