Untouched books crowded his shelves, shiny leather spines and faded first editions, meticulously dusted and never read.
She wondered how long it had been, and what had happened in his life after she left. Those days and nights of reading, and long evenings of deep discussions were still fresh in her mind.
She had become a successful author meanwhile.
Browsing through the shelf held a surprise. Most of the unread books were written by her. Why was he buying the books, but not reading those?
What was it that he feared facing? Reflections of their discussions peeping through the pages?