Shapes of Love by L V PEÑALBA is the story of an aroace singer thrown into unexpected stardom, who decides to challenge the idea that romance is the ultimate life goal. Read on for an extract.

 

 

ABOUT THE BOOK

When nineteen-year-old Sasha’s first album throws her into stardom, her fans become obsessed with discovering who inspired her love songs. Except, Sasha is aroace-spec (aromantic, asexual), and she’s not interested in romance (unless it comes in the shape of a slowburn enemies-to-lovers book or a star-crossed-lovers manga). Her music is all about her favourite love stories, not her own.

After running into Kai, her estranged best friend who she hasn’t seen in two years, pictures of them together leak, and everyone assumes he’s Sasha’s muse, the ‘boyfriend’ who broke her heart. Pressured by her label and fearing fan backlash, Sasha agrees to a PR relationship with Kai for six months – but her sense of self is put to the ultimate test. Where does she fit in a society that equates happiness with romantic love? One where even her closest friends prioritise their partners over her?

Under the guise of their faux romance, Sasha and Kai get a chance to rebuild their platonic bond and heal the wounds of their past. But when actor Asher Grish enters the scene, threatening to shake the foundation of Sasha’s PR relationship, she finds herself at a crossroads. Either she loses herself, or her career.

L.V. Peñalba’s Shapes of Love is an unforgettable story of finding the people that feel like home – even if that home isn’t what the rest of the world expects. It’s not a romance, but it’s most definitely a love story.

 

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EXTRACT

 

CHAPTER 1

I really wish I was anywhere but here. I shouldn’t have finished my book on the break. Now it’s all I can think about. Why did it have to end on such a big cliffhanger? And how is she ever going to save–

‘Congratulations on your Grammy nomination.’ The reporter’s voice snaps me back to the present. Nestled behind a vase with colourful flowers, her phone hums on the glass table, recording our conversation. The evening sunlight spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting warm light across my skin. ‘You’re a great lyricist, Sassy.’

Sassy. I’m still getting used to people calling me by my stage name instead of Sasha.

Not too long ago, Sassy was just part of my social media handle.

‘Thank you! I’m so honoured.’ I squirm in my seat and readjust my skirt, trying to ignore the burning sensation on my thighs. Whatever fabric this skirt is made of has been giving me a rash all day. All I want is to jump off this chair and scratch my butt.

I usually don’t mind doing press (especially when it involves cuddling puppies), but this is my ninth interview today. I’ve been up since five am, my back aches, and I need sleep. Also, for some reason, every interviewer I’ve met today had veneers, which is totally fine – I just had never noticed before, and now I can’t stop thinking about it. I mean, what even happens to people’s teeth after they get veneers? They can never brush their teeth again, only the veneer. Do they just decay? It can’t be worth it, can it?

‘Less than two years ago, you were an ordinary girl filming videos in her room, and now your debut album has hit number one on the charts and you’re nominated for five Grammys.’ Something about the way she says ordinary girl makes annoyance bubble up inside me, as if there’s something fundamentally wrong about existing in anonymity. ‘What would you – or rather, the girl from two years ago say if she could see you now?’ Her veneers glint at me when she smiles.

‘Oh! If my past self could talk to my current self, we’d probably both be shocked that someone figured out time travel without creating a paradox.’ I’m joking, but from her expression, it didn’t land. ‘Sorry. Um, I guess, if the Sasha from back then could see me now . . . she’d probably swear. Like, are you fucking for real? Then my moms would tell me off for cursing.’ I crack my knuckles. The truth is, everything happened so fast that I’m still not sure how my life has changed. I feel the same, though I’ve started to notice how things around me do not. ‘I guess, if you had asked me – well, her, Past Me – she would have thought I’d be halfway through college by now. I wanted to study music.’

College. A thread of guilt weaves into my thoughts when my best friend’s face flashes through my mind. Mia and I promised we’d go to college together. I don’t regret releasing the album, but I was looking forward to rooming with her.

