Have you ever experienced that feeling when, upon passing by a bookstore, an unshakable desire arises—to walk to its door, to stand among the rows of familiar spines, as though you’ve visited them countless times before?

I own ten complete book series, along with another shelf filled with unread volumes. Perhaps it was the scent of printed paper that initially drew me in. Yet, that cannot fully explain it—many of those books remain unopened, some still sealed in their original plastic sleeves, untouched even by dust. Over time, they have become mere decorative objects, pages unfurled by no one. This does not even account for the hundreds of shared electronic books stored on my device.

And so, I find myself conflicted by the realization that, although the pages of these books are within reach, I often end up scrolling through a streaming platform in search of a movie or series to watch. The impulse to enter a bookstore has not, it seems, evolved into a sustained desire to read.

Perhaps what I truly miss are the memories of tranquility I once associated with being surrounded by books. From high school through college and into my exam review days, the library was always my refuge. It was my go-to place: quiet and unobtrusive. Yet once I began working, that sense of stillness felt increasingly distant, replaced by the relentless demands of professional life.

Even now, whenever I pass by a bookstore, I am drawn to its entrance—and sometimes I still buy a book or two. It is only through that familiar ritual that the once-distant feeling begins to draw near again. Peace.