Daily story, January 7, 2025

With a firm and concerted effort he was able to fall in love with a piece of paper. Unmarked, off white, recycled. He loved the grain, the little flecks of darker material, the way the light wept through. He wanted it with him always, of course. If he could not take the whole sheet, he wished he could tear off a corner, slip it in his pocket, and feel it between thumb and forefinger in difficult moments. But he knew this was an unhealthy way to be with his love, and that it would wear the paper down to dust. So he kept it safe at home, and in time the fear of fire or flood that clung to him whenever he was out diminished. Still, at times he pondered: might an outsider, looking in, not think he had bought himself only difficulty, with all that effort? Some might, perhaps. But only those who had never been in love.