Sometimes I feel like I did something wrong or let her down. I don’t know why, exactly. All I know is that I don’t want things to change… more than they already have.

I started posting my music online when I turned eighteen. Mia and my sister Sonia dared me to, but I never thought anything would come of it. It wasn’t fame that I was seeking, but connection. I wanted to share something that I enjoyed and meant a lot to me with others who might feel the same.

Then one day I woke up to thousands of notifications – one of my songs had gone viral. I don’t know how the hell it made it onto the Billboard charts, but before I knew it, a major label was sliding into my DMs and offering me a record deal. Everything spiralled from there – my album debuted at number one, I gained ten million listeners in a few months, and I was opening for artists whose faces I had only seen online.

It’s strange. Making music is all I ever wanted. I’ve earned enough money to live comfortably for years. My sister can get into a good middle school, and my moms can retire if they want to.

But when people say being famous is a whirlwind, they’re wrong. It’s more like being stuck inside a centrifuge. Fame spins you out of your orbit. I feel like an untethered balloon, floating up and away from everyone.

I know I’m lucky, but… sometimes I hate it.

‘You’ve always wanted to be a singer then. What inspires you to write?’ the reporter asks.

I don’t know, man. Right now I only feel inspired to scratch my butt. I have to force myself not to tear off my skirt right then and there.

‘Oh, that’s a great question, um–’ I sculpt my lips into a smile and pretend to be deep in thought. Whenever I’m asked this, I’m supposed to say love, because that’s what my first album is all about. Falling in love and falling apart for the first time.

Marissa, my manager, throws me a piercing look from the catering table as she takes a slow sip from her large coffee. She’s probably the closest person I have in my life right now, if closeness is determined by the amount of time we spend together. Sometimes Marissa is the only person who can reach into the centrifuge and keep me grounded before I spin out of control.

‘I’d say life inspires me,’ I say. I can hear Marissa sigh, but the reporter doesn’t seem to notice. ‘I find inspiration in many things. Things I see or like, things that I feel–’

‘Things you feel… for a certain someone?’ The reporter leans forward, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. Here we go again. ‘Your fans have theories as to who your first single, ‘Summer Blues,’ is about.’ Her smile widens. ‘Tell me, will we ever meet the boyfriend?’

“Summer Blues,” the song that started it all, is about falling in love with your academic rival turned best friend, but things go south, and you break up in front of a fast-food restaurant. Everyone has been trying to figure out who it’s about ever since it went viral. People have started looking for clues and Easter eggs in my videos and dissecting the lyrics of my other songs.

Everyone wants to meet the boyfriend. What they don’t know is that there is no boyfriend. The song is about an anime ship. An immaculate ship, but that’s beside the point.

‘Will I ever tell? Probably not.’ I mirror her smile in the way I’ve been trained to do. Three seconds of eye contact, grin, look down, repeat. ‘But there are a lot of theories out there, and I do read them!’

‘Can you at least tell us how the love story is going now?’ She presses. ‘Is he still around? Has he listened to ‘Summer Blues’? Would you consider getting back together?’

I consider my answer for a second. ‘I mean, does it matter?’ I stare at her with renewed intensity. Why does everything have to revolve around my love life?

In moments like these, I feel like an impostor. Like making it this far has been a fluke and people only like my music because of who it’s supposed to be about.

I mean, I’m not even straight.

‘So sorry, that’s all the time we have,’ Marissa interjects, approaching us before the reporter can make sense of my words. Bummer. I wanted to hear her answer. But at least I’m free.

Free from the centrifuge.

For the next three months, I don’t have to follow anyone’s schedule, and I can fall back on my own routine. I still have to give a speech at my old high school tomorrow as part of their “notable alumni initiative,” and I’m supposed to have three new demos for my label by the new year, but writing is my favorite part of the process. I get to be creative. I get to be myself.

I get to breathe.

There’s a spring in my step as I head to my dressing room and change into an oversized hoodie and soft sweatpants. A sigh escapes me as I kick the itchy skirt away; it’s like I’m shape- shifting, shedding Sassy’s skin and reclaiming my own. I’m Sasha again.

