I didn’t start reading books because someone told me to. It happened slowly, almost accidentally. I was in school, sitting in the back of the class during a free period, when I picked up a book just to pass the time. It wasn’t anything grand—just a small story about a boy who didn’t fit in. But somehow, as I read page after page, it felt like the book was speaking to me more than anyone around me ever had.

At home, things were often noisy or tense. Life wasn’t always kind. People argued, doors slammed, and sometimes, it felt like no one was really listening. But when I opened a book, everything else faded. The noise outside stopped mattering. I could travel to other worlds, meet people who were brave, broken, curious, or lost—just like me.

Over time, reading became my way of understanding feelings I didn’t know how to talk about. It helped me make sense of the world, and of myself. Some books made me cry. Some made me think. A few made me laugh out loud when I needed it most. But all of them gave me something I couldn’t find anywhere else—stillness and connection.

Now, whenever things feel heavy, I pick up a book. Not to escape, but to feel understood. Each story reminds me that I’m not alone in how I see the world, or how I move through it. That somewhere, someone else has felt the same confusion, the same hope, the same longing.

That’s why I read books. Not because I have to. But because somewhere along the way, they became a part of who I am.