I remember the day I was chosen.
It was bright outside. I could tell because the shop door kept opening and closing, and sunlight fell on my cover in intervals, like applause. I stood straight on the shelf, my spine unbent, my pages crisp and arrogant. I knew I was good. I had a bold title, a promising blurb, and that faint scent of fresh paper that makes humans hopeful.
Then a hand touched me.
Not casually.y Not accidentally. Intentionally.
I was pulled out, flipped through. My pages fluttered nervously. My words, though silent, felt ready. The buyer’s eyes scanned my first paragraph. I tried my best to look intelligent. Worth the price. Worth the time.
And then it happened.
I was carried to the counter.
I remember the warmth of that walk home. I remember being held, not stuffed into a bag. I remember thinking, This is it. This is my life beginning.
The first day, I was placed on a desk. I waited eagerly. Surely, tonight would be our first conversation.
But that night, something called “work” interrupted.
The second day, I was shifted to a shelf- temporarily, I was sure. “I’ll start it this weekend,” my owner said.
I have learned that “this weekend” is a very flexible concept.
Days became weeks. Weeks became seasons. I watched other objects come and go. Newer books arrived- thicker, trendier, louder. Some were opened immediately, their pages bent without ceremony. I envied even their carelessness. At least they were being read.
I remained untouched.
Dust began to settle on my shoulders. At first, it was light, almost polite. Then it grew comfortable. I felt older. My once-bright pages slowly turned yellow, like memories left in the sun too long. My ink, once sharp and confident, softened. My cover, once firm, began to curl at the edges.
I was aging without ever having lived.
Occasionally, a hand would reach toward me.
My spine would stiffen with hope.
But the hand would choose someone else.
Sometimes I am taken down, but only to make space for something new. I am shifted, rearranged, leaned against the wall. Never opened. Never heard.
I do not resent the dust. It has been my most consistent companion.
What I resent is silence.
I was not printed to decorate.
I was not bound to balance a shelf.
I was written to be unfolded, to be argued with, to be underlined in blue ink at two in the morning. I was meant to be held open with one hand while the other reaches for tea. I was meant to fall asleep on someone’s chest.
I want creased corners.
I want impatient page turns.
I want a cracked spine from being loved too much.
Instead, I stand straight.
Perfect.
Unused.
Irrelevant.
Sometimes I hear my owner say, “I really should read more.”
I want to shout, I am right here.
I have waited through heartbreaks, through exam seasons, through job changes and late-night phone calls. I have watched my owner grow older. I have aged alongside them. We share the same dust.
I wonder if one day, during cleaning, I will be opened out of guilt. Or curiosity. Or boredom.
Perhaps my first page will surprise them.
Perhaps they will say, “Why didn’t I read this sooner?”
I do not need to be finished in a day.
I do not need to be understood completely.
I only need to be opened.
Until then, I remain here. I fear the day the owner shall decide I’m too old to be read anymore, and I do not know what will happen to me after that. Yet, I have a hope inside me for I’ve heard that I’m one of my reader’s best friends.
I remember the day I was chosen.
I am still waiting for the day I am read.