I’ve never been the jealous type. Or so I thought. I’ve never been the possessive ‘psycho’ girlfriend that calls their partner ten times just because they stopped texting back. But I’m strangely protective of other things that are unimportant to most people.
When I find a good book, a book that I could read over and over and find something new every time, I won’t share it. I don’t want others to even know about it. I want the book to be mine, a secret between me and the author. It’s immature, I know, but childish simplicity is a rare luxury quickly running out of stock. I must indulge myself while it lasts.