She dipped her toes into the water, stretching the fabric of her leggings, a yellowed book cracked open on her lap. A cold breeze passed the dock area, rustling through her thick, dark curls and turning the pages, several at a time. The waves crashed into one another: a cacophony of the blue-green waters, white foam floating and curling around her feet like swirls of soap on the floor during a shower. The sun lowered into the horizon, concealing itself behind a blanket of blues and pinks and yellows. She nibbled on the tip of her thumb, teeth biting into the skin, her thoughts immersed in the characters between the pages and their struggles. This was the one place where she could come and sit by herself just to focus on how her breathing fell into a synchronised pattern, and enjoy how the early autumn wind danced delicately on her freckled skin, her half bare arms, and the nape of her neck that peeked through a bush of curls. She flipped another page, not worrying about the little sister who always found one excuse or another to come into her room and borrow something from her closet, or the mother who made it her life’s duty to teach her daughter how to work a stove and boil the rice to perfection. The characters in her books didn’t have to bother with such mundane tasks: they had to find sacred gems, go on road-trips with strangers, defeat an evil wizard, or go on a journey in search of their soulmate. How interesting their lives were, everyday a new found adventure, an exciting story to tell with plenty of hand gestures. The sun dipped lower, the sky changed colours, and she decided it was time to return to her world long, mundane days.