Halfway into the book, I fall in love with the book. Like any good rom-com—first annoyance, then boredom, then I’m tucking her hair behind her ear. Insert emoji hearts. Insert Sixpence None the Richer singing “Kiss Me.” Or birdsong. Remember when I told you I once fell in love with someone’s deep clavicles? You frowned and said, That’s like falling in love with a sinkhole. But I’ve fallen in love with a sinkhole before—for years I hoped one would swallow my home so I could start over. You had told me there were easier ways to begin than losing my house to a catastrophe. Yes, I said, but I wouldn’t be the one to blame. So when you said, You’re smarter now, open the book without fear, I wanted to ask—Is the book is my life? Halfway into my life, I fell in love with my life. Of course, the sinkhole-wished house is long sold, every blackberry bush dead. Of course, it wasn’t the house that caused my troubles as wherever you go there you are—but now I notice how sunrises make me rush to the window as if I want to be closer to life and for once I’m not hoping for a catastrophe. For once, it’s just me and the sky opening its soft pink mouth and not swallowing a thing.