At night she kept her bedside lamp on until three or four o’clock in the morning, a book on her knees. Sometimes her pillows stood upright forming a throne around her shoulders; sometimes she rested her head softly on her horizontal cushions, often falling asleep with the book open, spine flattened against her chest. Her stomach rose and fell steadily in her sleep and her lips were often curved into a smile, her subconscious feeding her pretty images as she lay in blissful sleep.
In summer, she often read even deeper into the night, without the threat of waking up early for classes the next morning. Sometimes the book was a collection of short stories and she told herself, “only till the story ends, then I’ll turn off the light.” More often it was a novel, and she only stopped when the page count reached a hundred, two hundred, three, four. Frantically, she flipped. When the light finally switched off, she settled uneasily into sleep, afraid to be separated from the story. Only in dreams did she find solace.
Midsummer, and Marianne found herself trapped within a story when she heard a soft tap tapping against her window. They were only moths, attracted to the square of soft light that was her window. She tried to ignore the noises, but they were dragging her into reality, and she didn’t like it. Carefully, noiselessly, she pulled back her comforter and set her little feet on the hardwood floor. She took soft steps to her window, pressing her face against the black glass.
Below, on the dark lawn, stood a young man, dark-haired and broad-shouldered. His smile was sweet and bashful as he tossed pebble after pebble at Marianne’s third-story window. She called to him, pushing her dark hair behind her ears demurely. Though she did not open her window even a crack, she knew he’d hear her.
“Prince,” she declared confidently. “Why do you disturb me at this hour?” But despite her pomp, she smiled even wider. The man smiled back. But she didn’t know what he’d say back. Would he try to climb up to her window? Should she let him in? Then what? Her book was still waiting for her on the bed, a bookmark tucked carelessly between the leaves. She looked at it, then back down at the yard. The man was gone. “It’s just as well,” she thought. “I didn’t know what to make of him.”
Marianne’s gaze suddenly caught her own reflection in the glass. She was plain-faced, having washed off her makeup hours before. Her hair, naturally wavy, was tangled and wild from contact with the pillowcase. She stared. She tried to tilt her chin up, close her eyes slightly, open her lips just like that—and maybe she’d look prettier. If she thought hard enough, she might be an actual princess. Or a beauty queen. Or just maybe a little braver, a little more confident. Marianne wondered what she’d be like when she was older, out of school, and looking for a career. She didn’t know what she was good at. She didn’t know what she wanted. And she didn’t know where to start.
Marianne would be nineteen in the fall, starting a new semester at the local college, where she commuted. She didn’t know many people. But that life didn’t seem real right now. The only thing that was real to her right now was the lateness of the hour, and herself as a desirable maiden, a prince at her window. But he’d disappeared. And where did that leave her?
“Enough with this,” she thought. It was fine diversion, pretending that there was a prince on her lawn, but she was on page 357 of her book, and it was two forty-five already. She had to get to page four hundred before she went to sleep. So she walked back to bed, not caring to make her footsteps delicate this time. She hugged the book to her chest as she settled back under the heavy blankets. Though it was summer, she always grew so cold in her sleep. She was exhausted, but she pulled out the bookmark just the same, creaking the book open to her place.
Marianne didn’t stop reading until the turned the very last page. By then, the sky had begun to turn a vague navy, the sun promising to rise in an hour or so. She looked at the view through her window thinking, “if only I could travel to the sky.” She smiled sadly, but she believed it was possible. Closing the back cover of the now-exhausted book, she rested her head on her pillow with relief. She wished for a good dream. But she didn’t turn off her light. After all, the dark was hardly comforting.
You have a real way with words, and i was captured right from the very first sentence. One question, was that man a figment of her imagination or was he actually real ? 
