There was something about the way she had her nose buried in a book. In the way her overly large spectacles kept slipping. In the way freckles lightly dusted her cheek bones and forehead. In the way her hair fell on the sides of her face like velvet curtains.
There was something in the way she licked her index finger to turn the page. In the way her lips were slightly parted in awe. In the way there was a child-like innocence in her eyes. In the way she was in another world.
Surely it wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t her fault that she loved books more than she loved people.