She sat perched in a crowded nook enveloped by an abundance of works, frayed at the edges. No, this wasn't the first time she'd ducked away with an aged book, pages loosely clasping to the worn binding. Her fingers would search the surface for inked realities. Exploring the world fabricated with words fused into the pages. How much she cherished it perplexed her, it was never only the script in existence but the concept it expressed as she floated atop every line.

Why was this so perfect yet deeply flawed. There wasn't a thing out of place, well, except for the page that had been hastily torn out of the book. I guess that's what charmed into her to scrawling down the illusions in her subconscious. Grazing the edges, that had tattered over the years brought uncertainty but nothing would feel better.

She gazed up to see the smirk that brought her imagination to life. Yes, leaning against the doorway was the idiot that started it all. Dangling in his hands was the page bearing few words. She'd be left to forge her own ending, and you'd expect quite a bit to emerge from an unscathed swell of imagination. There's little left to the imagination if everything is orchestrated in approach, well like many her mind didn't abide by ludicrous precepts, neither would she.