Dear Book,

I’m disappointed in you.

I’ve treated you with love. I’ve given you your space.

Why don’t you love me back?

Why do you insist upon being so stubborn? Why are you telling me things that we both know aren’t true? Why are you leading me down paths that are less than good—for either of us?

Are you tired of me? I’m not tired of you. I don’t understand. And I’m weary, waiting for the messages that haven’t come. This is exhausting. I’ve believed in your affection. I’ve felt it. I know your touch in darkness. Yet you seem to feel nothing.

You know that I am demanding in love. You knew that when we began.

What the hell is going on?

Affectionately,

The One Who Wrote You

UPDATE: At 9:30 last night, the book and I had a few private moments. Not a total reconciliation, but at least the conversation has begun again. Welcome home, book. Even a day away from you is way too long….

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