Love, Identity, and Longing Collide Boldly

Shamim Sarif’s I Can’t Think Straight is more than just a romance—it’s a lyrical meditation on identity, culture, and courage to live an authentic life. With exquisite prose and remarkable emotional insight, Sarif delivers a story that pulses with longing, inner conflict, and undeniable chemistry.

At the novel’s center are Tala and Leyla, two women from vastly different cultural backgrounds who seem to embody opposing worlds. Tala, a spirited and sharp-witted Palestinian Christian, is days away from a high-society Jordanian wedding that feels more like a political event than a celebration of love. Leyla, a reserved British Muslim of Indian descent, is a quietly ambitious writer whose novel is about to be published—though her parents still believe her future lies with a husband, not a literary career.

Their paths cross when Tala returns to London and meets Leyla, her best friend’s girlfriend. What begins as forced friendliness slowly morphs into something electric—Sarif masterfully builds their connection through snappy dialogue, simmering glances, and intimate conversations that crack open the emotional armor each woman wears. The enemies-to-friends-to-lovers arc is handled with tenderness and precision, never rushed, and consistently earned.

But what truly elevates I Can’t Think Straight is Sarif’s gift for nuance. Her characters don’t exist in a vacuum; layered family expectations, religious traditions, and the political realities of the modern world shape them. Tala’s wealthy and image-conscious family represents the pressures of tradition and appearances. Leyla’s parents, though loving, are tethered to a worldview that makes it impossible for them to see their daughter for who she truly is.

Sarif never vilifies these families; instead, she shows us how love and control can coexist in uncomfortable ways. The result is profoundly human storytelling—heartbreaking in its honesty but always brimming with hope.

The romance between Tala and Leyla is poignant, sensual, and quietly revolutionary. In a world where queer love is still often hidden, their connection feels like a rebellion against silence. Leyla’s journey is compelling—watching her step into herself and make the painful, brave choice to live authentically is one of the novel’s most rewarding arcs. Tala, for all her confidence and privilege, must also reckon with what it means to disappoint those who raised her.

Sarif’s language is evocative, each word chosen with care. Her writing carries an elegance that mirrors the emotional restraint her characters battle daily. Underneath the simmering tension lies a call for empathy, understanding, and love that transcends borders—both geographic and personal.

I Can’t Think Straight is not just a story of love—it’s a story of awakening. Of two women who, in finding each other, find the strength to live their truths. Bold, tender, and politically astute, this novel lingers long after the final page.