Princessa always knew that everything the light touches was hers to keep. Everything. From the moment she was born, until the moment she chooses to go—this was her fate.

Her first family found her abandoned, the runt of the litter. Tiny, feeble, scared—she was dirty and weak. They took her home to be theirs. They named her Princessa, after a Puerto Rican pop star, fitting for a spirited royal.

Circumstances changed, and she found herself moving to the Village, where she lives comfortably with a Man and a Woman. She came to their apartment, up 3 flights of stairs with an undeniable roar. Stuck in a cage that was too big for her, up the stairs she goes, and the whole time: “MEOOWWWW. MEEE-OOWWWW.” As if she was screaming, “LET MEEEE-OOUTTT. LET MEEEE-OUUTTT.” For princesses do not belong in cages, and she is not one to be held captive.

The Man often went to work wearing slacks and a button up shirt, sleeves always rolled up to his elbow. He left his tennis shoes at home for her to sleep in. Sometimes she would play make-believe and try on his shoes. One paw in each shoe, pretending to go into an office, whatever an office is.

For a little bit, the Woman was at home all day. Every morning, after the Man left, and after he bestowed upon both her and the Woman a light kiss, Princessa would seek out the Woman and lie down nearby. Always maintaining a careful distance, but also eagerly waiting for the Woman to scoop her up and cradle her. The Woman would always whisper love words to her, assure her that she’s softest and the most beautiful, and stroke her chin ever so gently as they rock back and forth to the rhythm of the city outside. Tiny moments of happiness before Princessa decides when enough is enough and demands down; she is simply too dignified for such unnecessary forms of affection.

At first she went for months without making a peep, but always flashing those big eyes that seem to say enough. With a sharp glance, she was able to display hunger, irritation, anger, excitement, contentment, joy, among other things. She knew her presence was a treat, and her silence was a part of it. When it was finally convenient for her to love the Man and the Woman, she started sneaking them occasional purrs, but only slipping her approval here and there. Because she knew scarceness breeds desire and attention.

Princessa enjoys the finer things in life, including the whipped cream from the Woman’s coffee, fresh turkey from a reputable deli (NOT the grocery store), the tuna sandwich from Pret A Manger, and the renowned banana pudding from Magnolia Bakery. She also appreciates the different textures of all the rugs in her home, taking ownership of them as soon as the Woman unrolls each one.  

Things she does not enjoy: the dog, when the dog tries to play and smuts her designer fur coat, when the dog steals her treats, when the dog tries to join her in bed, when the dog pokes her head in the tunnel without permission, and when the dog walks by her. Each occurrence deserves a spiteful swipe, and each swipe needs to be met with complete submission.

As Princessa got older, she maintained her petite 6-pound frame. For 6 pounds was more than enough for a princess cat, and any more would just be an indulgence. Though always provided with an abundance of treats and meals, she is careful with her portions, often times turning her nose up at the same treats she happily accepted just a few minutes ago.

Nowadays, Princessa enjoys her moments of solitude, often spending them looking outside the window, as if in a trance. A recluse is not the word she would pick out for herself. Nor an introvert. Definitely not a hermit. She hates hermits. On occasion, when the Man and the Woman invites her to venture outside her abode, she resists with all her might. For she does not want to mingle with the outside world, with its filth and noise. She much prefers her Persian rug, her soft bed, and the unreachable perch of her window. So she can watch over everything. Everything the light touches.

I remember the most beautiful fall day I shared with him. We were meeting friends at a restaurant in Brooklyn Heights, and the walk was life-changing. The sky was clear and perfect, the leaves burned orange as it twisted through the air like confetti. We held hands on the way there. He told me stories, and I told him jokes, and we both laughed with each other. When holding hands wasn’t enough, he wrapped his arm around me, and drew me closer, as if he was intoxicated by it all. I couldn’t stop smiling at his stupid grin, the one that extended beyond his face. And I leaned into it.

