"i'm morgan," he said, stretching an arm across the table, hand open, waiting for me to shake it.

i did. "amber."

"what are you reading?" he asked, eyeing my book.

it was my favorite book of all time, a thriller with a side of blossoming romance. the rough pages were worn and clearly used, the cover torn and spilled on by countless coffees.

"it's called 'pretend she's here'," i told him, moving the novel so he could see the cover. "it's my favorite book."

he nodded, the tilted his head. "why is it your favorite?"

no one had asked me that question before. no one really asks me about my books. who is this guy?

"the ending seems unfinished. that's why i like it."