I remember reading this book and thinking, I'm glad that we have moved past every piece of media ever having to avoid the "kill your gays" (or, "irreparably harm your gays" in this case, or at the very least, "make your gays sad") trope because there wasn't enough positive rep out there for us yet. I'm glad that means that now, we can have tragic, haunting queer stories like this one. 

I love water-based horror (as opposed to oil-based, HA!). But, really - oceans are terrifying in a way all humans universally relate to, I think. Like the dark, or heights, most of us will look at this nebulous unknown and feel a lurch. Armfield knew how to draw that Lurch out of me. I was working on an illustration for class while listening to the bulk of this book, and when I look at the finished illustration posted on my Instagram, I can still recall the book in the background, being told to me as I drew. It stuck with me, the plot, the differing voices of Leah and Miri (the book alternates POVs), and how their love for each other united them. I felt the lesbian yearning, you know? 

Armfield also explores the varying ways we deal with grief. Often, there isn't much in the way of an answer, or an explanation, or understanding, even from the most sympathetic of friends. It's socially acceptable at first, but after the world expects you to move on, sometimes you sequester yourself in this strange gray area between "fresh wound" and "faded scar". Grief is a scab, I guess? I understood this so clearly after devouring this book in two days. Like, I knew this before, but it kind of gave me the words for it. A strange, unfamiliar flesh suit for a universally recognisable soul, is this story.