The girl who read the whole library

A love letter to books, libraries, Ronaldo’s back-cover method, and my literary curiosity.

The town library was a big room on the second floor of the town hall—the same building where the mayor governed and official papers were stamped into being.
You had to walk up a narrow flight of stairs, past the low voices and office doors, to get there.

Once inside, it was just books.
Metal shelves, a couple of long tables, and silence that let you think.
Nothing fancy, but to me, it felt perfect.

I started going often during high school—at first, just to study.
But eventually, I went just to be there and find something new, and to get out of the house.
To disappear into someone else’s story.

I read poems I didn’t fully understand and novels that made me feel older than I was.
I’d finish one book and then immediately start another.
Sometimes I’d read the same one twice, just to see what I had missed.

Little by little, I got through most of it.
Not all—no one ever gets through all—but enough that even Ronaldo noticed.

He was in my class and never talked much, but he was always watching.
He never had to raise his hand or take up space to make himself known.
He just paid attention.

Years later, long after we’d left school, we reconnected via Facebook messenger.
We were talking about dogs (he suggested giving mine carrots for teething), and out of nowhere, he said:

"Back in school, if I ever went to the library and didn’t know what to read, I’d look to see if you’d already signed it out. If you had, I figured it must be worth it."

It still might be the kindest compliment I’ve ever received.

All that time, I thought I was reading alone.
But someone had been following the breadcrumbs.

I never read to impress anyone.
I read because I was hungry: for meaning, for language, for a world larger than the one framed by the town square.

Sometimes I even wrote to publishers, asking for authors’ addresses so I could send them letters. I didn’t get a single reply, but it didn’t matter.
I just wanted to reach out to say: you made something that moved me.

Books gave me permission to be who I already was: curious, observant, a little intense, and always asking more questions than anyone had time to answer.

The library didn’t belong to me.
But it welcomed me like it was home.

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And so, years later, that memory became a song. I wrote it from Ronaldo’s perspective, borrowing his steady, grounded presence: the same strength I always felt when he was near. It’s called “Back Page,” and, just like those library afternoons, it’s less about grand gestures and more about the ways we show up for each other, sometimes without even meaning to.

You can listen below.

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✶ This essay is part of From the Beginning, a personal series built from my diaries—one memory at a time. You’re reading 1998. Each piece revisits the girl I was, the world I came from, and the details I didn’t know I was already saving.

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