The following is a story about a Story. He isn’t an ordinary story, as ordinary stories don’t actually feel, nor would they be referred to as he or she. This Story, however, was old, and somewhere along his shelved life he developed a general yearning for love.

   Although he had some trouble seeing with no eyes, he very quickly set his eyes on her. Now she herself was unusual, having been overloaded with emotion from the day she was bought. By definition, she was known as a Diary. The Diary’s Owner (or D.O. as she will henceforth be called) had been known to pour her heart out in long stretches of emotional drivel that gave the Diary a less realistic sense of love. All the same, she was searching for it, waiting for someone to proverbially sweep her off of her non-existent feet. The Book knew that he could be the one to do the job.

       The Book himself was much more than a book. He was, as stated earlier, a Story. A Novel. An epic tale (or at least he thought so), a tale of triumph and adventure. In short, he was a book written by a certain author about a certain man who had a certain preoccupation with a certain giant white whale. The Novel didn’t know much about his own story, but he felt a deep sense of pride in it, and if anyone asked he would defend his dramatic tale vigorously (no one ever did, but that fact never bothered him very much). With that passion he was willing to woo his Diary of choice. His problem, and an immense problem it was, lay in two things: his shelf-height, and his shelf-life. Each of them alone was only a minor issue, one that could be overcome, but together they were major obstacles; he would have to prove his love.

       His shelf-life became a problem 50 years earlier, when he was declared an antique story, an early copy of a classic. As a result, his library was very selective about who could select him. In an effort to discourage the untrustworthy from grabbing him, they placed him on the top shelf, far from prying eyes. As an unintended consequence, over the next half century he was picked up by less than half a dozen hands. He told himself he was special, and his arrogance built on top of itself.

      The D.O. was a frequent visitor to the library; her house was very hectic, and she enjoyed the quiet for her writing. As a result, even though he really had no say in the matter, he found himself planning how he would get down from the top shelf and, ultimately, into the arms (theoretically) of his target. As with any true love story, however, she didn’t know that he existed.

       His opportunity came, however, as such things often do: when he was not expecting it. She arrived along with her D.O. rather early on the morning in question, and he did not have time to prepare for her. The Diary and her owner sat directly beneath the Story's shelf, and he found that his plans could not be executed as he would have liked to execute them. She was inattentive as usual, so he inched his way out slightly over the ledge of his shelf. As it just so happened, the aisle behind his was the site known to most of the library’s users as the “make-out point.” It was not common for that aisle to be occupied so early in the morning, but this morning there was a young couple that just could not keep their hands off of each other. Their action towards our story only constitutes a slight bump on the shelf, but it was that bump that pushed him off of his ledge and forced him to land, with a crash, directly behind the D.O.

       The D.O. jumped, nearly falling out of her chair. She looked around, and for one terrible moment he thought that the D.O. wouldn’t see him, that he would lose this one chance at happiness. But she looked down, and she picked him up, and, in a stroke of pure luck, she placed him right next to her.

       The D.O. looked up to where he had fallen from and sighed. “Can’t reach that,” she muttered. Without picking him up, she stalked away in search of a library aide.

   He knew he only had a few minutes, maybe even seconds before the D.O. returned with help. He had planned entire speeches before, ballads with which to woo his love. There wasn’t enough time. He threw them out.

       “I’m in love with you,” he said to her. He wasn’t sure what answer to expect, and the words sounded so hollow for a book, so shallow. They had no depth.

       “Well, I suppose I’m in love with you, then,” she replied.

       “Excuse me?” he returned, wishing he sounded as smart as he thought he actually was.

       “I’ve always thought that those who love should be loved back. Don’t you think so?” That feeling was not hers, of course, but the D.O’s. The D.O. was constantly complaining about how her love did not return love back on to her in any way. Naturally, she developed feelings similar to her owner’s. He was smart enough to know that, but he didn’t care. He could accept her flaws.

       The D.O. rounded the corner, and he knew that he would probably never see his Diary up close again. He knew that their one exchange would never be elaborated upon. And in knowing, he could accept it.

       “Yeah,” he said as the D.O. picked him up. “Yeah, I really do.”