By: Zainab Salam, Opinions Editor

Let me set the scene. It’s midnight. You’re cozy. Under layers of a blanket and a duvet. Swallowed whole like a sentient marshmallow. The lights are dimmed, just right. You reach for your book — the one you’ve been dying to start. But alas. It’s not a sleek paperback. It’s not digital. It’s hardcover — a glorified brick in disguise. 

Nothing — and I mean nothing — kills the vibe like trying to read a hardcover in bed. It’s the literary equivalent of wrestling a bear. One hand’s going numb from supporting the sheer weight of the thing, the other’s frantically flipping pages that refuse to stay open — unless you press them down like you’re conducting open-heart surgery. 

God forbid you want to lie on your side. Suddenly, you’re doing acrobatics, holding it up with one arm like you’re training for the Cirque du Soleil, only to be slapped in the face when it inevitably slips and decks you across the nose.

And the dust jacket! Why is it even there? What purpose does it serve except to slowly inch up the book like a tuxedo trying to make a run for it? If I wanted to be left at the altar by a man, I would’ve dated a man! Oh, and take it off, suddenly you’re left with a sad, naked cube that somehow feels even worse. 

Honestly, hardcover books in bed are a personal attack. They mock you with their spine-cracking stubbornness and sheer physical bulk. Want to get comfy? Too bad. This is a core workout now. 

I’m not saying ban hardcovers. They have their place in society, like as a murder weapon in cozy mysteries. But in bed? No. Just no. Reading in bed should be soft, floppy, and commitment-free. Like a paperback. Or a bad decision. 

Hardcovers for readers are the equivalent of throw pillows for interior designers; for display, not practicality. End of story!