Reading a book often evokes a wide range of emotions. At first, you’re reluctant to get too involved with the story, the characters, and so on, but you keep on reading. Then, as the pages start to even out on both sides, you find myself abnormally intrigued by the characters, wondering where their stories will move next, what will happen to them.
As the book becomes more lopsided and the unread pages become increasingly less, the panic sets in. That complex conundrum of feelings start to take hold in the remaining pages of the book you were once disinclined to read. There’s no going back now.
You’ve reached the point where you can’t wait to turn the page, but dread finding no pages left to flip. It’s that paradoxical feeling of excitement for reading more, but the fear of finding the end. That desire to finish the book, but the wish that it will last forever.
Then, when you turn the last page only to find a blank one left, you find yourself wondering how you could ever not have cared for those characters and their stories that you have now grown so close to. For a moment you are left stunned and then you realise it’s all over. The book you’ve come to enjoy so much has ended. But that’s the beauty of reading. Even though the book has been closed, you have changed. You have absorbed those characters’ stories, learned from their lives and have become enriched because you decided to keep on reading when you were hesitant to turn another page.