She loved to read. The way each author would write would be a surprise; each new sentence would bring about a set of completely new emotions altogether. She hung tight to every plot twist, to every dip and turn and new path the story would follow. Each book would set her aquiver, the words and syllables and consonants washing over her, polishing and smoothing her. Like the waves that gently sweep ashore and cleanse the pebbles that litter the beaches, she too would be purified with each new piece of text she could get her hands on.
She loved it all. The bindings (that would differ greatly from one to another, much to her happiness) would be something of great consideration. The smell of each book when opened, be it the leathery redolence of her Grandfather’s journal to the smell of the pages just hot off the press – even to the smell of the coffee she’d once spilled on a novel – all intrigued her. She loved the texture each book held, and oftentimes cradled each page preciously, possessively, as she pored over their contents. She loved the fonts and the ink which conveyed each word, from the dark bold which held anger to the italics which portrayed the kind of sarcasm she so loved to read.
Each new book added to her collection would make her laugh out loud with joy, and the smile she would wear when a favourite author of hers published a new work would light up even the darkest room. Her favourites quotes she wrote up and treasured, stuck up on her walls to create a masterful collection of the best words she’d ever read.
She was really, truly in love, beautiful and glowing without having a person to love. None could ever love books the way she did, so wholly and completely.
She loved books so purely. It was a shame it was them that brought around her end.