Find your next favorite book

Become a member today and read free for 30 days
Letters to the Lost

Letters to the Lost

Read preview

Letters to the Lost

4.5/5 (91 ratings)
380 pages
5 hours
Apr 4, 2017


Secret letters spark true love in this emotionally compelling romance from the New York Times bestselling author of A Curse So Dark and Lonely, Brigid Kemmerer.

Juliet Young always writes letters to her mother, a world-traveling photojournalist. Even after her mother's death, she leaves letters at her grave. It's the only way Juliet can cope.

Declan Murphy isn't the sort of guy you want to cross. In the midst of his court-ordered community service at the local cemetery, he's trying to escape the demons of his past.

When Declan reads a haunting letter left beside a grave, he can't resist writing back. Soon, he's opening up to a perfect stranger, and their connection is immediate. But neither Declan nor Juliet knows that they're not actually strangers. When life at school interferes with their secret life of letters, sparks will fly as Juliet and Declan discover truths that might tear them apart.
Apr 4, 2017

About the author

Brigid Kemmerer is the author of the New York Times bestselling Cursebreaker series, which includes A Curse So Dark and Lonely, A Heart So Fierce and Broken, and A Vow So Bold and Deadly. She has also written the contemporary young adult romances Call It What You Want, More Than We Can Tell, and Letters to the Lost, as well as paranormal young adult stories, including the Elemental series and Thicker Than Water. A full-time writer, Brigid lives in the Baltimore area with her family. @BrigidKemmerer

Related to Letters to the Lost

Related Books

Inside the book

Top quotes

  • Sometimes I think fate conspires against us. Or maybe fate conspires with us.

  • I don’t know what made me ask, but I know I don’t want him to leave. Like every time life throws us together, this moment seems destined to end before I’m ready.

  • Sometimes you get to a point where it hurts too much, and you’ll do anything to get rid of the pain. Even if it means doing something that hurts someone else.

  • I wonder, if I keep faking it, will I eventually believe it? A part of me worries that I’ll keep faking it and completely forget what’s real at all.

  • I need her. More than anything right now. I need her. And because of everything between us, I can’t have her.

Book Preview

Letters to the Lost - Brigid Kemmerer


"Vivid characters, a well-paced plot and several unexpected revelations are among many reasons Letters to the Lost should move to the top of your TBR pile. . . . A savory read." —USA Today

"Reminiscent of . . . the film You’ve Got Mail or, more recently, Becky Albertalli’s novel Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda. . . . Readers will find themselves rooting for the real Declan to win Juliet’s heart the same way his online persona did." —SLJ

Explores the . . . ideas of carving identity out of pain and the way perception colors expectations.BCCB

A great concept, delivered in a compulsively readable package. . . . Romance readers will stay up late to finish this very satisfying and heartfelt read.Booklist

An emotional roller coaster. . . . This book is going to fly off the shelves to all teens, but it will hold special interest for those looking for a tear-jerking romance and serious readers of realistic fiction.VOYA


Letters to the Lost

More Than We Can Tell

For Michael

I’m so lucky to be on this crazy ride with you.

(Mostly because we keep each other from jumping off.)














































More Than We Call Tell teaser

About the Author


There’s this photograph I can’t get out of my mind. A little girl in a flowered dress is screaming in the dark. Blood is everywhere: on her cheeks, on her dress, in spattered droplets on the ground. A gun is pointed at the dirt road beside her, and you can’t see the man, but you can see his boots. You showed it to me years ago, telling me about the photographer who got the shot, but all I remember is the scream and the flowers and the blood and the gun.

Her parents took a wrong turn or something. In a war zone, maybe. Was it Iraq? I think it was Iraq. It’s been awhile and I’m fuzzy on the history of it. They took a wrong turn, and some spooked soldiers started firing at the car. Her parents were killed instantly.

The little girl was lucky.


I don’t know.

At first you see the horror because it’s so perfectly etched in the girl’s expression.

