I need everyone to understand that I am no longer in control of my TBR.

The TBR runs itself.

I simply provide funding.

Every month I make a serious announcement:

“I’m not buying any more books until I finish what I already own.”

Then a romance reader online says:

“The tension…”

And suddenly I’m entering my card details.

At this point, my unread books are less of a collection and more of a hostage situation. I currently own enough unread books to survive three economic recessions and a minor apocalypse. Yet every time I enter a bookshop, I act like I’ve never seen a book before.

“OMG, what’s this?”

Vixxy .

It’s a romance novel.

You own 73 of them.

Calm down.

The funniest part is that my reading taste has the range of a teaspoon. I keep convincing myself I’m buying different books.

I’m not.

I’m buying the same man over and over again.

This one wears a suit.

This one wears hockey skates.

This one owns a ranch.

This one owns a kingdom.

This one can turn into a dragon.

But at the end of the day they’re all just six-foot-four men with emotional baggage and an unhealthy obsession with one woman. And apparently that’s enough for me.

Every. Single. Time.

Sometimes I’ll read the back of a book and genuinely lose my mind.

“He’s cold, feared by everyone, and only soft for her.”

Added.

“He’d burn the world down for her.”

Added.

“He has a dark past.”

Groundbreaking.

Added.

At this point, if a man in a romance novel attends therapy, I’m actually suspicious. My physical TBR library (yes I have had to create my own mini library for them) is becoming embarrassing. People think I have diverse reading tastes because there are so many books.

I don’t.

It’s all romance. It’s just romance wearing disguises.

Enemies to lovers.

Fake dating.

Marriage of convenience.

Forbidden romance.

Grumpy sunshine.

Sunshine grumpy.

Grumpy grumpy.

Everybody’s grumpy.

Sometimes I pick up a book from my shelf and realize I have absolutely no memory of buying it.

None.

Zero.

I stare at it like it appeared through supernatural means.

When did I buy this?

Why did I buy this?

Who is this man on the cover?

Why is he shirtless in winter?

Questions I’ll never answer.

The other day I discovered three unread books with nearly identical plots.

Not similar.

Identical.

The same man.

The same woman.

The same tension.

The same “touch her and die” energy.

Apparently I saw all three and thought:

“Yes, but what if THIS one is different?”

It’s not.

And I’ll still read it.

My Kindle is even worse.

That thing is basically a digital warehouse of poor decisions. Every time there’s a sale, I become financially irresponsible.

“It’s only £1.99.”

And then I buy twelve.

I don’t think I’m saving money anymore.I think I’m just bulk-ordering fictional men. The unread books on my shelves must hate seeing me come home with another romance novel. Imagine waiting ages to be read only to watch me walk in carrying a special edition with sprayed edges. I’d throw myself off the shelf.

Honestly, I don’t even think my TBR exists for reading purposes anymore.

It’s aspirational.

It’s a vision board.

It’s me collecting future emotions.

Because I fully believe I’m going to read all these books. The same way I believe I’ll drink more water, wake up early, and become the kind of person who doesn’t stay awake until 2 a.m. reading about a morally grey man who communicates exclusively through growling.

Delusion is important.

It’s what keeps me going.

Will I ever finish my TBR?

No.

Because every time I read one romance novel, I immediately need seven more.

It’s a cycle.

A disease.

A lifestyle.

And honestly?

If a dangerous fictional man with trauma and nice forearms appears on my feed tonight, he’ll probably be on my shelf by Friday.