reader life
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There’s something quietly hopeful about the start of a new reading year. Not because everything suddenly resets or becomes better overnight—but because it offers space. Space to read differently. Space to loosen expectations. Space to follow curiosity instead of checklists. This year, I’m not chasing numbers. I’m chasing connection. I want books that linger. Stories
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Some Wednesdays demand structure. Others demand caffeine.This one? It demanded chaos—bookish chaos, specifically—so welcome to Wildcard Wednesday, where I follow whatever curiosity grabs me by the collar and drags me into the stacks. Today’s wildcard obsession: Books that feel like they’re whispering, “Just one more chapter…” even when you know they’re about to emotionally suplex
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There’s a peculiar kind of emptiness that comes after finishing a book that truly gets under your skin. Not the “what should I read next?” kind of lull, but something quieter—an ache that feels suspiciously like missing someone you used to know. You close the cover, still half-living in the story’s world. You keep glancing
literary gluttony 