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And yet, when I pick it up again tonight, I flip back to the beginning of the chapter.

It's a habit I've had for years, this small act of backtracking. Not because I've forgotten the story — I haven't. But because returning to a book after a few days away feels like coming back to a room that was lived in without you. The furniture's the same. The light is different. I need a minute.

Reading the chapter's opening line again is how I find my way back in. Not to the plot, but to the voice. The rhythm. The specific gravity of that particular writer's world. Stoner is a quiet hallway after everyone has gone home — every single time. Others feel like cold water on your face. Either way, I need the full entrance — not a side door.

I used to think this was inefficiency. A quirk to fix. But I've done it with every book I've loved, and I suspect it has less to do with memory and more to do with attention. A kind of courtesy, maybe. The book was waiting. The least I can do is arrive properly.

I mentioned this to a friend once and she looked at me like I'd said I organise my bookshelves by emotional intensity. But then she paused and said, actually, I always reread the last line I underlined.

Which made me think: we probably all have them. These small private rituals that nobody asks about because nobody thinks to. The way you hold a book. What you do with the last page.