Cringe, Chaos, and First Loves: Why I Fell Head Over Heels for This Romance Book

So, confession time: I’m not typically a romance book fan, but you probably already know that. I totally get why people love the genre—the escapism and all that—but it’s just not my thing. Maybe I’m too cynical, or maybe it’s the way some of the romance scenes make me cringe. I can’t help but roll my eyes sometimes.

I want my female characters to have more going on than just finding a guy and getting swept off their feet. But hey, I have dabbled in reviewing romance before. I actually enjoy Emily Henry’s books, probably because her female leads feel a bit more real—they’ve got depth, they’re usually bookish, and, thank goodness, not 20-somethings just figuring life out.

Anyway, let’s get to the point. I just read a romance book that I LOVED. And when I say “just” I mean I have read it but you won’t get this review until some time later but I had to write this to capture the enthusiasm.

When I recommended it on Instagram, I had that urgent, “I must tell the world about this book!” feeling. People asked, “Is there spice?” Nope, no spice here. So, if you’re looking for steamy romance, this isn’t the one. But honestly? I didn’t even miss it.

Oh, and speaking of urgency, I was so caught up in my feelings about this book that I almost forgot to tell you the title—classic me. The book is I Love You, I Love You, I Love You by Laura Dockrill.

This book is like reliving all the chaotic glory of your teenage and early twenties self—the first crushes, the intense friendships, the everything-feels-like-the-end-of-the-world drama. Dockrill absolutely nails that whirlwind of emotions and awkward moments, from the music to the cringey body sprays (Impulse, anyone?). It’s like someone bottled the essence of first love and let it explode all over the pages.

It’s got all the things: the obsession, the miscommunications, saying the dumb stuff you think will make you fit in, and the kind of friendships that sometimes felt more important than the romance itself. I couldn’t help but cringe because, let’s be honest, this book could’ve been written about my teenage years. It’s like if Ross and Rachel were awkward teenagers—and spoiler, real life doesn’t always wrap up so neatly like on TV (or in my case, not even close).

In short: I was obsessed, and if you’ve ever been young and in love (and horribly embarrassed by it later), this book will hit you right in the feels. Trust me on this one, particularly if you were a teen in the 2000s, because life is too short to read bad books.