She turns the page.
She turns over in her bed, keeping light shining over the words. Line after line, she reads and consumes it all. Every letter, every word. Smiling at the cleverness of the story, at the beauty of the characters. People she’s met and known almost entirely in her own head, each one with their own life and physical attributes. Ticks and emotions and every little detail perfectly defined within her mind. Voices are distinct and wonderful, the quotation marks beginning and ending on notes. Her eyelids blink serenely, softly covering her eyes for a moment, only to open back up as quickly as they’d closed. She laughs to herself a small bit, breath escaping her lungs a quiet electric. Paragraphs break.
She starts almost anew, but in the same mind. She moves across the line, through the crevasse and over it again. The reading begins again at the top of the page, the number in the corner changes at the end. Rolling down, divinely accessing every word, creating the setting and the world in her mind. Keeping track every once in a while with a lightly pressed finger. Down and down, to the bottom of the page, until the final punctuation mark, only to turn the page again.