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One of our friends describes her as “perpetually suffering.” And even Caroline agrees that this description is probably the most honest. Because Caroline truly has the worst luck, and she is constantly paying for it. When we first met, Caroline told me she threw her back out simply from tying her shoe. A few months later, her cat, Niko, attempted to fly from the window of her fifth-floor apartment. Somehow, she ended up with the only cat in history who can’t land on his feet (don’t worry—he survived and is already looking forward to the next disaster). Even just a month ago, she shared with our workshop that her optometrist diagnosed her as both near- and far-sighted (yes, that’s a thing). As you can tell, the list goes on… And on.

But this never-ending series of unfortunate events doesn’t stop Caroline from being who she is. Maybe it’s her unruly red hair. Maybe it’s the influence of her boisterous Niko. But Caroline’s resilience and humor are the best things about her. Every unlucky event is told with laughter and refreshing honesty. Every story of her misfortunes becomes a tale of irony, recounted with details in retrospect, but details that will always happen eventually.

Getting to know Caroline was wonderful, but becoming close friends with her is truly something else. And that something else is everything. Kindness through genuine curiosity. Laughter mixed with angst. Real and honest, and she creates her own context in your life. During our interview, she described what makes certain books impossible to forget for her—small scenes pulled from a larger story, so tiny it rarely occupies more than just a couple of pages, but also so poignant that it never leaves the reader. And that’s how I would describe Caroline—a singular person pulled from a crowd of millions, small, but with a presence so powerful that it can never leave you.

What was the book that started it all for you?
Alanna: The First Adventure by Tamora Pierce. It’s a fantasy book about a girl who pretended to be a boy so she can become a knight. It was one of the first books where I felt like I could really identify with the main character. She was weird, and so was I. She has red hair, and so do I. It was also one of the first books I wanted to read outside of having to read for school, which also started my love for reading. It’s all because of this book.

What is the book you recommend the most to people?
Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro because it has elements that are appealing to a lot of different types of people. Everyone I’ve ever recommended it to all really loved it. Except an ex-boyfriend, but that’s why he’s an ex. Because he doesn’t get it.

What book recently left a significant impact on you?
Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine because I really felt attached to the main character. The book covered a lot of serious subject matter, but I also loved that Eleanor was okay with being different. She was just totally herself, and she didn’t feel the need to change to make friends. I felt like she stayed true to herself throughout the book, and her growth as a character was not about her transforming into someone else, but it was about healing and opening up to more people. And that’s surprisingly hard to find in modern literature.

I also really liked that Gail Honeyman did not feel the need to end on a romantic storyline, which at times throughout the book, seemed like where it was headed. But that was not the point of the story. And that became explicit at the end.

What was a book you found truly disturbing?
I wouldn’t say I loved The Vegetarian, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it either. There wasn’t a resolution for any of the characters, and you don’t really learn anything about the main character. I didn’t understand the catalyst for her, and the different narratives you get from the people around her just made it even more confusing. And because there wasn’t closure for anyone, it felt like it ended in the middle of the story.

There are a few books I’ve read like that that stuck with me simply because it did not feel right. Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami is another one. I don’t remember the whole storyline, but I remember this specific scene where the protagonist is in his dorm, and he’s talking about his laundry while he’s in his boxers, and for whatever reason, that scene stuck with me. I don’t remember the significance of it, but I do remember the feeling that that scene invoked. It defined the entire experience of that book for me. The narrator felt like a blank canvas that you’re just supposed to project your own feelings on. And that became his character flaw.

What was the last book you read in one day because you couldn’t put it down?
The Road by Cormac McCarthy, and it really fucked me up. It was even raining that day, and I was beside myself with grief. Even though the language was very straightforward, the extreme imagery the reader conjures up is truly the responsibility of the reader’s imagination, and not because of the author. It was also unsettling that the fate of the boy wasn’t ever clear or final, and what made it worse for me is discovering this theory that the family that rescued him at the end might have been a hallucination. It addition to it being graphic, it also impacts you on a very personal level.

How would you describe your relationship with books?
Therapeutic and necessary. It’s my favorite activity to do in my free time, but I also do it as a necessity, like I have to read to live. I love reading, and sometimes I think it’s to an unhealthy degree because I ask myself why I spend this much time escaping into these stories. And that’s okay, too.

