If people were books, she would be the velvety red hardcover with a cursive, golden font slowly accumulating a fine layer of glistening silver dust onto the highest oak wood shelf in the oldest library around. Few would ever get to see her beautiful cover, the elegant golden casing on each of her pages, and even those who were privileged enough to lay eyes upon her pristine binding would shy away from the read, out of fear for the length, depth, and density of the words artfully casted into her pages. Very few could comprehend the journey on which they'd embark by opening her cover, and none could see past the artful yet innocent deceit of her forward. For it told a happy, innocent, and nearly boring story intended to ward the less invested readers off. Often it worked. However, there was one who had the suspicion that between her covers he would find more. So he continued to read, he consumed the stories of averagely happy times and drunken parties, yet as he read he accidentally bled bits of himself into her pages. In return, she revealed to him her darker chapters, full of pain, agony, and depression. He began to understand what had compelled him to continue, not the elegance of the binding nor each pages' golden encasing, but the alluring scripture that was artfully laid into the bones of every page. He read on, and fell in love with the story, he paid no intention to the passing of the seasons outside his room. As long as he had his book, he was absolutely content. Unfortunately, no matter his ignorance of the passing of the seasons, pass they did, until alas he fell upon the last page. Tears welled up in his eyes, but he knew what to do. He reached for his pen, and he began to write. Her final chapters wouldn't be full of pain and agony, instead her wrote a tale of love and joy. Together forever, him and his book.