A letter to the books on my bookshelf

Dear books on my shelf,

Thank you. For the times you understood me, and let me drown in you throughout Sunday afternoon.

Some of you have been read a myriad of times, soaked in the sun on a winter afternoon. Some of you are hardbound and gifted to me, some of you are pirated ones that I bought from the little boy on the signals, I want you to know that you are equally loved.

Some of you have a love-hate relationship with me because I have promised you over and over again that I would read you the next.

Oh! How could I forget the ones that traveled with me to the places I went alone, accompanying me to the little adventures I had?

And thank you to those of you who helped me to avoid awkward conversations while I kept pretending I was reading you!

I want to thank some of you, for letting me mark all over you with pens and underlining all over.

And the ones I issued from the library, before this lockdown, am I a good host? Do you feel hurt when you are stamped by the librarian with purple ink on your first page? Do you hate time stamps, knowing that your relationship with the reader will be over within a week?

Thank you for being a safe space throughout this pandemic and keeping my mind sane. I want you to know that I might love Kafka, and Lahiri a little more but all of you are absolutely precious to me.

Love, Shreya.