I accidentally bought a book x
Firstly, it was not an accident.
I may therefore be guilty of a slight extension of the truth.
Secondly, I had hoped to leave that shop with a new book freshly scented with the breath of printed words tucked inside my bag.
I did, because I fell in love.
You see, love need not be something you search for, but can happen so unexpectedly that you are drawn to it, compelled to its light like a moth to a flame, blindly attracted and with no means of evasion.
In that quaint bookstore, despite having made several purchases yesterday and harbouring a shelf of adventures yet to be embarked upon, I united myself with that prize, forming a commitment between writer and reader, vowing to take their carefully crafted words into my heart, to be devoured until the bitter end.
Thirdly, that sounds like a marital declaration, but then, to an extent, reading a novel is like signing a marriage contract. You are wedded to the characters, the plot intricacies, the thoughts behind their every word, vowing to take them into your heart and to nurse them through delight and despair, biting back laughter or choking back tears with every misadventure as if they were your own children. You make a pact to deliver those words into your life and soul to the best of your ability by breathing its song until the final page, where you promise to care for it as a chapter of your own story. This is because, irrevecocably, accidentally, you have fallen in love, and to love entails the cherising of one until its final days, where you can replace it on a dusty shelf until its binding is weathered and ageing, or you can gift it to a new home, always recalling your shared journey together.
I did not accidentally buy that book, Dad. I found it, I bought it consciously, but that is because I fell entirely in love, and could not consider waiting to conclude the next chapter of our stories together.