Today, I got lost in a book,
picked it up at noon,
smelling the crispy while pages,
hoping to put it down soon.

But the minute details of the scene,
transported me there,
and the portrayal of the protagonist,
desired me to be her.

As I went deeper in to the plot,
things got twistier.
As I got engrossed in the story,
I forgot I wasn’t her.

I sobbed when her childhood unfurled,
as they told us how her father cried,
when her mother was murdered.

I smiled when I read about her friend,
I smiled at the part,
when he expressed his feelings and said,
“I love you with all my heart.”

And when they kissed,
I felt a soft peck on my lips,
and when they danced,
I saw myself swirling my hips.

By chapter ten,
she had found the killer.
By chapter thirteen,
She had avenged the death of her mother.

But as the book came to a close,
with the last smile and the last kiss,
the story got another twist.