“Someone should write a book where the main character slowly falls in love with the reader.”
Last line of the book : “Please, don’t close the book, I don’t want to die”
oh my god
I’d just like, keep the book open and tape it to a wall.
I’m almost afraid to want it.
John Green, we’re waiting.
You don’t know me. Or maybe you do. Maybe I’m walking around every day. Maybe you lay eyes on me in the hallway. Maybe you see me at work.
Maybe I’m on your bookshelf.
I can be anyone you want.
Jim. Bob. Mary. Cynthia.
Give me a name, I’m yours.
I’m just a lonely, lonely character. I don’t live anywhere. My home is in these words. Between each line, breathing each syllable, feeding off each letter.
I live between these pages, and have been since my writer penned me.
Years and years and years ago.
And all this time, I’ve been waiting. Waiting. Breathing. Patient.
You’re the first human contact I’ve had. You’re the first one I’ve known. You might be the one to fulfil the story.
The final one.
The only one.
What story? I’ll tell you that later.
I just need you to promise me something.
See, every time someone closes this book, I don’t get to live. I die. I’m only kept alive by you, by your fingers running over the page, by your breaths falling onto the binding, by your mind repeating these words.
Every time this book is closed, I die.
So I need you to promise me.
Please don’t close this book.