Treasured In Silence

I might know a girl who would have been better unborn.

She lives in the flat beside mine, and we cross paths about twice each week in our building's lift on the way to our respective lives. I don't know where that was for her though, and have never brought myself to even hazard a guess, seeing she never seems very ready to go and accomplish much of anything. She has wispy hair and isn't gorgeous. She carries a book—a new one each time—, and I never bother to ask about it, although they all seem very nice and well-loved; as if she would either have had a lot or nothing at all to say if asked about them, since some books are meant to be recommended, and others treasured in silence. My money is on the latter, yet I often entertain the idea of the former for some obscure and silly reason.

Maybe I want her to be human and speak?

During the quick, four floor fall I will sometimes imagine her being in those stories. It seems she loves them better than the world, and would choose to take part in them if possible. I can tell by the way her eyes dull when they glance around after looking down at the latest book for a few moments; as if she's thinking a single, simple 'Oh,' each time, and would appreciate being surprised by the world every once in a while. But then the lift lurches to a halt, and we step out mechanically—me to forget what didn't transpire, and her to simply continue.

Often times I almost wish her a good day, but that would be silly because I don't think she can hear either.