There’s an Emily Dickinson line that says “there is no frigate like a book,” and today, sprawled with my cousin, Addie, and her sister, Maddie, in the thick of journals and spines, I believe it more than ever. Every sunbeam caught on Addie’s knee or Maddie’s headphones feels like a sentence I want to underline. We swapped favorite passages, scribbled silly doodles in the margins, and let three hours slip by in the kind of companionable silence only true bookworms understand. Ink-stained hands, open pages, and that impossible-to-bottle feeling of being nested in stories (and overdue library returns). If you find a stray pressed violet between the chapters, it’s probably ours.