She used to hold me.
She would spend most of her time with me.
She would stare at me for hours as if I was the most important thing to ever exist.
I remember how her eyes glowed with happiness. How she used to bite the corner of her lip when she was thinking.
And those times, when she would try her best to hold back those tears, she would finally give up.
No one else has seen her cry. But know this, her crying self, it wasn't vulnerable. Or weak.
She was strong. Pouring it out would provide her with enough strength to deal more.
She didn't have a good vision. Later she lost it.
We lost touch.
I thought she would never hold me again like she used to.
Then one day, she did.
She held this dust covered book once more and asked her mother to read to her.
After some time her mother's eyes began to droop but seeing her daughter's smile she continued. She smiled and said, just like her daughter used to, "Just one more chapter, okay? One more."