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The Book That Stole My Heart
Some books stay with you; others take up residence inside you.
The Book Thief did both.
From the first pages, I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Its format felt strange — scene settings that interrupted the flow, chapters that told me what was coming, even warnings of what I might rather not know.
At first, I was irritated.
Eventually, I was grateful.
Even with every forewarning, I kept hoping for a reprieve, a different ending, some act of grace. But the author would whisper a warning, then deliver the blow. Each time I thought I was ready. Each time I wasn’t.
This story broke my heart open — quietly, deliberately, completely.
I began reading as though my presence might somehow help the characters endure. I rationed the chapters as they rationed their food — one more page, one more day together — trying to make each moment last, knowing that when it was gone, I would hunger for more.
And now, as if after a powerful and impossible love, I find myself unwilling to move on.
Just not ready