Marissa offers to drop me off at home, but I convince her to take a detour to the local Yogurtland. No one eats Froyo anymore, but my throat feels raw after a day of nonstop talking, and I need my fix. I can already taste it: medium cup, original tart with multiple scoops of Oreo–

‘Fuck me. It’s closed?’ I lean out the window, the night air tousling my dark brown hair as I stare at the sign on the door. It looks like it’s been out of business for a while. My heart sinks a little. I can’t remember the last time I was here, but if I had known it was going to close, I would have committed it to memory. ‘When did this happen?’

I could swear I was just here. Okay, maybe it was last year, but still. Mom graduated and we all came here to celebrate. She went back to college to get her master’s in her forties, and

Mamá looked so proud taking pictures of her with her physics diploma. Sonia and I ran into the store and grabbed her a cup of vanilla tart with sliced strawberries and granola – her favourite.

‘I will be dramatic about this.’ I slump against the car’s leather seat.

Marissa veers onto the exit toward my neighbourhood, the familiar layout of the mall springing into view. There’s a group of teenagers sitting outside a 7-Eleven wearing jackets with my high school’s mascot, but I don’t recognize their faces. I briefly wonder if they’ll be attending my speech tomorrow.

The thought makes my chest tighten a little. I don’t know if it’s me, or because all of my friends have already gone off to college, but something about coming home feels different this time.

‘What happens to people’s teeth when they get veneers?’

I ask.

‘Why?’ Marissa frowns. ‘Do you want to get veneers?’

‘No–’

‘You’re nineteen.’ She arches an eyebrow. ‘No fillers. No veneers. No fake boobs. Your contract doesn’t allow it. You can do Botox, but personally I’d wait. You do frown a lot, but you can just learn to move your face less. We can run it by your coach–’

‘Chill. I wasn’t planning to.’ I nudge her playfully. Marissa cares, but sometimes she cares too much. Her hazel eyes look like melted caramel, but there’s a sharpness to her gaze when it hardens, like she’s about to cut you open.

‘I have them,’ she says. ‘Veneers.’

‘Are your teeth all right?’ I turn to look at her. Her pale cheeks are coloured pink by the night breeze sneaking in through the window as she flashes a practiced grin. I’ve never noticed, because they look so natural, and Marissa’s smile is so effortless. But if you look close enough, there’s an unnatural shine about them, like they’re too symmetrical, too perfect. ‘Man, everything is an illusion.’

Marissa studies me, as if she’s worried about my mental health.

‘Don’t give me that look. I’m just sleep-deprived.’ I shift my gaze out the window and unbuckle my seatbelt when she pulls up to my house. It’s not a lie. I’ve been sleep-deprived since I signed the record deal. Every day it’s been go-go-go. Which is fine; I’m a go-go-go person, too, when it comes to doing what I love, but it’s catching up to me. The past few months have been a series of trips for music videos and press events. This is the first time I’ve been home for more than a few days since the album released, which is weird. The last time I actually lived here, I wasn’t even famous.

As Marissa parks in front of my driveway, I take a good look at my house, making sure that it hadn’t changed in some way while I was gone. The outside is weathered and in need of paint, but I like how it adds a homey vibe, as if letting you know it’s been lived in. My sister’s bike is strapped to the porch, and a bunch of heat-resistant plants add a splash of colour. Through the kitchen window, the faded yellow curtains with duck prints have lost their lustre, but Mom would never replace them because it was the first thing she and Mamá bought for the house.

‘Want me to come in?’ Marissa asks when I don’t show any signs of vacating her car. ‘I know your moms aren’t back from their trip yet. We can rehearse your speech for tomorrow and keep watching that show we started on the plane.’

‘I’m okay.’ I’m not, though. I hate the fact that my house is the only one without any lights on inside. Marissa says I should look into buying a bigger place in a better neighbourhood, but I’ve been putting it off. Humans are the heart of a house. To leave this place would be like ripping out its heart.

