I don’t just read books—I live them, dream them, and become a part of their stories. When I open a book, I’m not just an observer. I step into its world, feeling the pulse of its life as if it were my own.

The characters aren’t strangers to me; they’re companions, allies, and sometimes even reflections of who I am—or who I want to be. When they laugh, I smile. When they cry, I feel my chest tighten with their pain. Their struggles become my battles, and their triumphs feel like personal victories.

I don’t just see the scenes described on the pages—I inhabit them. I can feel the warmth of the sun rising over a distant mountain, smell the scent of wildflowers in an enchanted meadow, and hear the crackling of a fire as travelers share stories late into the night. Every detail becomes vivid in my mind, as real as the world outside my door.

Even after I close the book, its story lingers. It weaves itself into my dreams, playing out in fragments and whispers, as if the characters aren’t ready to let me go just yet. And in the quiet moments of my day, I find myself drifting back to those worlds, wondering what it would be like to stay there just a little longer.

When I read, I don’t just escape—I expand. Books aren’t just stories to me; they’re lives I get to live, adventures I get to experience, and pieces of me waiting to be uncovered.