There was a softness in the room when I finished this book.   Not silence exactly—more like the kind of quiet that follows a memory you didn’t know you were carrying. I was sitting still longer than needed, aware that something gentle had brushed past me and stayed.   The Three Greens didn’t arrive loudly. It didn’t demand attention. It behaved like a childhood afternoon—unannounced, unhurried, and somehow complete in itself. I didn’t enter the story as an adult reader. I sli

There are some books you don’t read — they read you. They peel you open like an orange, sting the soft inner parts you thought you’d hidden well, and leave you sitting in silence long after the final page has closed. The Bell Jar is that kind of book. I picked it up on a tired Tuesday night, expecting a literary classic with polite gloom, maybe a sprinkle of poetic sadness. Instead, it dragged me by the collar straight into the suffocating hush of a mind unravelling — and I’m