There's a little free library on my street. A wooden box on a post, holds maybe ten books. Last month I left my favorite book in it — the copy with all my notes in the margins. 'This line got me.' 'Nobody recovers this fast.' 'I'd forgive him too.' Today it's back. Same coffee stain on page 41. But under every note of mine, someone wrote back in blue pen. Under 'I'd forgive him too' it says: 'You would? I've been arguing with you about this for a month.' I don't know this handwriting. I check the street. Empty.

I take it home and grab a pen. Under their 'You would?' I write: 'Forgiving isn't the same as forgetting. Page 200 proves it.' I answer every single reply. Little arguments. Little agreements. On the last blank page I write: 'Your move.' Next morning I put the book back in the box. By noon it's gone.

Two days later the book is back. Every note answered. Under my 'Your move' they wrote: 'Okay. New rules. You pick the next book. Anything. I'll read whatever you love.' Then, smaller, like they almost didn't write it: 'This is the best conversation I've had all year.' Me too, stranger. Me too. But now I have to pick a book. And a book says a lot.

I pick the book I've never told anyone I love. The embarrassing one. And I fill the margins fresh — every dumb honest thought. On page 12 I write the joke I've never said out loud. It's gone from the box in an hour. Four days later it's back. Page 12, in blue: 'I laughed on the bus. Out loud. A man moved seats. This is your fault.' And on the last page: 'Ask me anything. One question.'

One question. I write: 'Coffee, Saturday, the bench by the box? Bring your pen.' I return the book and don't sleep great. Saturday, 9:58. I'm on the bench holding two coffees like a nervous idiot. 9:59, footsteps. They sit down, pull out the embarrassing book, and read my own margin back to me — the joke from page 12. 'I wanted to hear it in your voice,' they say. It's better out loud. Turns out everything is, after that.