Marissa kills the engine and steps out. I give her a look when she unearths the spare key from one of the cactus pots.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Making sure you eat dinner and brush your veneer-less teeth.’ She opens the door and motions for me to get in. ‘It’s my job as your manager, so come on. Dinnertime.’

How she knows where the spare key is, I don’t know.

She pretty much knows everything about me, even though I don’t know much about her, except that she’s sort of corporate America–coded, and she decided to become a manager after serving as her sorority’s president. When my label introduced me to her, I wasn’t sure we were going to vibe at all, but I can’t deny she’s good at what she does. She’s taught me so much about this industry that I don’t think I could have survived the last year without her. She’s like my guardian angel, if guardian angels had two smartphones and a caffeine addiction. A few months ago, this famous YouTuber wouldn’t leave me alone at a party, so I punched him when he tried to put his hands on me. Marissa showed up ten minutes after I panic-called her and threatened to have him blacklisted if he so much as sent me a DM again.

Inside the house, the living room feels frozen in time. The couch is a mess of blankets because everyone in my family gets cold while watching movies, and the kitchen is spotless but littered with electronics – the noisy toaster, an air fryer we’ve never used, and Sonia’s school laptop that she always leaves in the most random places. The faint smell of something sweet still lingers in the air, enveloping me like a ghost hug.

It’s home. It just feels empty without them.

‘Are they having fun in Spain?’ Marissa asks. She doesn’t take off her shoes when she comes in, and I’m too tired to nag her. I guess this makes me a people pleaser, and I hate it, but no matter how hard I try, I don’t know how to be anything but nice.

‘Yeah. They should be back home soon.’ I show her the picture Mom sent me this morning. She, Mamá, and Sonia are currently visiting la Alhambra de Granada, standing in front of a dazzling palace as they smile at the camera.

Mamá grew up in Spain – she’s from León, but she lived in Málaga during middle school and high school before moving to the US. She and Mom have taken Sonia and me to visit a few times over the years. We didn’t have the chance to travel much growing up, so now that I can afford it, I want to spoil them as much as I can. This trip was my idea, actually. Mamá hadn’t seen her childhood friends in a long time, and I wanted to surprise her. I would have come with them had it not been for the Grammy nominations. Suddenly it became really important for my label that I film a music video, and before I knew it, I had multiple talk shows and interviews lined up.

I didn’t want my family to miss the trip, so I told them to go without me this time.

We can always travel together some other time.

It’s not a big deal.

Really, it’s not. It comes with the job.

Doesn’t mean I’m not sad, though.

‘Are we cooking or are we ordering?’ Marissa plops down on the couch and turns on the TV.

‘I could go for some pizza.’ The tightness in my chest eases a little. At least she’s here.

I muster the will to take a shower while Marissa orders food, allowing the water to wash the exhaustion off my body. I’m halfway through putting on some lotion and moisturizing when I see three missed calls from Mia, and I remember that I promised her we’d FaceTime today. But I’m so tired from doing press that I don’t think I can manage more than monosyllabic responses, so I collapse onto my bed like a corpse in a murder scene and shoot her a text.

 

ME
I’m officially deceased.
a zombie. raincheck?

MIA
ph, okay. don’t worry!
was gonna text you to
reschedule anyway.

 

Oh. I guess I don’t need to feel guilty then. We’re both busy these days.

 

MIA
you’ll never guess what
happened today

ME
did you trip while
carrying poop was
samples at the lab
again?

MIA
AHHH. Sash. don’t
remind me.
accident.

 

I wait for Mia to send another message and tell me about her day, but she’s a caller, not a texter, and after five minutes I realize she must have gone away and forgotten.

A breeze slips through the window, brushing against my skin, and jolts me back to reality. I should dry my hair and do my skin care, but it’s too late. I made the mistake of grabbing my phone, and now I’m melting into the bed, sucked into a black hole where I’m unable to do anything but scroll.

