This is what happens when a rainstorm strands you in the library with friends who get genuinely excited about spine textures and marginalia. My cardigan smells faintly of old paper, my glasses are still dewy, and I’m probably about to launch into an impromptu lecture on why the word “bibliophile” feels like velvet in your mouth. my friend Hana, my cousin Maddie, Mira, and Sofita make everything feel like a narrative waiting for punctuation, everyone leaning in, half-shadowed, tracing titles and laughing so quietly you can hear the dust settle. If you listen closely, I swear you’ll catch the ghost of a poem in the air.