Books change us. Books save us. I know this because it happened

Host: The library was nearly empty — a cathedral of paper and silence, where dust floated in the shafts of afternoon light like forgotten constellations. The scent of aged pages and leather bindings filled the air, that unmistakable perfume of memory. Outside, the rain tapped softly against the tall arched windows, steady as a heartbeat.

At the long oak table beneath the stained-glass skylight, Jeeny sat with her head bowed over a book, her hair spilling forward, black against white paper. Jack sat across from her, a cup of coffee beside his elbow, its steam rising into the golden quiet. The moment felt sacred — two souls enclosed by words, breathing in the stillness that stories leave behind.

Between them, written on a torn scrap of notebook paper, lay a quote she had copied in her neat, looping hand:

“Books change us. Books save us. I know this because it happened to me. Books saved me. So, I do believe through stories we can learn to change, we can learn to empathize and be more connected with the universe and with humanity.” — Elif Şafak

Jeeny: (whispering) “Books saved her… they saved me too.”

Jack: “Books don’t save people. People save themselves — sometimes using books as an excuse.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “You always need to ruin a beautiful thing with logic.”

Jack: “It’s not logic. It’s realism. A book can’t pull you out of despair — it can only remind you what climbing feels like.”

Jeeny: “And that’s enough. Sometimes, remembering that ascent exists is salvation.”

Host: The clock ticked faintly above the door. The sound was fragile, like time itself was hesitant to intrude. Jeeny turned another page, her fingers tracing the margins, and the paper whispered beneath her touch — that soft, sacred sound only readers understand.

Jack: “So tell me, what did books save you from?”

Jeeny: (pausing) “From forgetting who I was. From shrinking to fit a world that didn’t want my thoughts. From silence.”

Jack: “That’s dramatic.”

Jeeny: “It’s truth. When I read, I become someone else for a while — and in the process, I meet myself again.”

Jack: “You make it sound like therapy.”

Jeeny: “It is therapy. It’s the most patient kind. No judgment, no interruptions. Just someone — even if fictional — saying, I’ve been where you are.”

Host: The light through the windows shifted, falling across Jeeny’s face, illuminating the quiet conviction in her eyes. Jack leaned back, his expression softening despite himself.

Jack: “You know, I used to think reading was escape. That it let people hide from the real world.”

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. It’s not escape — it’s expansion. When you read, you don’t leave the world; you find more of it.”

Jack: “Still, people use books like walls — hide behind the lives of others because they can’t stand their own.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe they use them like bridges. Stories don’t separate us; they connect us. Every book you’ve ever read built a path between one heart and another.”

Jack: “So, you think reading makes us better?”

Jeeny: “Not automatically. But it can make us more aware — and awareness is the first step to empathy.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the tall windows, scattering a few loose papers across the table. Jeeny caught one, laughing softly, the sound blending with the whisper of the rain. Jack watched her — and in that moment, the room didn’t feel so empty.

Jack: “Empathy’s a beautiful idea, but it’s overrated. People read books full of pain and still walk past the homeless man outside the station.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe they didn’t really read it. They just consumed it. Real reading is digestion — it changes you, cell by cell.”

Jack: “And you think a story can really make someone different?”

Jeeny: “I know it can. Because a story isn’t words — it’s a mirror. And sometimes, for the first time in your life, you see yourself clearly.”

Host: The rain eased, turning into a mist that clung to the windows like breath on glass. The light grew warmer, the library taking on that late-hour glow that feels like memory folding in on itself.

Jack: “You sound like you owe your life to fiction.”

Jeeny: “I do. When I was sixteen, I was lonely — not for people, but for understanding. Then I read The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran. And for the first time, I felt seen. It was like someone had written down my thoughts before I could name them.”

Jack: “And that saved you?”

Jeeny: “It reminded me that I wasn’t alone. That somewhere, across time and language, someone had felt the same ache. That’s the power of books — they collapse distance.”

Jack: “Or maybe they just make loneliness poetic.”

Jeeny: “And what’s wrong with that? If you can turn pain into poetry, you’ve already survived it.”

Host: The clock chimed softly. Outside, the world was growing dim — streetlights flickering on, painting the wet pavement gold. Inside, the air was heavy with thought, but alive with quiet electricity — the kind that hums between two people on the edge of revelation.

Jack: “You know, Şafak said books connect us to humanity and the universe. I envy that certainty.”

Jeeny: “Why?”

Jack: “Because I read too, but sometimes all I feel is smaller — like every story reminds me of how much I’ll never understand.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point, Jack. Reading isn’t supposed to make us gods; it’s supposed to make us humble. You learn how vast pain and beauty really are — and you stop pretending your suffering is the only one that matters.”

Jack: “So humility is the price of empathy.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And the reward of it.”

Host: The rain stopped completely, leaving a faint hush in its place — that sacred, post-storm silence when everything feels possible again.

Jeeny closed the book she’d been reading and slid it across the table to Jack. The title glimmered faintly in the fading light: Forty Rules of Love.

Jeeny: “Here. Read this one. It might not save you, but it might teach you how to stay open.”

Jack: “Open to what?”

Jeeny: “To feeling. To forgiveness. To the possibility that there’s more to you than what you protect.”

Jack: “You think a book can do all that?”

Jeeny: “If it’s honest enough — yes.”

Host: Jack took the book, his fingers brushing the worn spine. He didn’t open it yet. Instead, he looked up at Jeeny, the faintest smile pulling at his lips — not mockery this time, but quiet surrender.

Jack: “You know, for someone who hides behind pages, you’re surprisingly alive.”

Jeeny: “That’s what books do. They don’t replace life. They teach you how to live it.”

Host: The library lights dimmed, one by one, until only the glow from the tall windows remained. Outside, the street shimmered, reflections of passing cars dancing like thoughts on the water.

Jeeny stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder.

Jeeny: “Books don’t just save us, Jack. They prepare us — for each other.”

Jack: “And what do they prepare us to do?”

Jeeny: “To recognize ourselves when we finally meet someone who sees us the way a great story does — not as perfect, but as possible.”

Host: She walked toward the door, her steps light but certain. Jack watched her go, the book still in his hands, the weight of it more profound than he could say.

Outside, the rain began again — soft, forgiving, eternal.

And in the quiet hum of that fading day, her voice lingered like the last line of a novel that refuses to end:

that books save us not by changing our fate,
but by teaching us how to feel it fully —
how to see,
how to understand,
and most of all,
how to belong to this vast, aching story called being human.