She ran her fingers along the books in my bookcase, as if she were trying to read my life.
Some of the bindings were torn, faded, or just missing parts. The titles not especially clear, some hard to read, some not making any sense at all.
Some of the books were missing. Parts of my life which had gone lost, somewhere along the way. The years before I knew her. Uninteresting, to say the least.
When she came to our life together, she took a deep breath, before finding a seat nearby, taking a stack of the most important years, trying to read my life with hers.
I would have liked to share the moments with her. Seeing her face light up, when she read the important parts. The minutes spent. Not anything more important in this life for the both of us. She laughed, then she cried. Her face reflected the light of the sunset creating long shadows on the walls of my books, the oranges burning brightly through the later years of my life.
Her fingers hesitated for a moment. She started putting the books back in place, making sure the edges were immaculately placed with just enough space for a bit of dust to share the memories, the pages of my life.
One book remained open. The table, the room now existing as a memory, where we walked the fields and the streets of my life, hand in hand, closer to the touch.
The final pages were left blank, until her fingers found the strength to finish the story. The story of our lives together, when the edges, the bindings were new, and we had the whole story in front of us.