TALES OF A COMMON ISLAND GIRL

Valentine’s Day, World Book Giving Day & the stories that stayed

But this year, I want to celebrate something else too — books.

World Book Giving Day happens to fall on the very same day, and honestly, I can’t think of a better way to honour love. Because for some of us, books have been our longest relationships.

They stayed when people changed.
They waited patiently when life got busy.
They comforted us when we felt lonely.

They taught us how to feel deeply, think differently, and see the world with softer eyes.
Quietly, gently, they shaped who we are. 🤍📖

And if you’ve been following me for a while, you already know this:
I take love seriously.

I love my husband — deeply. He is my grounding being, my calm, my constant.
And I love books — fiercely, loyally, unapologetically.

Books made me me.
They shaped my perspective, my sensitivity, my inner world. They were there long before social media, long before adulthood, long before I even knew who I was becoming.

So today, let me talk to you — reader to reader, heart to heart — about my love for books. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll feel inspired to pick one up too.

🌈 Where it all began

My love story with books started early. Like… really early.

My first books were the Poldy sets — colours, time, shapes, places.
I remember sitting on my mother’s lap while she read Poldy Fly High to me. I must have been four.

Some books were read to me by my sister too.
Those moments felt warm. Slow. Safe.

Looking back now, I realise something simple but powerful:
that was the first time stories made me feel held.

📚 Comics, chaos & my brother’s influence

As I grew up, my brother became the real instigator.

He was the one buying books — mostly comics.
Garfield. Orson’s Farm. Felix the Cat. Asterix & Obelix. Tintin. X-Men.

He opened the door to reading.
I just walked in and never left.

Then came Enid Blyton — and suddenly I was dreaming of secret clubs, passwords, adventures, friendships that felt unbreakable.

The funny thing is, none of my primary school friends were readers. I don’t remember sharing books the way we share reels today. Reading was my thing.

So books became my private world.
The place I escaped to when everything felt too loud.

🕵🏽‍♀️ Becoming someone else (so I could be myself)

As I grew older, I didn’t just want to read stories anymore — I wanted to be part of them.

Christopher Pike.
Agatha Christie.
Nancy Drew. The Hardy Boys.

I wanted to belong to their worlds. I wanted their courage, their curiosity, the way they noticed things others missed.

In my imagination, I became Nancy Drew — but with the wit of Hercule Poirot, solving mysteries and piecing together clues, all while living inside the slightly dark, suspenseful universe of a Christopher Pike plot.

That’s how I read back then — fully immersed, fully invested.
I wasn’t escaping life. I was living another one through these characters, and I loved every second of it.

Those stories didn’t just entertain me.
They kept me company.

💌 Teenage years & borrowed romance

Let’s talk teenage years.

My romantic life?
Non-existent.

So books stepped in. Again.

Cœur Grenadine became my access to romance.
Yes, I was that nerd.
But through those pages, I felt tenderness, longing, butterflies — all the things real life hadn’t offered yet.

And you know what? I’m grateful.
Books held my hand when no one else did.

⚡ Hogwarts dreams & sacred borrowed books

And then… Harry Potter.

What a time.

The books were expensive, and I remember feeling embarrassed to ask my dad for them. So I borrowed them from friends.

And let me tell you — I treated those books like holy objects.
No dog-eared pages. No stains. No carelessness.

I waited for my Hogwarts letter.
I’m now in my 30s.
It never came.

Still waiting though. Just in case. 🪄

🌹 Books that met me too early… and right on time

Some books came into my life too early.

Le Temps des Amours — I was too young to understand it.
When I reread it later, everything made sense: the innocence, the friendships, the beauty of first love.

Then there’s Le Petit Prince.
If you know, you know.
A book I return to again and again, each time understanding it differently.

As a literature student, The English Teacher by R. K. Narayan stayed with me.
It taught me about simplicity, spirituality, and stepping away from materialism to find meaning.

Some books don’t just tell stories — they stay with you.

✨ Fiction as comfort & escape

As life moved on, fiction became comfort.

Sophie Kinsella’s Shopaholic series.
The Undomesticated Goddess.
The Language of Flowers — my forever favourite.

Stephen King. Chetan Bhagat. Nicholas Sparks. Jojo Moyes.

For a long time, fiction books were my best friends.
They helped me escape the mundane.
They took me places when I couldn’t move in real life.

📘 Falling in love with non-fiction (unexpectedly)

About five years ago, something shifted.

I slowly started reading non-fiction — and to my own surprise, I loved it.

These books made me feel powerful.
Knowledge-power. Growth-power.
That “let me get my life together” kind of power.

The 5 AM Club.
Eat That Frog.
The Monk Who Sold His Ferrari.
The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck.
You Are a Badass.
Becoming.
Ikigai.

