A liminal state of mind

She mooned about the house listlessly. She had lain awake most of the previous night, shifting on the sheets, unable to sleep. A snatch of a memory and a few oh-so-perfect phrases lit up her mind and led her to smile inwardly. Then she would feel the anticipation that she had felt every day of the past week, of what was to play out the following day. And then with a finality as irrevocable as the banging of a gavel or a shutting of a door, she would remember that it was... finally... over. Those times of bonding and eager anticipation of what was to come, how it was to all turn out... were over.

Her flatmate looked at her keenly, noting all the tell-tale signs. No words exchanged, she  understood the situation. That faraway look, the reliving, the state of being in a liminal- it was all too easy to guess.

"The next one is just round the corner, chin up!" she beamed encouragingly.

After all, she had seen it play out so many times:

The heaviness that sets in when a book is closed down on its rear cover, the reader still under its thrall. That awkward stage after a memorable read when one is still living in its world.

Feeling too vulnerable, too fragile to break out of its hold and face the strange world outside of its familiar scent, its characters who have become one's closest friends, and the comforting rustle of its pages.

Dreading talking to people who seem alien because they do not belong to or understand the world she had been inhabiting these past days.

She was between books. Awaiting a new love, a new delight to hold and read and cherish.