I hate this. I just have to get up and meet Marissa in the living room, but I’m too exhausted. I think about calling my moms, but they’re probably still asleep.

Instead, I search the veneer question (they have pores, so I guess your teeth don’t decay) before inevitably going to my social media. My new music video comes out in a few weeks and people are counting down the minutes until its release. They think it’ll contain clues about the boyfriend’s identity, and my current relationship status. I don’t like reading these, but I always cave. Even though I know it’s not good for me, I just have to know what they’re saying.

 

@sassysnailpolish she must be the one who broke up with him. in midnight moonlight, sassy mentions she made a difficult choice and left someone behind. that means she initiated the break up.

 

Yeah, no, “Midnight Moonlight” was inspired by the journey of a character I like.

 

@sassyseyelash and they didn’t get along at all at some point… like, the lyrics “tell me, was this fate or war? I go to sleep and I’m still chasing dreams through bloodstained streets.” HELLO? Enemies to lovers.

 

Yeah . . . that one’s about a fantasy book.

Sometimes I feel like my fans are treasure hunting, although I’m not sure what the prize is if they figure it out.

If they figure me out.

It’s like we’re friends, in some weird, parasocial way. Whenever I feel alone, I remind myself that there are thousands of people who like me, just a click away. Their love echoes so loudly it reaches me through the screen… even when it feels a little smothering.

I used to reply to every comment under my videos, until it became impossible. Now my label has to approve what I post, so I try to connect with my fans in other ways. I go live as often as I can, and when I see someone saying something nice about my music, I scroll through their posts to catch a glimpse of who they are. I hate being a lurker, but at least it doesn’t feel so one-way. Some of them create amazing art and covers, so I try to support them by making anonymous donations if they have a link in their bio.

I love that they try to see me through me. Even if they miss.

But maybe I’m a kaleidoscope. Maybe everyone who looks at me sees a different girl.

 

leviackermanscravat okay, am I the only one that thinks that sassy is aroace- spec? she’s left us many hints. a thread.

 

I sit up on the bed, a gasp clawing its way out of my throat. What? Is this… are they joking? My thumb hovers over the screen, heart thudding, hesitating for a moment before I muster the courage to open the thread.

 

leviackermanscravat what do we know about Sassy? she loves books, TV, and anime. the lyrics in MM, SB, and TMoYaI are all consistent with character plotlines in some of her favourite stories.

leviackermanscravat in one of her first videos, you can see the edge of what looks like an aroace flag in the corner of her room. see screenshot.

leviackermanscravat also remember when she went Live and we all watched Saiki K? (that’s how she ended up dying her hair pastel pink, but I digress). in this video she jokingly mentioned she related to him because of the way he approached relationships. Saiki K is rumoured to be aroace-spec.

leviackermanscravat also, notice how she always avoids talking about her relationship status in interviews? even though her album is about love, she’s never once stated that it’s based on personal experience, that’s just what we’ve *assumed*

sashasdiscardedtoenails we’ve also assumed her songs were about a guy. she could be gay. in her song YHIM she says “not a single word was heard, I regret leaving you,” but if you think about it for a second, “I regret leaving her” rhymes better. it’s a clue.

leviackermanscravat why not aroace?

sashasdiscardedtoenails she writes love songs. what are the odds that she’s aromantic and asexual?

 

Except that’s exactly what I am. I’m an aromantic, asexual girl who loves romance. Just not when it’s about me.

I crack my knuckles, rereading the words if only to make sure I haven’t imagined them. Someone has seen me.

Not Sassy.

But Sasha, the real me.

 

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

L V Peñalba (she/they) is a fiction writer who splits her time between Spain and LA. Their work delves into themes of identity, love, and mental health. When not writing, they enjoy learning new languages, escaping problems by watching anime, and resenting the fact that everyone in their life is allergic to cats, so she hasn’t been able to adopt one (yet). Shapes of Love is their first novel.

Follow L V Peñalba on Instagram here.

Visit the publishers website here.