It was a beautifully bound book, numerous in pages, with tiny font that required reading glasses from older generations. The plain blue and green cover was becoming worn along the edges, despite the fact that the book was typically in a state of rest upon the living room coffee table. It was oft uplifted by a curious visitor, who awaited the arrival of his delayed host, but rarely perused in its entirety. The publication was a fairly recent one; unfortunately for its scribe, it was not considered a widely-read book.

This hardback was divided into sections by an intentional author, representative of the central characters, as well plot divisions (a very common tool of mediocre and great writers alike.) Like any smart character-driven book, it requested (nay, demanded) a weighty emotional connection from those who dared leaf through it.

The first section contained rich, plush stories penned by an author infatuated with his subjects, enamored with his creations. Tales of intrigue, tales of mirth; tales of superficiality, tales of the foolish impression of intimacies that intoxicated the protagonists.

The current student of this novella dove into the depths of the first segment - the rapturous, easy-going, straightforward realm - surfacing for air only after many precious minutes of her life. And although she, herself, was witness to the ludicrous thought processes of her newfound friends, she was just as drawn and attached to them as they were to each other. She was frequently surprised at their skewed perspectives of a reality that seemed incredibly obvious, until the terminating line of the first book:

“As soon as reality occurs, it begins diverging in all of our different minds.”

She eagerly anticipated the second section, for the writer had perfectly captured pieces of our dear reader’s humanity in not just one, but both of the souls and the intricate. silky thread that knit them closely together.

She was soon disappointed and distraught at the events of the second section. She rode high on dramatic whispers of the late evening, hoping for a passionate disclosure of the true reality to her heroine; she instead plummeted into the depths of frustration and despair that were dreadfully described in the black ink before her. She felt disoriented in the darkness of that minute script.

3 blank pages appeared just before the denouement of the second section.

She approached these latter pages with trepidation, fearful of the plot’s resolution. She read very slowly - absorbing each word, each sentence - hoping to prolong her time in this fictional world with her recent favorites. The final dialogue of the second section whirled, twirled, and paused in a titillating tango of will, logic, and desire.

As her fingers anxiously flipped towards the last section of this tumultuous journey, she yearned for a crescendo of growth and vulnerability, but little did she realize how her wishes would be interpreted by the malevolent genie. She witnessed her leading lady’s contemplation and abrupt awareness of the thorough, absolute fabrication of her imagined hero: he was never who she truly believed him to be. Their naive dreams shattered, both women walked out the saga with a greater grasp of self, reality, and relationship.

And so that next chapter was actually an epilogue, initially perceived as a optimistic continuation. However, our saddened reader had come to recognize that it was merely a brief glimpse of the woman’s future captured on a few simple pages:

And the story ended there.