And she craved a feeling. A feeling other than lifelessness. Reading provided her with something. But the problem was, she got attached real quick: . As she read, she felt everything that the characters did. She stayed awake thinking about everything they might’ve thought about. It was as though, all that she couldn’t feel in real life, she felt it all as she read. She would fall in love with words and characters the authors described. Her moods would change as she read. She would cry as a line hit her emotions. She would squeal when she read about happy moments. A smile played on her lips as she read about the guy proposing the girl. She would cry when the girl dies in the book. She would slightly do a happy dance when she read about perfect moments. Her eyes would light up on certain occasions and at certain moments they would let the tears fall.
She clung onto what she got. But a part of her knew that she couldn’t let go of this anymore. Stories grew upon her because that’s what she needed. It was now a part of her. She always wanted to feel something because emptiness is way too suffocating.