Some books stay with us long after we close the cover. They live in our memories and quietly shape the way we see the world. For Spyglass’ Valentine’s edition, staff members wrote short love letters to the books that meant something to them—stories that comforted, challenged, and stayed close to the heart. These notes are not reviews but personal reflections on stories that felt like companions and revelations. Together, they form a quiet chorus of gratitude and longing for the stories that raised us.

Dear Rebecca Stead’s When You Reach Me,

You taught me to think on my feet as I stumble to catch myself in your web of reality. I still wait under your spell for a plot twist to send my heart reeling again. You were the one who made me look twice when I crossed the street for a flicker of something spectacular. You twisted through the streets of New York as I quickly trailed behind you, curled up under the covers with a flashlight. I still think about your thoughts that twisted me into understanding. I can’t wait to slip back to visit your aged pages.

It’s been too long,

Willa E.-B.

Dear Stacy McAnulty’s The Miscalculations of Lightning Girl,

It was love at first sight when I met you. Instantly, I was drawn to you and wanted to learn more. No matter the occasion, I could not put you down. It was in an Uber, and late at night, and I was only nine years old when I shed my first tear for a book. You really meant the world to me, and inspired me to learn the numbers of pi. I hope you know how much you changed my life. But, ultimately, I’ll never forget your famous line: “Don’t be afraid of numbers. Use them to compute your solutions. Look at the world as it is intended.”

Love,

Rebecca L.

Dear Coraline by Neil Gaiman,

You marked the beginning of my love for horror. I remember watching the animation adaptation for you when I was younger, and I was curious enough to read you. Although I was scared out of my pants, I weirdly kept re-reading you and re-watching the animation since the storyline was so captivating to me. Your idea of the “other world” with your “other parents,” morphed to your liking; it initially seemed like paradise, but I later came to realize it’s a trap. Your deceitful nature was fascinating and scary, but I loved experiencing the adrenaline. Ever since, I’ve read and watched countless horror and thriller books and movies, gone to Universal Horror Nights for my birthdays, and screamed at the top of my lungs with my friends in laughter. Coraline, you will forever be a horror classic within my heart; thank you.

From,

Avery S.

Dear When Haru was Here by Dustin Thao,

I miss you. I miss the summer I found you and grazed my fingers over your pages. I miss the late evenings I spent with my nose buried in your spine, curled up in the corner of my sofa with “Cherry Blossoms” by Kaden Cho running on loop. Your words still hum an unforgiving tune I can never forget. I still reminisce about the dramatic and bittersweet sensations I felt reading every single one of your words. My heart continues to ache for the summer your slightly wrinkled pages, damp from my tears, comforted me. The final words of your story remain in my shallow memory like a serenade: “You’ll always be a part of my life. This story is for you.” Just as your words read, you are and always will be a part of my life. You are a story just for me and only for me.

With a swelling heart and nostalgic smile,

Carys H.

Dear Samantha Harvey’s Orbital,

The intense discussion about how vulnerable humans are in space felt like a vivid dream. The book forced me to keep returning to the same idea of intangible space travel. Orbital gave me an appreciation for our planet through vivid descriptions and quite reflective moments. Orbital was all voice and no plot, giving me a newfound appreciation for the strength of an individual voice The book left me with lasting contemplations about the world we live in. 

Love,

Josie S.-J.

One Hundred Years of Solitude by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, 

You frustrated me by naming at least eight of your characters Jose Arcadio and Aureliano. But even while I’m scrambling to get the names right, I can’t help but feel forgiving, as you introduced me to the magical realism genre, using it to portray the tender side of uprising and revolution. You showed me that even when your right to freedom is taken away, and all you’re expected to do is exist in compliance, magic can be more than delusion, but a path for dreamers. 

Sincerely, 

Jane K.

Dear Sunburn by Chloe Michelle Howarth,

You were a bittersweet pill to swallow. You invited me into the humid caress of a rural Irish summer, only to slap me with the visceral and angry tension boiling between Lucy and Susannah. You made me feel shame. Shame that I had forgotten the unyielding pain of young forbidden queer love. You pierced my carefully constructed bubble with honey saccharine prose and guilt only brandable by a God I don’t worship. And when it was all over, the sting of your story felt cold on my cheek. You made me remember my love for words and how powerfully truthful they can be in their gentleness.

With gratitude,

Isa H.

Dear The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath,

You’re a friend I go to in the saddest time of my life. You taught me that it’s okay to not be okay, that depression, loneliness, and madness are natural human experiences that should never ever be frowned upon. Your beautiful and haunting language often brings tears to my eyes. I have your quotes decorated on the walls of my bedroom. “I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am,” is my favorite—it reminds me that I am alive.

You helped me make sense of my regular numbness to life. I was trapped, sometimes protected in a bell jar that warped life into a lovely nightmare. 

Love,

Phoebe F.

Dear R. F. Kuang’s Babel, 

I thought you were going to be a book that made me feel smart. Instead, you made me feel exposed. You taught me that language is never neutral, that translation is power, that understanding alone is not the same as justice. You gave me footnotes steeped in grief and fury, and the kind of clarity that hurts. I didn’t want your ending, but I knew it was the only honest one. You changed the way I think about words, and I’ll carry that with me long after the last page.

With exhausted admiration,

Micki M.