TBR Pile vs. Time: The Case That Never Gets Closed

The courtroom is packed. On one side sits the TBR Pile, old and exhausted, resembling a wise librarian who has seen too much and been read too little. Its spine creaks with history, its pages sigh with unmet promises.

On the other side sits Time, poised, confident, and slightly smug, checking its watch like it has better places to be.

The judge (that’s me) clears their throat and declares,

“The court is now in session for the most awaited case of the literary century — TBR Pile vs. Time.”

Exhibit A: The Pile Speaks

When the TBR Pile finally takes the stand, the courtroom grows quiet.

“I remember the day you bought me,” it begins softly.
“You couldn’t stop showing me off on Bookstagram. You said I was the story that would change your life. You sniffed my pages, made promises under fairy lights, and stacked me proudly on your shelf.”

A pause.

“And then,” it continues, “you forgot I existed.”

The courtroom stirs. Even the hardcovers in the audience look away.

“Every time you came near,” the pile sighs, “I sat up straight, hopeful. But alas, you’d scroll instead of read. You’d buy another one instead of finishing me. You’d whisper ‘soon’ and I believed you.”

The guilt in the room is palpable. Every reader feels seen.

Exhibit B: Time Takes the Stand

Then Time stands up, smooth as a closing argument.
“Your honor,” it says crisply, “the problem is not me. The problem is priorities.”

It adjusts its sleeve, glances at the gallery, and continues,

“Everyone gets 24 hours. How you use them is your call. It is not I who neglected the TBR pile — it is the reader who traded me for reels, memes, and midlife crises.”

Ouch.

Time isn’t cruel, just brutally honest. It even softens, briefly.
“Sometimes,” it adds, “you don’t need to blame others. You just need to pause and look inward. Reading doesn’t need more hours, it needs more intention.”

The TBR pile sighs again. The judge notes the emotional damage.

Exhibit C: The Reader’s Defense

The reader (that’s me again, on the witness stand) takes a deep breath.

“I would love to pick books 24/7,” I begin. “But even readers have duties, responsibilities, and jobs that refuse to do themselves.”

I glance at my neglected pile with genuine remorse.
“It’s not always doomscrolling. Sometimes it’s maintaining work-life balance, surviving deadlines, and trying to feel less guilty for resting.”

A murmur of empathy runs through the crowd.

“Sometimes,” I continue, “reading feels like a luxury when your to-do list feels like an avalanche. It’s not about how many books I can read. It’s about how I can read at all without drowning in guilt.”

The TBR pile nods. Even Time looks… almost impressed.

Final Verdict

The judge clears their throat again.

“In the case of TBR Pile vs. Time, the court finds the reader guilty of good intentions and overcommitment.”

The courtroom waits for sentencing.

“Effective immediately,” the judge declares, “a new law will take effect. Readers shall maintain only 12 active TBR books at a time. New acquisitions may only be unlocked after finishing one of the existing 12.”

A few gasps echo. Book collectors clutch their wallets.

“Furthermore, any reader with more than 1000 unread books must launch a Book Charity Fund. Neglected titles shall be donated to libraries, ensuring every story finds its reader. Books over 25 years old will be promoted to the Top Shelf of Honor, recognized for their patience and loyalty.”

The judge turns to Time.

“You, Time, are hereby ordered to stop being smug. You will remain calm, polite, and patient with all book lovers. No more judgmental ticking.”

Time sighs. The TBR pile smiles faintly for the first time in years.

Epilogue: Case (Almost) Closed

As everyone packs up, Time and the TBR pile exchange a look — old rivals who’ve learned to coexist.

The judge writes the final note:

“This case will never truly be closed, because reading is not a race. It’s a relationship — sometimes neglected, but always worth returning to.”

The gavel falls.

Outside the courtroom, the reader picks up a long-forgotten book and whispers,

“Let’s start over.”