On the first day we met, I gave him my favourite book to read. He took it home that night and I was hoping he would finish it as fast as he could, as I’ve always had some sort of anxiety that I wasn’t going to see my books back. I kept nagging him. He didn’t seem to bother much into reading it, not even for me, nor for how he knew it was my favourite. It wasn’t prior. We got together, for about a month…he was the one who broke it off. I cried, of course. It was terrible: bad words, bad names…depressingly abnormal. I remembered he hadn’t given me the book yet, so I asked him to. He rushingly read it, but since I haven’t heard for him, I don’t think he truly understood its message.