I was the book you opened on a rainy day, when the world felt too loud, and you needed shelter inside someone else’s story. You read me slowly, tracing each line like it mattered, like it held the answers you were searching for. You told me I was your favorite chapter the one you’d highlight and fold at the corners, so you’d never lose your place. But when the sun came back, you closed me without a second glance, and placed me back on the shelf. And I stayed there——still open hoping you’d one day return to finish the story. —D.A