The mild look in her eyes and the curve of her lips could make anybody guess the nature of the book she was reading; it was as if she reflected the emotions that the writer had penned down, sometimes even letting her tears roll through her soft cheeks. But there was a constant struggle that she had; the fear of ending a book before having another one to read. So, like people ask their friends and family to be there with them always, holding them tight, she piled books by her side near the square lamp with orange light and a jug of water. Those piled up books gave her sense of relaxation, making her feel happy every time she glared at them, knowing that after finishing the book in her hands, she would pick another one. Withdrawn from the world, it was her life and living it that way was her choice. She knew, she was not going to change and nobody can barter with her love for those pale pages, paperbacks and hardcovers. This was the life of a reader and she didn’t want anybody to deny her the right of reading
She was tender but aloof enough from the harsh realities of the world. In a corner of the room, near the window with the sun shining brightly outside it, she sat, calm and composed. The strings of silence vibrating in her soul. With her eyes fixed in her novel which was held in her sleek hands, it became difficult for anybody to spot her. She was neither a nerd nor a bookworm, but a voracious reader trying to gulp all the wisdom, those pages had to offer. She wanted to hide herself, in those books and its pages, trying to relate herself with the story that the author got to narrate.