The Fairytale of a book - Part 1(everyone around us a has a story, they don't shout loud, even a book.)

I was a tattered book, hidden in the corner of a hallowed library,
my pages torn.
My words faded beneath the façade of white stains.
My meanings meaningless.
My existence non-existent.
My neighbours looked the same as me,
but they were a little better, a little different.
Like two apples kept together,
same story;
yet I was the rotten one.
The one everybody throws away.

There were holes in some parts of my life.
 I had nothing to fill them with.
Some stalking stains were a see through into my history of callous users.
Soaring scars of oily mistakes made me ugly.
I was unread.
I was ugly.
I yearned to be read for days, months, years.
Each second lasted an hour.
But, nobody paused.
After all, nobody pauses to adore the ugly.

 One day, from the haughty hollows of a faded crowd came a stranger.
Of us all, she picked me.
I was waiting to be callously thrown away.
But, she possibly liked my antiquity, the rarity of the occurrence of my types in a posh place.
She fell for me. I had to fall back.
It was my duty.
She was different.
The only lift that managed to reach my tallest, abandoned floors.
She filled my voids with her own meanings.
She carefully read my fallacies, adored my flaws,
made creative curves out of my torn edges.
The momentum of my hope began gaining pace.
I liked to be read again.
My crevices felt good.
But then, every road has a speed breaker,
and so did we.