I shove all the new packages inside and slump against my door.
Living in Toronto opened doors for thousands of books.Preorders. Wholesales. Bookstores. Whatever option you’re thinking of, I’ve bought it.
Behind my thrifted yellow velvet couch is a large, overgrown, oversized window outlooking the city of Toronto. Or at least it was that before I’ve stacked more books to cover it. Now all you can see is a slither of light wisping its way into my space, but barely. A line of dust shadows it, shimmering it over the fallen worlds.
I’ve never regretted my book buying addiction. I love that books are a part of this world and a part of never-ending comfort. But there’s a difference between being a bookworm and being a money-spender.
I am, of course, the latter.
Honestly, I’m not sure when it started—why exactly my brain ran for books, but it happened. They were there, they were solid, and they weren’t going anywhere. So, I decided to pick them up, store them in my space, and show them that I wasn’t going anywhere either. Like decoration pieces, I wipe them every single day. I make sure they don’t get dusted—yes, all of them… sometimes. Okay rarely, but I do love them.
Every corner of my studio apartment is full of books. Some still have the receipts hanging inside. Each one untouched.
A dull, pressing sensation travels from the back of my head and situates itself on my forehead.
Here we go again.
Tears start flooding out of me.
If only I chose to be smart when I moved out of home. Maybe I shouldn’t have left. None of this would have happened. It’s too late to go back and too early to stay.
More tears burst out of me, leaving scarred promises of never-ending heartbreak in their wake.
I’m not sure when it is, whether I’ve cried for an hour or for five minutes.
I wipe a finger below my nose, getting rid of the snot bundled up there, and lean my head against the door.
Each book stares at me, claps, boos, encourages me to stand up.
That’s when I have a lightbulb moment.
Taking my phone out, I dial Sunny’s number.
She answers on the second ring.
“I have an idea.”
CHAPTER 5
“Not to burst your bubble, but I don’t think this is going to work.”
Sunny finishes setting up the last couple of books. After searching the apartment complex’s lost and found box, my fate opened up because there it was. A six feet folding table that’s allowing me to hold a personal book sale right outside of Rivera’s Roses.
How are selling books going to solve my problem, you ask? The total number of books I have goes beyond five hundred which means, used books at the price of ten Canadian dollars is basically seven US dollars.
Used books for ten.
Somewhatused books for fifteen.
And new books for twenty.
I’m not good with money, but if I can sell two hundred books at the price of twenty, I’m next in line to be a New York Time’s Bestselling Author and I make four thousand. That pays off one fourth of what I need to make anyways, right? Buy books, sell them.
Like drugs, but healthier. Maybe. Don’t ask me, I’m addictedmyself.
“Sunny,” I put all my strength into unfolding a chair. “What makes you think this isn’t going to work?”
She folds her arms, shaking her head. “For one, it’s going to rain. And two,” she snatches the chair from me, quickly setting it in the position it was made for. “You’d sell your organs before books.”
