This would be me finishing The Fault in Our Stars on the plane yesterday: hiding my face in my armpit so no one could tell I was crying. Like, hardcore crying. I was feeling that book fully with just about everything I had. Why do books make us (me?) so emotional, even when it’s not just sadness that’s being provoked?
And I just want to note that this was a reread, as in I already knew exactly what would happen.