The Boy Who Loved Books

I was twelve years old when I first fell in love, the quick-burning, star-dazzled kind that hits you suddenly and leaves you dizzy.
It was with a boy I saw after school, a boy who leaned against the railing with its peeling brown paint, unaware of the after-school shrieks and grinding gears of school buses all around him, his eyes never leaving the book he held. I couldn’t see what book it was, but it was a thick book, the long kind with no pictures that only real readers would read.
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