Waiting for Her

Every time I pass through an airport I buy a book. Sometimes two.

I do not always read them.

My shelf is full of these purchases — spines uncracked, pages unturned, each one a small act of faith in a future version of myself. The one who will be on holiday somewhere. Unhurried. With nothing pressing and four hours of light left in the day.

That woman reads. She reads slowly and without guilt. She makes tea and comes back to the same page twice because she wants to, not because she lost her place.

I keep buying her books.

I am not entirely sure she is coming. But I have not stopped buying.

At the top of the pile right now: Everything Is F**ked: A Book About Hope. Which is, I think, the most accurate thing on my shelf.

Not because I've read it. But because I bought it.

The unread shelf is not a monument to procrastination. It is something quieter and more faithful than that.

It is the physical form of a promise. Not to the book. To yourself.

Every unread spine is a vote for the version of you who still believes the holiday is coming. Who still believes there will be an afternoon with nothing urgent in it. Who has not yet given up on slow time.

I have never felt guilty about my unread shelf.

I feel, if anything, fond of it.

It sits there asking nothing of me. Not to be productive. Not to finish. Not to optimise. Just to keep believing that one day I will have the time — and that when I do, I will know exactly what I want to read.

The books will wait. They are very good at that.