Every time I finish a novel, I sit for a few minutes staring at the wall. It feels like saying goodbye to a friend who only existed in my mind.
Fiction reminds me that even imagined lives can leave real feelings. That’s why I’ve started reading again — not to escape, but to remember what emotions feel like when they’re written honestly.
The next book isn’t a replacement; it’s another doorway. And I’ll keep walking through them quietly, one page at a time.