I pick up my copy of Orlando, poised to be swept away to Woolf's radical world, even though my eyes are bleary. I haven't gotten any reading done in the last two days. I have to read at least one page tonight. I must. It's a self-imposed insistence or, perhaps, defiance. Otherwise, I will be forced to face the bitter reality, that the bond I once shared with books is fading, like a flame flickering in the wind, no matter how hard I try to shield it with my hands.

I remember a family member once telling me that I would eventually grow out of my habit of reading and that life would, at some point, allow little space for it. I dismissed it with arrogance and barely concealed irritation. Books held a very precious place in my life, and that would always be the case. I would make sure of it.

And now, when I am not even halfway through the page, the weight of growing up hums persistently in the back of my mind. I have an early morning class the next day, I should just go to sleep. I have an assignment due soon. If I am staying up late, I might as well finish that. The quiet demands of adulthood have rendered reading – something that used to be so captivating, freeing, and easy – into a chore.

Sure, there are explanations and even solutions. I could blame it on how pervasive technology, social media, and phones have become. I could also try switching to a new genre or different medium. But they all feel hollow – only serving as a reminder of how hard it is to rekindle something that once came so naturally. It instills a sense of obligation instead of mere joy, making the distance feel even greater.

It might seem silly to be distraught over something like this. I mean, it's just books, right? Try telling that to the 15-year-old girl for whom books were a blissful escape and a constant. On the roads, no matter how much her mother scolded her, she would sneak glances at the book on her lap, the streetlights, flickering in and out, serving as her only guiding light. She would stay up through the quiet hours of the night, with burning eyes, consuming story after story as though the words might vanish. She had no worries about the obligations of the next day or the pending tasks festering away at the back of her mind. She simply let the words flow through and warm her heart.

She would read in between classes, during lunch breaks, and in any situation that warranted waiting. That teenager would be crushed at such an unfolding. It hurts to drift away from books and the warmth of words, and let my imagination lie dormant. It almost feels a little like grief.

A book still travels with me wherever I go. It's the one habit I have not been able to shake off – an empty comfort. In the end, I still try to read a page, close the book, and place it in my bag. Maybe, one day, the words will pull me back like they used to and I will finally be able to restore this fraying thread. For now, I will pretend just a little longer.

Anica Bushra Rahmaan has deluded herself into thinking hoarding books counts as reading. Perhaps, one day, she'll be able to read it all. Reach her at [email protected]