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Maybe I should feel lonely during these long and quiet night shifts, but I don’t. Not when I’m surrounded by books. And definitely not when the rest of my life feels so loud and bright and inescapably hectic.
Real life is never like the novels.
Because that’s what nonfictional men do: disappoint you.
Books have always been a major part of my personal and social life.”
“You’re a strong, independent woman in control of your own life,” I whisper. Then, as an afterthought: “And your tits look phenomenal.”
“Actions speak louder than words,”
The thing is, I don’t read romance novels for the realism. I read them because they make me feel seen and heard as a woman. They let me explore my desires—both the ones I’m proud of and the ones I clear from my search history—and they’ve taught me who I am and what I want. I’m always going to be a reader. And I’m always going to be a romantic.
