She had a story unlike any of the stories held in her hands. Her story was quite too messy to put into words. She's forgotten by the world, and surrounded by the disturbance of people.
        Some of the foam from her well filled coffee stains her upper lip. And she flips the page, to continue reading the story of another.
        She'll never get the confidence to talk to the gentlemen across the room. The one looking at her right now, smiling at her foamy lip, she wipes it off and blushes.
        Her head turns back to the pages, she hopes to find friends in the book she grasps in her hand. So she doesn't find the need to talk to the gentlemen across the room