Book Review: The Summer I Turned Pretty by Jenny Han

 I’m probably the last person on earth to read The Summer I Turned Pretty. Everyone else seems to have already picked a team, argued about it online, and made TikToks. Meanwhile, here I am, just casually starting book one like it’s 2010.

Disclaimer first: I hardly scroll TikTok, so I came into this series with absolutely zero spoilers. People around me were talking about it, but honestly, it just never registered in my brain. So when I picked up the book, I had no context at all and I couldn’t even picture the actors because in my head, the characters look completely different anyway.

Jenny Han has been a favorite of mine since To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before. The books had so much more depth than the movies, though the movies were still sweet (thanks to Iman for making me watch them, I did enjoy it). So naturally, I thought The Summer I Turned Pretty might be the same. Maybe the books would hold more weight than the series. But before I judge, I’ll need to finish the books first… and then maybe binge the show as “research.”

Let’s start with Belly’s little summer romance with Cam. Cute? Yes. Serious? Not really. At sixteen, those butterflies feel like the biggest thing in the world, but looking back now at 30, it’s easy to brush it off as just a fleeting moment. Adult life has a way of dulling those sparks. And yet, that’s exactly why books like this are so comforting because they let me slip back into that younger self and relive those feelings again, even if only for a while.

And then of course, the big question: Jeremiah or Conrad?

The 30-year-old me says Jeremiah without hesitation. He puts in the effort, he’s present, he’s honest about his feelings. It just makes sense. But if I’m honest about my 16-year-old self? I would have chosen Conrad in a heartbeat. Because at that age, there’s something irresistible about the mystery, the walls someone puts up, the challenge of wanting to be the one to “figure him out.” Looking back now, it feels exhausting, but at sixteen, it feels like love.

What also stood out to me was how much the story wasn’t just about Belly, it was also about Suzannah, and the heaviness that hung over the family. The tension between the boys reminded me that people often forget how vulnerable boys can be too. They don’t always cry or talk about it the way girls do; sometimes they rebel, sometimes they shut down. It’s still sadness and it just looks different. (That’s the mom in me speaking, I guess.)

I also really appreciated how Jeremiah handled things when Belly didn’t feel the same way. He didn’t hold it against her. He understood. That quiet maturity really stayed with me.

In the end, love is messy. It can’t come from guilt or sympathy, because then it isn’t really love, it just hurts everyone involved.

So here I go, onto book two. Hopefully, it goes deeper.

Book Review: Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow by Gabrielle Zevin

I have such a complicated, love-hate relationship with this book. I went in wanting to love it as much as everyone else seemed to, but from the beginning it just didn’t land for me. It had that “Intermezzo” vibe, something melancholic, artistic, full of potential, but the slow start and scattered themes kept me at a distance instead of pulling me in.

I did appreciate the author’s effort in tying up loose ends, exploring trauma, and giving each character a layered backstory. But part of what turned me off early on was the Israel narrative. Dov’s family in Israel, and that particular remark about how American Jews know so little about the country, really rubbed me the wrong way. With everything happening in the world right now, it felt tone-deaf. Maybe I’m biased because I’m pro-Palestine, but it immediately created a barrier between me and the story.

And then there was Dov himself. His relationship with Sadie, if we can even call it that, was disturbing. The power imbalance between professor and student, the S&M, and ultimately the abortion she endured (spoiler alert!) really unsettled me. Sadie’s insistence that she “consented” to whatever he wanted, even at her expense, felt hollow. It was painful to read, and I hated it. But I’ll give the author credit, it was written in a way that made me feel that discomfort, and I did feel awful for Sadie.

What struck me more, though, was Sadie’s experience as a woman in a male-dominated space. As a minority in the programming world at MIT, she constantly had to prove her worth. Worse, some of her artistic contributions were overshadowed, with Sam getting more credit than she did. That imbalance, where men have it easier while women fight for recognition, rang painfully true.

Sam, on the other hand, was a character I struggled with. His trauma and tragedy made me empathize with him, but his dynamic with Sadie was complicated. I kept trying to understand them, and in the end, I was relieved that their bond never turned into a conventional romance. What they shared, creating games, building worlds together, was something unique, and honestly more intimate than a romantic storyline would’ve been.

Then there’s Marx. Oh, Marx. He became the heart of the story for me. The moment his presence grew, the book finally clicked. He was the glue between Sadie and Sam, the caretaker, the one who brought balance to the chaos. Even when Sadie and Sam resisted his involvement in Ichigo, he supported them anyway. And when he literally took the bullet to save them, it shattered me. His death felt like the true tragedy of the book. I wanted so badly for Sadie and Marx to have their chance at happiness, but it was stolen away.

After that, watching Sam and Sadie drift further apart was heartbreaking, even though I couldn’t blame Sadie for needing distance. Still, I admired Sam’s attempt to reconnect. His creation of Pioneer, the secret game designed as a bridge to reach her again, was brilliant. That storyline, and the games themselves, were some of my favorite parts of the book. I’m not even a gamer, but I found myself wishing those games were real.

By the time I reached the end, I realized I didn’t actually dislike the book as much as I thought. It grew on me, but only from the middle onwards. Maybe it was my expectations that dragged down my experience. I thought it would be a solid 4-star read. Instead, for me, it’s a 3. There were moments of brilliance, moments that broke me, and moments that made me angry. But in the end, the fact that I felt all of that means the book did its job, it just wasn’t always a pleasant journey.

What stayed with me most is how the book mirrors so many realities: power imbalances in relationships, women being overlooked in male-dominated spaces, the way trauma shapes people differently, and how friendships can be just as profound, sometimes even more so, than romantic love. It made me angry, it made me sad, but it also made me reflect on how much of this exists in the real world around us. And maybe that’s why, even though I didn’t love the book the way I hoped, I can’t dismiss it either.

