“There’s only things, Blackie.”

The girl who reads knows about real people. She knows about real people as well as she knows how an illustrated cupcake tastes like. She learns about people through the pages thinking she will know how to deal with them better when they appear as real bodies. There are liars, there are cheats. There are princes on white horses who shine. The girl who reads knows life is not as easy as that. The literary characters get darker, more complex. Someone who is good is not always good. Someone who is always bad is not always bad. That it was a great love story but Romeo and Juliet were just teenagers, and idiots. Turn the other cheek. Strike that blow. There will be people who save you just to kill you. All this hate and love, it’s soft, it’s hooey. There are no endless fairytales, or pages that never stop turning. Happy endings are still endings.

Few understand. That there is always a beginning, a middle, an end. The girl who reads believes everyone is patient enough to pick apart words. That “wherefore” doesn’t mean “where”, but “why”. That “cannot” and “have not” and “will not” mean different things, just like “agree” and “undertake”, “aver”, “deny”. She keeps reusing quotes, thinking they will understand the allusions. But she is not surprised that she is left with her books. They are, unlike real people, the only ones who cannot, and have no right to, walk away. That the stories will comfort her. That there will be another story. She doesn’t know anything.