The novel follows Thea, a woman processing her pain after failing to protect her daughter and struggling to accept that her daughter no longer wants her in her life. Much of the book takes place inside Thea’s head. The narration is heavy on inner dialogue, often circling around the same emotions, fears, and reflections. While this could have been powerful, it left the pacing feeling stagnant. A lot is said, but not much is actually said. Conversations are sparse and lack depth. Most dialogue consists of simple questions with simple answers, and when Thea is faced with a deeper question, she often dodges it by retreating into her journal. Even her journaling rarely reveals much. Characters are written as though they are enlightened guides, but their words do not carry any weight or lead to growth. The prose is extremely descriptive. Sometimes it is beautiful, but often it is overly detailed. Every object, no matter how small or ordinary, is given extended description, which slowed the story without adding much. By page 85, I found myself still waiting for the plot to move forward. The relationship between Thea and the administrator was especially unsettling to me in how it was portrayed. It added to my sense that the characters lacked genuine depth or believable motivations. The most significant turn in the book comes when Thea encounters the Wild Man, a mysterious figure brought to the institute where she is staying for her healing retreat. She feels an immediate connection to him and longs to heal him, and through this, combined with hiking and meditation, she begins to face her guilt and grief more directly. Despite this development, the overall story still felt hollow. The themes are important ones: family trauma, love, loss, and the attempt to move forward. But I found the delivery bland and the characters flat. The message seems to be that healing can be found through connection with others, time in nature, and self-acceptance, but for me, the emotional impact did not land.

I’ve been trying to branch out into more contemporary romance, and this one caught my eye because the premise sounded like fun. What I didn’t realize going in was that it’s a Romeo and Juliet retelling. Roman Montbeau and Jules Capelthorne? It doesn’t get more on the nose than that (minus the ridiculous amount of references). The dynamic between Roman and Jules was meant to be swoony and tense, but it came across as juvenile. Roman is obsessed with her because he has always liked her, while Jules is obsessed with hating him. Her hatred mostly comes from a family rivalry and the fact that she thinks he once laughed at her as a teenager. Of course, he didn’t—he actually thought she was beautiful in her green dress, toilet paper stuck to her foot and all. That flimsy misunderstanding being the foundation of her grudge made her dislike feel shallow, and the transition from hate to love felt completely unearned. The writing itself didn’t help. The author’s love of adjectives and exclamation marks was distracting, and whole chapters felt like filler that didn’t move the story forward. The side story with Freya felt tacked on, Roman came across as a pompous rich boy, and Jules wasn’t much better. She isn’t wealthy herself, but she loves making snide remarks about the Montbeaus’ money, which got old quickly. There were also odd moments that pulled me right out of the book. When Jules’s mom called saying she needed help with Aunt Flo, I genuinely thought she meant her period. Turns out it was her actual great aunt. That aunt raised Jules, and while her relationship with her mom was strained, even that tension didn’t add much to the overall story. By the time it ended with a marriage and healed family rift, I wasn’t charmed, I was eye-rolling. Cheesy, exaggerated, and weighed down with filler, this one didn’t work for me. ARC provided by NetGalley for an honest review.

This was such a tender and unexpectedly moving read. At first, it was a slow and gentle introduction to Tova’s quiet life and Cameron’s drifting uncertainty, but once their paths crossed, the story began to bloom. The narrative alternates between human perspectives and the sharp, witty voice of Marcellus the octopus, who quickly became one of my favorite characters. His observations added humor and heart, while also connecting the threads of the story in a clever way. It’s about grief, second chances, and the unexpected relationships that can change us. By the end, I found myself smiling through tears, grateful for how this story balanced lighthearted moments with emotional depth.

This book completely consumed me from the very first chapter. Rin’s journey from an underestimated war orphan to a determined and powerful force was raw, intense, and deeply compelling. Her ambition is unmatched, and watching her navigate impossible choices while her world fractured around her was both inspiring and devastating. R. F. Kuang doesn’t shy away from the horrors of war, weaving in moments of brutality, political tension, and moral complexity that kept me glued to the page. The pacing felt relentless in the best way, and every victory and loss hit hard. It’s not a comforting read, but it’s an unforgettable one that left me thinking about its themes of power, sacrifice, and survival long after I finished.