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Under my bed, layered in dust and broken dreams of a tidy life, is a cardboard box labeled "Donation." It has sat there for three years. Inside are the books I claimed to hate. The ex-boyfriend’s philosophy tomes. The cookbooks for diets I never started. The novel everyone loved but made me yawn.

I closed the book. The rain outside my window decided to become a storm. The hollow, waiting loneliness in my room? It evaporated. ratu buku blogspot

I pulled out a book with no jacket. The cover was a sickly beige, the spine cracked like old skin. It was a romance novel from 1992. The kind with a shirtless man holding a woman whose dress was defying gravity. I don’t read romance. I am a Ratu of literary fiction and sad poetry. Under my bed, layered in dust and broken

Last night, I found myself in that space again. My TBR pile had shrunk to three sad, unread paperbacks (a betrayal to my title as Ratu Buku, I know). I had finished the last good one—a dog-eared copy of a 1987 Murakami—two hours prior. I was restless. The cookbooks for diets I never started

I am the Ratu because a stupid, stained, second-hand romance novel at 2 AM can still make me believe in the letter 'A'.

Tonight, I was desperate enough to dig through it.