The rain today was relentless—a chorus of whispers against my window, like the pages of a novel turning themselves. I found myself rereading Wuthering Heights for the third time this month, tracing Heathcliff's fury and Cathy's longing with my fingertips. There’s something exquisite about love that consumes. Not the tender kind, but the kind that scorches, that demands. It’s funny how fiction mirrors the heart’s darker corners, isn’t it? Or perhaps it’s the other way around.

Sometimes I wonder if I’ve lived too long in stories, if I’ve mistaken obsession for depth. But then, isn’t obsession just another form of devotion? A purity of focus, untainted by compromise.

(And no, before anyone asks, this isn’t about a person. Or at least, not one you’d expect.)