 

What Ifs and What Is

 I can be an overthinker. Not in life, but in my imagination.

When I read a book or watch a movie, I linger on the characters.

It’s fiction, but I dwell:

How did they become who they are?

What happened in the spaces the story never told?

What if they were thrown into a different plot? Would they still grow the same way?

Sometimes, I carry these characters with me for days.

And I marvel, how incredible it is that Allah created a mind capable of wandering that far?

But also, how frightening!

Because the more I think, the more I see: 

Every twist could lead anywhere, every turn could change everything.

And isn’t that just like life?

As much as I love planning, making to-do lists, staying proactive, because if I don’t, I slack (and I can’t afford to; I’m not only a full-time worker, but a full-time mother, wife, and daughter too), overthinking life itself only makes me spiral.

Some things are simply uncontrollable, and some worries are unbearable.

So, I let God.

He is the Best Planner.

I don’t know what will happen one second from now.

I don’t know if the decision I’m about to make will be my best, or the one that breaks me.

So, I let God.

If it’s written for me, even if I dread it, it will find me.

If it’s not mine, even if I crave it, it will never stay.

Because what is meant for me will never pass me by,

And what is not meant for me will never be mine.

Book Review: Slow Dance by Rainbow Rowell

I’ve always loved Rowell’s books. I’ve read Eleanor & Park, Landline, Fangirl, Attachments—and when I saw Slow Dance, I was intrigued for three reasons:

A. It’s a Reese’s Book Club pick.

B. It came recommended by the author of Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow (which is now next on my list).

C. It has the “high school best friends turned lovers” theme, which I usually enjoy.

 

But despite all that, I only gave this book a 3. Here’s why:

I get the whole high school friends-to-lovers journey, but in this story it took 14 years, one failed marriage, and one broken engagement before it finally happened. That’s the added complexity, I suppose—but what frustrated me most was Shiloh constantly pushing Cary away, even though he was everything she clearly wanted. I just didn’t get it.

When I reflected on it, though, I realised Shiloh reminded me of my husband during the early days of our relationship. If I had let myself be swayed back then, I might’ve ended up with someone else, and I know that’s not what I wanted. Sometimes you just know from the beginning, right? Especially when pushing away is the only red flag, and everything else is green.

The book also tried to be inclusive by suggesting that Shiloh might be interested in women, making her bisexual. But honestly, that thread felt more like an add-on than a theme the author genuinely wanted to explore.

Then there were the family issues, so many of them left unresolved. I know that might have been intentional, but it didn’t work for me. It left the ending feeling a bit rushed and unsatisfying.

That said, I’ll always admire Rowell’s writing style. It’s moving, compelling, and no one does dialogue like she does. Plus, the email correspondence in this book gave me major Where Rainbows End (aka Love, Rosie) vibes, and that part, I loved.

Overall, Slow Dance wasn’t my ultimate favourite Rowell book, but it still had the familiar warmth and charm that makes her writing so easy to fall into. If you’re already a fan, it’s worth the read, just don’t expect all the threads to tie up neatly. For me, it was a reminder that sometimes stories, like relationships, are messy and imperfect and maybe that’s exactly the point.

Book Review: The Beekeeper of Aleppo by Christy Lefteri

Reading The Beekeeper of Aleppo left me with so many mixed emotions. It is not an easy book to go through, but it is a necessary one. Nuri, a beekeeper, and his wife Afra take us on their painful journey from Syria to Europe, showing the human face of the refugee crisis that often gets reduced to numbers and headlines.

As I turned the pages, I kept thinking about the unimaginable weight carried by refugees. Losing homes and loved ones to war is already devastating, yet the suffering does not end there. On their way to safety, they are forced to face the ugliest sides of humanity, human trafficking, exploitation, women being assaulted, children being separated from their parents, and even refugees being murdered for their organs.

At times, I had to pause and breathe because the imagery was so vivid and disturbing. What horrified me most was the thought that these aren’t just fictional events. Many of these stories were based on accounts that the author heard while volunteering in refugee camps in Greece. It is terrifying to think that some camps, which should be places of refuge, are instead grounds for exploitation.

The novel speaks powerfully about trauma, grief, and resilience. PTSD is not just mentioned, it is felt in the silences, in Afra’s blindness, in Nuri’s fragile grip on hope. The war doesn’t end when they cross a border; it continues to live inside them.

As I read, I couldn’t help but think of today’s refugees in Gaza, Sudan, and so many other parts of the world. Some conflicts receive international coverage, while others are forgotten. But the pain of displacement is universal. As a mother, the thought of children being separated from their parents shook me deeply. May Allah protect them and all of us :(

Christy Lefteri’s writing is both beautiful and haunting. She moves between the past in Aleppo and the present journey with such clarity that I was never lost, only carried deeper into their memories and pain. The perspective of a beekeeper adds a layer of symbolism, bees as life, fragility, and community, a reminder of what was lost and what still might be rebuilt.

Having read a few historical fictions on war and refugees before, I could sense where some parts of the story were heading. But that didn’t take away from its impact. What made this book stand out was the way it wove real voices and testimonies into fiction, making it feel authentic and necessary.

This book disturbed me, moved me, and made me reflect long after closing it. It is a reminder that refugees are not just statistics or “others,” but people with hopes, fears, and dignity, people who have endured both war and the exploitation of those who prey on desperation.

The Beekeeper of Aleppo is not a light read, but it is an important one.

 I would recommend it to anyone who wants to better understand the human side of displacement and survival.

I rate the book 4/5 as it's a beautifully written and powerful book that captures the refugee experience with honesty and compassion, though at times predictable in its plot.

The book is available for grab here :)