There are worse addictions, right?

I tell myself that every time I walk out of a bookstore with a bag full of stories and the quiet knowledge that, realistically, I might not read half of them this year. Or next year. Or… ever? But that doesn’t matter. Because I didn’t just buy paper—I bought possibility.

I buy books for future me. He’ll have more time, more focus, fewer distractions. Future me is a literary beast. He finishes series. He actually reads that 700-page sci-fi epic he’s been dodging for two years. I’m investing in his success.

I also buy books to support the authors I love—because let’s be honest, if we don’t support the kind of writing we want more of, who will support ours?

And sometimes, I buy a book simply because what if I never see it again? That’s a real fear. Especially in thrift stores or small indie shops. One copy, tucked between cookbooks and last year’s bestsellers, whispering, “If you walk away, I’m gone forever.” You think I’m risking that?

Bookstores have always been more than retail spaces to me. They’re safe havens. Sanctuaries. There’ve been times I’ve walked into one on the edge of a full-blown anxiety attack, only to feel the world slow down the moment I stepped inside. The weight of panic lifts. The smell of ink and paper, the soft hum of voices and the rustle of pages—it grounds me. Bookstores have saved me more than once. Not metaphorically. Literally.

So yeah, sometimes I’m almost blinded by the thrill of it. That surge of dopamine when I find a signed copy or a special edition I’ve been chasing? Pure magic.

And sure, my TBR is a bit out of control. Towering, unending, silently judging me from the corners of my home. But it also represents hope. Curiosity. The kind of faith that says “life’s too short not to surround yourself with stories.”

So no, I don’t regret a single purchase. Not even the one I forgot I bought… twice.

Tell me I’m not alone in this. Or at least tell me what you just bought. Misery might love company—but book lovers? We thrive in stacks.