There’s a hollowness embedded within this novel, like the inside of a pot.

“Friendship. How hard you had to listen through the static of your own feedback for the truth of it. How if you weren’t careful the distortion could shift dimensions ever so slightly, make a death look like a life. How easy it was to read something wrong.”

I loved how it truly centered on several women and their relationship with one another. There’s glimmers of Susan’s inner turmoils, which completely juxtaposes Donna’s frankness (for the most part). Yet there’s obviously something that always stays unspoken, even through dozens of exchanged letters upon letters.

For me, this was a slow read, and I wasn’t sure I liked it at first, but its melancholic, reflective epistolary style got the better of me towards the end. Some parts are twisted around a bit and confusing, but I like that it forced me to slow down and figure out who was speaking, what the perspective was, and so on.