He’s my favourite book; the vintage edition with the slightly worn-out pages, the binding disintegrating with my every touch so that I have to handle with care. He’s the cliffhanger and the happy ending that I desperately crave. He’s not the most popular book in the bookstore; he’s not at the shop-front, catching everyone’s eye in the window with his self-righteous front cover but he is my favourite piece of art. I like that about him. He’s not what people expect. And that is why he is mine.