The way you talk about characters, as if they're real, as if you've met them,
The way we belong to those stories more than we do to ourselves,
The way all my dreams mingle with the books I've read, but in place of Harry, I see you instead.
The way we get lost in those books of ours, we read sitting together, yet we're so far apart.
The way you hide your tears, when the protagonist's mother dies,
And yet you glance at me, just to be sure of reality,
Like I'm the one who grounds you, even though you told me I made you want to try to fly.
Ironic isn't it? That even though this is all playing out like a story, we're still not sure about a happy ending.
