You took my book from the shelf and I cringed. Your hands were too confident and I was afraid you would open to the end or the middle and judge me without context.
You bent the cover back and your thumb glided across the pages, breathing air into the spaces between them. You inhaled and I felt like I may have found my home. I still wasn't sure. What would you think of the smell? Would it bring you nostalgia or distaste?
Your eyes didn't reveal your thoughts as you skipped over the editor's note and flipped to the first page of chapter 1. As you read the first line, eyes staying on those initial words, I could feel you judging them against every other first line you've ever read. Competition against Narnia, Percy Jackson, and A Wrinkle in Time is a daunting task. Would it be enough? Would you continue?
You closed the book and I tensed inside. You turned it over in your hand and read the back description. That silly thing. How much could it possibly tell you that actually reading the pages wouldn't? Just give it a try. Go back to that chapter. Please.
You tucked it under your arm and continued browsing the shelves. You found a favorite author and I watched you lovingly caress the spines of his life's work. Jealousy surged inside and I tried to keep it from showing. My story was still under your arm and they were still on the shelf. I held onto that hope.
After a minute of wandering around aimlessly, you cracked open the book again and stared at that first page. Your eyes darted back and forth from line to line. Curiosity overcame you and you turned the page. My heart leapt. I could have danced right then. I had you hooked.
I can't wait until you get to chapter 3... You're going to love me. I know it.