I stare through the glass of my bowl, watching the boy who took care of as long as I remember. Well, he used to. 

He got this new book and started reading it and the sessions of reading would gradually get longer each day, he soon stopped paying attention to me. I despise that book for replacing me. 

How could a book be more interesting than me? I wonder enviously. 

I watch him reading that book with so much more passion compared to when he used to spend time with me. I wish I could relive those days when he used to spend hours with me, but now, it's like this book is his new favorite pet.