I. 

I shouldn't have come to this party.

The realisation came too late. I was already there, surrounded by people dancing or limping or both. Surrounded by people gossiping or drinking or making out. And perhaps there is nothing wrong with any of those things but everything felt wrong to me.

Maybe because no one was gossiping with me. No one was dancing with me. No one wanted to, and the realisation (again) made my lungs knot.

I weaved through the crowd of strangers and strange people, my eyes stinging, my nose prickling. The disco lights and bass-boosted music made my head spin. When I made it to the door my cheeks dripped with tears. I'm pathetic. I threw myself outside and closed the door behind me. 

My nausea lifted as I inhaled the cool night air. I plopped down on the grass, under a streetlamp, and slid a book out of my bag. God knows why I brought it. Thank god I did. 

"Why do you like reading so much?" They had asked because they saw me with books more than they saw me with friends. 

I wish I wasn't like this. I wish I didn't turn to pages because I couldn't turn to people.

Sometimes you get bored of a book, and you push it to the back of your bookshelf. Perhaps that's how they felt about me.

A few stray drops dripped on the book cover. I carefully thumbed tears off my sole companion.

by Zaheen Tasfia Zuhair

II.

Feasting on pages,
Worlds unfurl in ink and print,
Reading, my constant.

by Sara Kabir 

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‘Face’: Sehri Tales selections, Day 19

III. 

Birthdays always excited me as a kid. Not the cake, or the glittery presents, but receiving a book from Baba's bookshelf. I was a bookworm in all senses, and Baba ensured that this habit always stays. I think it all started from him reading me bedtime stories. These stories were from faraway lands, talking about cultures completely unknown to a five-year old girl. His stories fascinated me, and I craved to understand the words myself.

During our grocery shopping, he would let me pick a book from the store. The challenge was to finish the book before next week so we could buy another. New books were nice, but I looked forward to his birthday gift. These books were from his prized collection, and helped me understand what he felt back at his time.

But, being a bookworm is not easy, especially with the exorbitant prices of imported books. I sneakily spend all my pocket money and salaami on these expensive hardcovers and Maa notices this book hoarding habit way too well.

Maa: "Haven't you read this already?"

Me: "Yes, but this is the collector's edition."

Maa: "At this rate, you would be transforming the room into a library!"

"থাক না, বই কিনে কেউ দেউলিয়া হয় না", Baba always intervenes.

Our birthday tradition continues till this date. Every year, he wraps a book and keeps it on my bed table. Every year, I share my thoughts on the book. And every year, I get to know him a little more.

by Maisha Islam