My relationship with books began at a very early age. Three to be exact. That was when I received my very first book. My dad picked it up from the side of the road. It was a very worn copy of Peanuts, and the very first story in there was the one where Charlie Brown misplaced his library book. He was even convinced that the people from the library were going to come and hurt his parents or put him in chains and drag him away. Thankfully he found the book in the refrigerator. His happy dance! His glee! It’s all tattooed in my brain. And the book is still with me in my apartment now. Sometimes, when I’m feeling particularly nostalgic for the childhood I never had, I pick it up and flip through it very carefully, remembering every smell and mark.

When I first started reading books, I quickly learned that it can do two things for me: 1) it can act as a sanctuary for me, a place of magic and escape, and it truly was; and 2) it can make everything out of reach within reach—imagination solidified, captured through words, and with every turn of the page, something curious or unexpected can happen, can extend this fantasy into unheard-of realms.

Books saved me from being someone I was afraid of, and I’m so grateful to have that. I owe so much to the characters that taught me about kindness, gratitude, and the strength in vulnerability. I learned about empathy, fear, and a loneliness that never quite escapes you. I learned that there exists true grace in honest pain, and that nothing is irrevocable, but somehow, some things are irrevocable. The clarity and compassion in complexity. And that’s really what it’s all about, isn’t it? The back and forth turn of every relationship, with every page.

I’m so excited about this series because I know I’m not alone in this. I know there exists millions of people who have found friends and foes within those pages, a story waiting to unfold. And because I hope this intimate peek into people’s relationships with the books in their libraries can reveal more than just a love for reading, it can reveal meaningful experiences, a journey of growth that’s never ending, impressions made within seconds, and most of all—how books can save you and shape you all at once.  

Do you remember the moment you fell in love with books?
I think it happened shortly after I learned how to read, but I can’t pinpoint the exact moment. I do remember my mom taking me to the library every week, and I would check out around 20 to 30 books at a time because I never felt like I had enough. I had to read everything. And thankfully I still feel that now.

What book has truly touched you to your core?
Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine – I relate to that story in so many ways, and you can’t help but cheer for the protagonist. It was such a personal experience to see how she allowed herself to open up with every act of kindness extended to her. Also, not that much of a spoiler, but I sobbed when she finally got her cat.

Is there a book you wish you wrote?
A Tale for the Time Being – Ruth Ozeki is simply brilliant. Every word is sacred and written with intention. Every part of the story was truly unforgettable.

What is your favorite book?
Never Let Me Go – every time I read it, I feel myself sighing after every page. Kazuo Ishiguro is truly a beautiful writer, and he’s a master at capturing the realm of emotions at any given moment – stretching seconds or minutes into whole pages that can haunt you for years. I still revisit that very last scene where she allows herself to imagine Tom quite frequently for inspiration. And tears.

What book do you think everyone should read at least once in their lifetime?
A collection of essays from someone they admire. For me, it was Jessi Klein’s You’ll Grow Out of It because it removed that veil of make-believe and placed her vulnerability, failures, and success in a realistic and raw realm. She doesn’t hide the messy parts, and she doesn’t want to. That was definitely more aspirational for me than any self-help book I’ve ever picked up.

How do your books live in your home? How do you store them so they feel like home to you?
A chaotic blend that makes sense to us. We just know where things are, but it’s not organized as well as it should be. We also always have stacks of books in various corners, books that we are studying or waiting to work on. And as an excessively neat person, I know that should bother me, but it actually makes me really happy to see them. It signifies purpose to me. It represents our own experiences, our own story.

How would you describe your relationship with books in one word?
Codependent.

I loved you in the morning, our kisses deep and warm
Your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm
Yes, many loved before us, I know that we are not new
In city and in forest they smiled like me and you
But now it's come to distances and both of us must try
Your eyes are soft with sorrow
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye. 
-Leonard Cohen

To the boy who broke my heart, and left it not quite the same.
I love this song, and it’s bittersweet every time I hear it.
It immediately transports me back to that morning
In that tiny apartment, when we left the windows cracked open overnight,
And you were still sleeping so softly when I woke up next to you.
The crisp air, the feeling of your skin touching mine, the warmth under the covers,
And that smile that never seems to escape your lips.
I’ll never forget it, and I’ll never have it again.
But sometimes when I think about you, I listen to this song.
It makes me remember how young we were, and how foolish,
And how much it all meant to us. All of it.