I found my own library book under a pile of school letters

Dear Delyara, That felt symbolic enough to be annoying. The book was mine. Borrowed for me. Chosen because I actually wanted to read it. And there it was, trapped under permission slips, lunch menus, one fundraiser leaflet, and a reminder about non-uniform day. My own small private desire flattened beneath the paperwork of everyone else’s life. I know that sounds dramatic. But it hit something true. I picked it up, dusted off the cover, and carried it upstairs like I was rescuing a version of myself that had been waiting quietly under the admin. I read six pages before falling asleep. That still counts.