|When my cousin borrowed I Am No Four 😦|
This. This is why I hate lending books to people. That one hideous gap between the array of those beloved books. The gap that represents the emptiness that you feel when a precious thing is far from you. Like there’s a hole inside your heart that needs to be filled in order to keep it alive. It doesn’t even matter if the book is in good hands. Just knowing the fact that that thing is not in your possession it drives you crazy.