"You're like a book," he said, a mysterious smile tugging his lips.

    "Why do you think that?"

"You seem like you house a million tales inside you; not just the pages but, the ink stains and fingerprints in the corners of the folded edges. You seem like an adventure for somebody who dares to turn the pages. Splashes of ink against the scribes drowned in past tell another tale of bravery; you're who you are because of the all the stories you case inside yourself. You're a beautiful book with poetic love and soulful verses pulsing through each and every letter. I find it incredibly beautiful about you," he grinned.    

 "That is the best thing someone has ever said to me," she blushed.

"If I am a book then I think the entire world is a library; all of us have our own bookcases. Some of us drip with gloom whilst others lighten the air with their rainbow- tainted anecdotes. All of our tales are being written, every day, every minute and the pens are right there in our hands, we just don't know it. Each splotch of ink, each smear of watercolour defines us. We are all books," she looked up at the stars, pleased with herself.