The whole time I was reading this novel, I was coming up with the ways it could have been better. I imagined it told by a Japanese author, showing the fleetingness of life, frailty of a body, and the beauty of living, if even for a short while. I imagined it told by a romantic author, like Bronte, who would show us a lion of a man who wouldn’t change his nature and prefer to die than live a limited life, and whom I would admire for that. I could imagine a flow of consciousness written by an impressionist, or the darkness and freedom of an existentialist writer. Or even a new agey tale that would tell us how one could learn to just be instead of do, and be happy about it. But instead of all these possibilities, I was reading a mediocre romance that focused on a stupid game/mission of proving sth to someone. A Pigmalion with a sad ending and passable writing.
I really wanted to know more about Will, but he turned out to be a convenient prop for the heroine and a narrative device, sadly.
It was a very disappointing and discouraging read that didn’t make me feel anything except fear and bitterness of a girl who didn’t get what she wanted.