They weren’t teaching me brand-new things.
They were putting into words what I already knew deep down — but needed to read, highlight, and absorb to actually live.

They taught me compassion — for myself, and for others.

⚖️ Escape & evolution

At one point, I wondered if this meant I was becoming a boring adult.

Then I realised something important:
growth is addictive.

Now I have a rule.
For every fiction book I read, I follow it with a non-fiction one.

Balance.
Escape and evolution.

☕ How I love my books (very seriously)

Let me tell you something.

I’m not a fast reader.

I pause.
I imagine.
I reflect.

I always cover my books with transparent plastic — like the good old days. No negotiations.
No makeup stains. No sweat marks. No damage.

I don’t eat while reading.
But I do love black coffee on a rainy afternoon ☕📖

Sometimes I fall asleep with my book.
And my husband — knowing how much I hate dog-eared pages — quietly slips a bookmark in for me.

If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is. 🤍

📚 What my bookshelf says about me

My bookshelf tells my story:

Dreamer → Seeker → Grower

If I could place one book in the hands of my 16-year-old self, it would be one about self-worth.

If I could gift one book to the world, it would be one about empathy.

💝 A Valentine’s Day thought

This Valentine’s Day — which is also World Book Giving Day — I’m reminded that love doesn’t always come wrapped in roses.

Sometimes, love looks like:
a book passed from one hand to another.
a story shared.
a world offered.

Fiction raised the dreamer in me.
Non-fiction is shaping the woman I’m becoming.

Books healed me.
Books continue to shape me.

So today, I celebrate love — by celebrating books.
And if you can… gift one.

Because stories, like love, are meant to be shared. 💌📚

Some books you read, enjoy, and move on from. And then there are books that sit with you — quietly, heavily — long after you’ve turned the last page. Verity was that kind of book for me.

I finished reading it on the 29th of December 2025, and honestly, I didn’t feel done with it at all. I closed the book and just sat there, staring at it, trying to process how uneasy I felt. That lingering discomfort? That’s when I knew Colleen Hoover did exactly what she intended to do.

🖤 Inside the Villain’s Mind

What really pulled me in was the decision to let us experience the story through what feels like a villain’s point of view. That’s a bold move. It’s uncomfortable. It forces you to sit with thoughts you don’t want to agree with, emotions you don’t want to understand — yet somehow, you do.

Reading those sections made my skin crawl, but at the same time, I couldn’t look away. It made me realise how complex human emotions really are. Jealousy, desire, resentment, fear — all tangled up with love. Verity doesn’t soften these feelings. It exposes them.

💔 Love or Obsession?

This book really messed with my idea of love.

In Verity, love doesn’t always feel warm or safe. It often feels obsessive, physical, and ego-driven. The intimacy is intense, almost consuming, but the emotional and intellectual connection feels fragile. I kept wondering whether the characters truly loved each other — or were simply addicted to what they gave each other.

Even the love for children, something we instinctively believe is unconditional, is portrayed in a way that feels unsettling and complicated. As a reader, that part hit hard. But maybe that discomfort is exactly what we’re meant to feel.

🤯 The Questions That Wouldn’t Leave Me Alone

When I finished the book, I wasn’t satisfied — I was curious. And unsettled.

I kept thinking: How does an author write such raw, villainous emotions so convincingly? Where does that depth even come from?

Some emotions described felt uncomfortably close to real psychological struggles. At moments, I even wondered whether certain behaviours could be linked to postpartum depression — or if that explanation is too simple for something so dark and layered.

And then came the thoughts I couldn’t shake:

• What if the truth we’re shown isn’t the whole truth?

• What if someone else was quietly pulling the strings?

• What if love, money, success, and jealousy were far more connected than we like to admit?

The fact that the book never gives clear answers is what makes it so powerful.

📚 Same Vibe as The Silent Patient

I read Verity back to back with The Silent Patient, and I couldn’t ignore how similar they felt. Same genre, same psychological tension, same feeling of constantly questioning what’s real and what’s not.

Both books rely heavily on silence, secrets, and unreliable perspectives. They don’t rush — they slowly unravel your trust. If you enjoy thrillers that play with your mind rather than action-packed chaos, this is definitely your lane.

🎬 Waiting for the Movie

Now that I’ve read the book, I can’t help but think about the movie adaptation. I’m excited… but also a little nervous. Verity is such an internal, psychological story that I wonder how it’ll translate on screen.

I’m really hoping the movie captures the intensity, the discomfort, and the ambiguity that made the book so unforgettable for me.

🌺 Final Island-Girl Thoughts

Verity is not an easy read — and it’s not meant to be. It’s unsettling, provocative, and intentionally confusing. It challenges ideas of love, motherhood, ambition, and morality, then leaves you alone with your thoughts.

I may have finished the book, but it definitely hasn’t finished with me.

And honestly? That’s exactly the kind of story I love.