Books and what they mean to me

 There are places people visit, and then there are places people belong to.

This bookshop? I belong to it.

It isn’t just four walls stacked with paper and ink—it’s a living, breathing thing. It exhales stories and inhales lonely afternoons. The wooden floor creaks like it’s whispering secrets, and the shelves lean in close, like they’re trying to listen to your heartbeat. I swear it knows me. I swear it recognizes the exact moment I step in—like, oh, there you are, you took long enough.

Because this place? It’s not a shop. It’s my soul wearing the disguise of a room.

I don’t come here to “buy books.” I come here to fall in love. Over and over again. Recklessly. Dramatically. 

Give me morally grey princes with blood on their hands and soft eyes. Give me girls who burn kingdoms down and still worry if they’re the villain. Give me magic that feels like it’s alive under your skin. I want it all. 

And this shop delivers—like it understands.

Every shelf is a portal. Every spine is a promise. I run my fingers across them like I’m choosing a fate. Sometimes I don’t even pick the book—the book picks me. It practically glows in my hand, like, “yes, you. You’re about to get emotionally destroyed. Enjoy.”

And I do.

Because nothing hits like fantasy. Nothing. It’s chaos and longing and power and magic wrapped in ink. It’s the kind of love that ruins you—in the best way. The kind that lingers in your chest long after you’ve closed the last page, staring at the ceiling like you’ve just lived an entire other life.

And this shop? It feeds that addiction.

It’s where I go when reality feels too small. When the world is too quiet, too ordinary, too… not enough. I walk in, and suddenly I’m not just me anymore. I’m a warrior, a thief, a queen, a girl with a dagger hidden in her boot and a secret she’d die to protect.

It’s not escapism.

It’s expansion.

This place doesn’t let me run away—it lets me become more.

More alive. More dramatic. More everything.

Sometimes I sit in the corner, tucked between shelves, surrounded by stories like they’re guarding me. And I think—if I had to choose between this and anything else?

I wouldn’t hesitate.

Because this bookshop isn’t just my favorite place.

My safe place.
My chaos.
My magic.

My soul, bound in paper and ink.

Currently, my favorites are:

A court of thorns and roses

Throne of glass

To bleed a crystal bloom

This woven kingom

Six of crows

Fourth wing

Phantasma

Belladona

etc