There are some absolutely gorgeous lines in this book that I will probably chew on forever, but as an overall piece I feel like the prose prevented me from caring about literally anything - including the relationship it was built around. 

I also don't know if it was just me (or the fact I've been on both sides of sapphic love letters), but I feel like for the first 80% it felt abundantly clear that red was written by a man? "Max Gladstone wrote Red" lives in my google search as confirmation of this.