Miha

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The book was tucked under his arm with the casualness that one would extend a part of their own body - it was part of him, a given, something necessary but taken for granted. It wasn't always the same book, and it wasn't always under his arm, but there was always one there, somewhere, open or closed, on his mind or in the back of it. It was easy to criticize him for living far more in the fictional world than the real one, and it would be a criticism that he would be hard-pressed to argue.

Miha lived within a strange duality of curiosity and anxiety, longing to reach out and be part of something, reaching out almost as if to try remember something he had forgotten, but fearing the fact of actual commitment and discovery. Books provided the adventure and belonging that his heart sought, but allowed the security that his mind demanded, and so he lived between the pages.