Review: Hello, Limerence by Momo Yamaguchi

Hello, Limerence by Momo Yamaguchi

Blurb from Goodreads:

limerence. [li-mer-uhns] noun

the state of being obsessively infatuated with someone, usually accompanied by delusions of or a desire for an intense romantic relationship with that person; e.g., her limerence lasted for around three months before she actually met him

Mika is about to turn 25, and all she has to show for it is a soul-sucking office job and a terminal case of virginity. Between unwanted advances from co-workers and subway commuters, and love-bombing from unappealing fuckboys, Mika’s ready to explode. Her only therapeutic outlet is her imagination, which manifests in a series of comically violent and horny fantasies.

Determined to change her fate, and with the encouragement of Nana, her certified “Hot Girl” best friend, Mika loses half of her virginity to Tyler, a Japanese-American boy with an allergy to commitment. The other half is taken by a man with a drawer full of red flags, all while Mika indulges in fantasies of women much to her titillation and confusion.

Caught in a love(less) triangle, Mika also must weather a mysterious outbreak spurred by the unhygienic bathroom practices of white male westerners. Will she emerge from quarantine a new woman? Or, spurred by a reunion with an estranged friend, can she shift her life in a new direction? Could this be yet again limerence, or might it be the beginning of something a bit less one-sided?

Scathingly funny, delightfully profane, and surprisingly heartfelt, Hello, Limerence is a story for the unloved and the unhinged—a madcap spin through the frenzy of one woman’s desire. 

My Review:

This was great - it wasn't what I was expecting but it felt honest.  Very cerebral with most of the book taking place inside the narrator's mind but I liked that and it worked for this book. Definitely a fun, messed up read that you will love!

Hello, Limerence comes out next week on August 18, 2026, and you can purchase HERE!  

You get the lonelies and the uglies, and sometimes they are one and the same. I slot neatly into the third category—my bushy eyebrows grow back with alarming ferocity, even as I pluck and shave with weary dedication, and one could place a hand flat on my chest, a plateau of nothingness. My eyes have the charming tendency to appear closed in photographs; my cheeks puff out too much when I smile. Excellent skin, but an unseemly green vein lurks above one cheekbone and dark half-moons shadow my under eyes. I consider myself quite unremarkable overall, the sort of girl you'd sit next to in a doctor's office without glancing up from your dog-eared magazine, not even once. Extra ordinary.

There are brief moments, when I'm appraising my nakedness in the mirror and catch the glow of my youthful skin, the luster emanating from my tanned, slim boy-body. On the days I feel beautiful, I also feel an overwhelming pity for this untouched body—not to be confused with the clinical touch of a chiropractor, whom I frequent every Wednesday after work to have my uneven hip bones corrected, my sore shoulders kneaded, my neck cracked.

When he touches me, the blurry outlines of my body seem to grow firmer and take shape again. 

A 9-5, often 9-9, office girl, I wear pantyhose and high heels that fuck up my feet and have blessed me with bunions; silk blouses and tapered knee-length skirts; pressed black cigarette pants on occasion.