⚠️TW: If you love this book or this series, I strongly recommend you DO NOT read this review.
Do yourself a favour and turn back now—because what follows is not just critical, it is scathing, explosive, and unfiltered. I have been holding this in for far too long, and it’s about to come pouring out with no mercy. I need to say every single word, because I dedicated so many hours of my life trudging through this book like it was some literary crucifixion and now I need to exorcise it from my system.
Let me start at the beginning. This book has been sitting and collecting dust on my shelf for almost 2 years. I had it perched like a ticking time bomb, staring at me like some cursed relic I was too scared to touch. And why? Because the hype was absolutely deafening. Everyone swore it was a life-ruining, soul-crushing masterpiece.
“It’s long, but every word counts.”
“800 pages isn’t even enough.”
“It’s slow burn done right.”
Well you all are LIARS!! Please be so for real right now.
Because this book didn’t ruin me. It didn’t touch me. It didn’t even graze the surface of an emotional reaction. What it did was waste my time, insult my intelligence, and test the limits of my patience in a way no book has ever dared to do before. I am in awe of the sheer audacity. If you cut 500 pages from this book, I promise you—not a single ounce of substance would be lost. It would be the exact same story, only slightly less torturous to endure.
I did not walk into this book completely blind. I went in already prepared to be annoyed by Johnny's chronic inability to think with anything other than his dick and talk about his dick and the way Shannon like the river is endlessly described as small, tiny, delicate, fragile like that was her entire identity. I knew these things going in and still they managed to exhaust me more than I imagined. It’s not just annoying. It’s grotesque in its repetition and utterly devoid of nuance. And yet somehow… that wasn’t even the worst part.
To everyone who told me I would love this, just know I am currently side-eyeing you all so hard.
Because I expected emotional devastation and heartbreak. I expected some kind of unforgettable, gut-wrenching character-driven masterpiece.
Instead, I got Binding 13—an 800+ page exercise in stagnation, indulgent repetition, and emotional shallowness disguised as depth.
I kept waiting for the moment. You know the one—the point where it all clicks, where all the buildup pays off, where it finally reaches in and grabs something visceral inside you. But it never came. Not once!! I felt absolutely NOTHING for these characters or their struggles just dead, dry-eyed silence, night after night as I dragged myself through yet another chapter that read like a copy-pasted version of the one before it.
This book is not slow burn. It is narrative paralysis. The same scenes repeat in an endless, mind-numbing loop: Shannon flinches, Johnny rages, someone bullies Shannon, Johnny thinks about how much he wants her but can’t have her, Shannon gets bruised again, someone calls her fragile, repeat. There is no escalation. No evolution. No rising tension. It’s the same emotional beats recycled again and again with zero payoff and even less purpose. Entire chapters go by where literally nothing happens just endless brooding and manufactured angst with no direction.
And the writing? In love with its own melodrama. The dialogue is so stiff, robotic, and comically unnatural. I swear no one speaks like a real human being. Every conversation is either an info dump of exaggerated feelings or a theatrical shouting match devoid of subtlety, nuance, or rhythm. It’s emotionally loud but narratively hollow. The characters talk at each other, not to each other, and it makes every scene feel like a teen soap opera.
Shannon- She is supposed to be the emotional core of the novel—the girl whose trauma and healing we’re meant to follow, to feel, to ache for. And yet she barely exists as a person. She is written like a fragile porcelain doll- passive, helpless, flinching her way through the narrative with no agency and no emotional complexity. Every chapter reduces her to a list of adjectives: small, broken, tiny, scared. That’s it!! That’s all she is. Over 800 pages, we do not see her evolve, reflect, or assert herself in any meaningful way. She just gasps, freezes then gets rescued. That is her ENTIRE character arc.
And yes, I know she’s 15. I am not demanding a miraculous transformation or unrealistic maturity. But when you dedicate this much space to a character’s trauma, it is deeply insulting and irresponsible to offer no inner reckoning and no progress whatsoever. There is no psychological insight or exploration of her healing just a parade of bruises and tears presented as “sadness.” That’s not trauma representation. That’s emotional voyeurism.
Johnny - I have never read so many pages dedicated to a character doing absolutely nothing. I wanted to sympathise with him. And, yes—I do feel sorry for him in regard to his injury. His entire internal monologue consists of three settings: horny, angry, and guilty. That’s it. His guilt over being attracted to a 15-year-old when he’s 17 is absurdly overblown—he spirals like he’s committed a crime against humanity, when in reality it’s a two-year age gap and the way his “conflict” is drawn out feels like nothing more than forced, artificial angst designed to pad the word count and create false tension.
And what does he do with this guilt? Does he talk to Shannon? NO. He just broods, punches things (and people), and makes decisions for her instead of with her. He projects his own fears and desires onto her and treats her like a delicate possession that he must guard with violence. It is not romantic at all it is unhealthy codependency masquerading as “protectiveness,” and the book never once questions it.
Even the so-called romantic moments fall completely flat. The “romance” reads like a boy’s fantasy about saving a broken girl, not a mutual connection based on shared vulnerability or trust. It feels empty and rushed yet we’re expected to swoon like this is some grand, timeless love story.
The rest of the side characters are a blur of testosterone and noise. Every boy sounds the same with how loud and horny they are. The supposed “found family” dynamic is so shallow and unearned that I actually forgot it was supposed to exist until the book reminded me. I wanted to care. I tried to care. But the book gives us nothing to connect with, nothing to invest in. It expects emotional loyalty without doing the work to earn it.
The only flicker of potential comes from Joey and Aoife. And even that barely survives the weight of this suffocating narrative. They are the sole reason I’m even considering continuing this series because against all odds, they do feel like characters with texture and tension. But let’s be real, they are nowhere near enough to justify what I just endured.
The worst part? This book has the audacity to present itself as a raw, vulnerable story about pain and survival yet there is no exploration of it at all. Shannon’s abuse is never lived through on the page it’s just a dramatic prop used to generate pity and tension. Her recovery is not depicted, and her voice is never fully heard. It’s a shallow aestheticisation of trauma only used to manipulate. And that, more than anything else, makes me furious. Because trauma deserves respect. It deserves to be written with emotional intelligence and integrity not reduced to a backdrop for brooding boys and romantic fantasy.
Look, call me a heartless bitch or whatever but I went into this book ready to feel everything but instead I was just emotionally starved.
I shouldn’t even be continuing the series. I know that. Every rational part of me is telling me to quit. But I am unhinged and stubborn and tragically hopeful that maybe it gets better. That maybe this mess of wasted potential and hollow angst turns into something real in the later books.
If you loved this book, that is completely valid. Genuinely. I don’t mean this as a personal attack. I’m not here to fight anyone over what they love. But for me? Binding 13 was one of the biggest literary disappointments I’ve ever experienced. A repetitive, emotionally dishonest, painfully overwritten mess that left me empty, exhausted, and wondering what the hell I just read.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to reread Normal People to restore my faith in Irish literature.
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rejoiced so loudly after finishing this
rtc
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ready to squint for 800 pages 😍