I’m a little embarrassed to admit this, but I’m not really a “music person,” and it definitely showed while I was reading this book. Sure, I listen to music and enjoy it, but only on a surface level. This book, however, dives deep into musical details I honestly couldn’t be bothered to understand. Even from a writer’s perspective, it didn’t give me much. Percy is undeniably a good writer (and songwriter), and she’s clearly passionate about music—enough to write about it despite her own insecurities about her talent. Maybe in another life I could’ve related to her, but not in this one.

Joe, on the other hand, was a loser from the beginning. I think we can all agree on that. He struggled in school, relied heavily on his long-term girlfriend just to get by, and although he had the trauma of losing his mother and dealing with his father’s alcoholism, he was still… a loser. And later on, possibly a cheater.

The story itself follows the familiar “will-they-won’t-they” romance trope, but it’s also more than that. It explores music, grief, alcoholism, passion, talent, pretty much all of the above. I went into this book completely unaware that it was going to be so music-focused. When I finally realized it, I also noticed the cover actually resembles an album or vinyl sleeve. Makes sense in hindsight.

The biggest plot twist for me was the hotel scene. Was I surprised they got together? Kind of, yeah. Probably because the book is only told from Percy’s point of view, and Joe never really showed any romantic interest in her, at least nothing beyond friendship. He even made it clear the night after his first show, didn’t he? And honestly, the complete disregard for Percy’s serious relationship, plus Joe hiding his own relationship(s), felt like a major dick move.

There were a lot of characters in this book—some important, some forgettable, some I skimmed through—but I did like that Percy (and Joe, I guess) eventually mended things with Zoe. I’ll admit I still don’t fully understand how their fallout even happened. I reread that part several times. But Zoe was good to her, even from the start.

Overall, aside from not being interested in the technical side of music (probably because I just couldn’t relate), I’d say the writing was definitely immersive, and the ending was genuinely satisfying.

Dear Future Me,

Six months ago today my world shattered — and it was never pieced back together. I have laughed. I have cried. I have lived since then, but I remain broken all the same. Not a day passes when my mother doesn’t cross my mind. Some might call it an exaggeration, especially with so much else going on in my life, who would have the time? but every waking moment, every breath I take, every tiny thing that happens to me, for a split 0.03 seconds I want to tell her. In those milliseconds the thought vanishes, reminding me that I can’t.

I used to be a firm believer in “this too shall pass.” Every heartbreak, every streak of bad luck — six months tops, I’d tell myself. And here I am, six months later, writing and admitting that this one is different. It’s been six months since I felt like I lost my life, and oh, what an ache — what a pain — to keep going. Six months since I’ve hoped each day to be reunited with her. Six months since boys stopped occupying my mind. Six months since every petty problem revealed itself as just that: petty.

It’s been six months since I learned what true heartbreak means.

I used to think phrases like "I see you in everyone I meet" or "I see you in strangers on the street" were ridiculous. Overly romantic. Unreal. I believed that once you got over someone, that was it — you were either done or still hopelessly stuck. I didn’t believe in the in-between.

But after I met you, I realized how wrong I was.

This isn’t meant to be some poetic declaration. There’s no deeper meaning hidden between the lines. It’s just... honest. And maybe that’s why I felt the need to write it down.

This feeling is foreign to me. It doesn’t hurt, and it doesn’t interfere with my life. But I have to admit — sometimes, when I meet someone new, you come to mind. Not because they are you, or even like you in any significant way. Sometimes it’s as small as the curve of their lips, the way they smile. Sometimes — and this is strange to even say — it’s something as mundane as the shape of their fingernails.

Not everyone reminds me of you. But enough do that I’ve noticed a pattern. And if this were some kind of strange, silent competition — you'd be winning.

In another life, corporate life feels peaceful. Mornings are calm as you get ready, breathing in the fresh air. The first touch of sunlight accompanies your commute, setting the tone for the day ahead. In this life, work isn't a burden—it's fulfilling. You walk into a job you enjoy, surrounded by the familiar clicking of keyboards and the steady hum of colleagues in their element. Laughter echoes over lunch, friendships form over shared jokes, and harmless gossip fills the air by the coffee machine at 3 p.m.  

In another life, corporate life doesn’t drain your soul. You leave on time, guilt-free, with no lingering obligations. You come home tired, but satisfied—ready to embrace tomorrow with anticipation. There are no blaring alarms, no endless traffic jams that leave your body aching. No overbearing middle management watching your every move. No burnout.  

In another life, corporate life isn’t so bad.

I ache for things I have no memory of, perhaps memories from a life lived elsewhere. Like gathering with a circle of friends in my late twenties, those who meet every few months, who remind me of life's simple joys and the truth that we never truly outgrow one another. I yearn for a work-life so balanced it doesn't crush my spirit, where choosing between mental health and the world outside isn’t a daily struggle. I dream of stepping out my door with purpose, with the quiet thrill of wanting to be somewhere. Instead, I’m left with vague memories that feel borrowed from another lifetime, while in this one, I stand alone, surrounded by the absence of what I crave.

Some days, imposter syndrome feels all too real. Sometimes, I’m convinced I have it; other days, I wonder if it’s just another buzzword I picked up. I feel like a fool, a fake, a fraud — take your pick. Or maybe I’m just unwell. Either way, I’m not sure who I am anymore — or maybe I never knew. Or was I just lying to myself again? I’ve forgotten what it feels like to write, even though I do it every day... or do I just force myself to? I don’t even know what I like or dislike anymore, but my friends seem to remember for me. At least, that’s what I tell them. At least I have my hobbies, or are they just routines I’m stuck in? I don’t know anymore. But I do have people who love me, or at least the ones I convince myself do.

There are days when the dawn's light kisses my skin just right, infusing me with the warmth of a world waiting to be embraced. On those days, friendships bloom, hobbies flourish, meals are savored, and chores are effortlessly conquered. My gaze lifts to the sky, filled with gratitude for the life I lead and the person I am.

But then there are days when darkness reigns. Sometimes it's a tempest of hate, other times a deluge of sadness. These emotions rise without warning, like a cliffhanger with no resolution. Publicly displaying this turmoil would only reveal a mind with loose screws, so I keep it hidden. On such days, nothing ventures beyond the door. Clothes remain stained with yesterday's air, friends are neglected, meals are hastily assembled. I am paralyzed, unable to move beyond the overwhelming waves, simply hoping to remain unseen until the storm passes.