When I was young on the playground, I hid behind the slides, a book firmly planted in my hands. I wandered aimlessly in the worlds of giants and Winnie the Pooh. No one wanted to talk to me, and I didn’t mind.

When I was young on the playground, I ran behind everyone else, and cowered in P.E. I took every opportunity to avoid conversation, and snuck a book into all of my classes. I thought the best thing in the world to lose yourself in a book.

When I was young on the playground, I didn’t know any of my classmates’ names, but I could tell you the plot of every book I had ever read. I learned to walk while reading, and how to tune the world out. My books were my life.

I would go to the library every day, and knew the librarian my first name. I would eat with my characters, and we would talk about our adventures. When I was young on the playground, I never wanted to have friends, write a novel, or paint my room. My books were enough, but not anymore.