Content Warnings >>>
I am livid.
The suspension of disbelief this book asks from me is just monumental, and the way it treats (insta-) love as a magical cure for trauma, anxiety and grief – all in the span of a week – makes my skin crawl. As someone who lived through all three, it feels wrong and harmful and I’m so pissed right now. Having the characters acknowledge how unbelievable it all feels doesn’t make it right, because it’s still there, and it’s not cute. Unpopular opinion for sure, but I can’t get behind this kind :
“He squeezes my hand. “I’ll always be okay when I’m with you, Amelia.”
… of manufactured bullshit. I just can’t. And I know most people won’t get it. I know, and it’s okay. They’ll talk about how we can enjoy things and that it doesn’t matter if it’s not believable, that love does conquer all after all. But what happens when love isn’t enough?
Do you understand how utterly bleak and unlovable we feel when whole swathes of popular culture repeatedly shove down our throats that real love should “cure” us when we know it will never be that simple?
When we know we’re in love, but that doesn’t mean that we’re magically transformed into some neurotypical perfect fantasy? That’s why I can’t ever enjoy this kind of novels, and I won’t apologize for that.