You find her with a book sometimes and you find her lost in stories all the time.
Story after story. Life after life. Breathing in a corner.
You find her shut always and she always pulls away and you can't help, but wonder that whether she ever wonders about your story.
Why living through pages? Why looking for breath in claustrophobic spaces? Doesn't it choke her? The way she lives?
You find her saying she likes the choking. You find her saying she can't live otherwise.
