Why is there so much “sick kids romance” I’ve read. The Fault In Our Stars, Five Feet Apart, Me, Earl, and the Dying Girl and now this (not counting crappy movies like Clouds). And it plays just like a Sick Kids Romance.

I think I’m too old for this kind of book, for young love stories. I see them and I’m like everyone reacting to The Little Mermaid now. Like when she says "I'm sixteen years old, I'm not a child anymore." Like "Yes, you are young lady."

I’m forty. I’ve been married for fifteen years. I’m on antidepressants. I get no thrill from hand-holding anymore. A younger me might’ve.

Also, I knew the ending so all I saw was Room, where a monster is keeping her prisoner. Room and its concept terrifies me. I feel like the book should have explored that aspect more–the PTSD that comes from being trapped in a single place for all your life. Like Plato’s allegory of the cave. This book puts a syrupy family drama onto it that feels facetious.