I've noticed an intriguing habit recently. People reading with their hand on a page of their book - palm pressed lightly, fingers slightly outstreched across the paper.

As they read, their hand slowly follows below their line of sight - as if to absorb what is to come before it can be read.

As if somehow the meaning of the words is lifted through fingertips, flows up the right arm and through the heart, were it lays a path for the words to sink in. And by touching what another has written it becomes our own.

The words are so important the sense of sight alone is not enough.

We are searching for something lost between the lines, which can only be felt in the space between the ink type, and which we are so afraid to miss.

There are people who have been known to use this touch of the crisp, thin pages to feign interest in the words - when in truth those who appear so devoted are only devoted to how they appear.

A hand moves up to the corner of the page and hesitates, eyes linger a moment on the words, and a breath is taken - released as the page is turned. Fingers quickly graze the paper, as if to test the waters, and then the palm rests. Sentences are kept safe until they are desperate to be uncovered.

If this were a story, these would have been the inner thoughts of my protagonist as he sat in an overcrowded plane, casually watching the brunette beside him parouse through her newly purchased paperback.

As he shifted in his seat to get a better look out the window (or so it seemed), his arm would brush against hers. He would glance out at an empty, dark sky - and wonder how even the slightest touch could make people feel connected.

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