Then you see the details. The blood. The flowers. The gun. The boots.

Some of your photographs are equally gripping. I should probably be thinking of your work. It seems wrong to be leaning against your headstone and thinking about someone else’s talent.

I can’t help it.

You can see it on her face. Her reality is being ripped away, and she knows it.

Her mother is gone, and she knows it.

There is agony in that picture.

Every time I look at it, I think, I know exactly how she feels.

I need to stop staring at this letter.

I only picked up the envelope because we’re supposed to clean up any personal stuff in front of the gravestones before we mow. I usually take my time because eight hours is eight hours, and it’s not like I’m getting paid for this.

My grease-stained fingers have left marks along the edges of the paper. I should throw it away before anyone knows I touched it.

But my eyes keep tracing the pen strokes. The handwriting is neat and even, but not perfect. At first I can’t figure out what’s holding my focus, but then it becomes clear: a shaky hand wrote these words. A girl’s hand, I can tell. The letters are rounded just enough.

I glance at the headstone. It’s newish. Crisp letters are carved into shiny granite. Zoe Rebecca Thorne. Beloved wife and mother.

The date of death hits me hard. May twenty-fifth of this year. The same day I swallowed an entire bottle of whiskey and drove my father’s pickup truck into an empty office building.

Funny how the date is etched into my brain, but it’s etched into someone else’s for something entirely different.

Thorne. The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. She’s only been dead a few months, and she was forty-five, so maybe it was in the news.

I bet I got more press.

Hey, Murph! What gives, man?

I jump and drop the letter. Melonhead, my supervisor, is standing at the crest of the hill, wiping a sweat-soaked handkerchief across his brow.

His last name isn’t really Melonhead, any more than mine is Murph. But if he’s going to take liberties with Murphy, I’m going to do the same with Melendez.

Only difference is that I don’t say it to his face.

Sorry, I call. I stoop to pick up the letter.

I thought you were going to finish mowing this section.

I will.

If you don’t, then I’ve gotta. I want to get home, kid.

He always wants to get home. He has a little girl. She’s three and completely obsessed with Disney princesses. She knows all her letters and numbers already. She had a birthday party last weekend with fifteen kids from her preschool class, and Melonhead’s wife made a cake.

I don’t give a crap about any of this, of course. I just can’t get the guy to keep his mouth shut. There’s a reason I said I’d handle this section alone.

I know, I say. I’ll do it.

You don’t do it, I’m not signing your sheet for today.

I bristle and remind myself that being a dick would probably be reported to the judge. She already hates me. I said I’d do it.

He waves a hand dismissively and turns his back, heading down the opposite side of the hill. He thinks I’m going to screw him over. Maybe the last guy did. I don’t know.

After a moment, I hear his mower kick on.

I should probably finish clearing the mementos so I can get on my own mower, but I don’t. The September sun dumps heat on the cemetery, and I have to shove damp hair off my forehead. You’d think we were in the Deep South instead of Annapolis, Maryland. Melonhead’s bandana almost seemed like a cliché, but now I’m envying him.

I hate this.

I should be grateful for the community service, I know. I’m seventeen, and for a while it looked like they were going to charge me as an adult—but it’s not like I killed anyone. Only property damage. And lawn maintenance in a cemetery isn’t exactly a death sentence, even if I’m surrounded by it.

I still hate this. I say I don’t care what people think of me, but that’s a lie. You’d care, too, if everyone thought you were nothing more than a ticking time bomb. We’re only a few weeks into the school year, but half my teachers are probably counting the minutes until I start shooting up the place. I can already imagine my senior portrait in the yearbook. Declan Murphy: Most likely to commit a felony.

It would be hilarious if it weren’t so depressing.

I read the letter again. Pain flares in every word. The kind of pain that makes you write letters to someone who will never read them. The kind of pain that isolates. The kind of pain you’re certain no one else has felt, ever.

My eyes linger on the last lines.

You can see it on her face. Her reality is being ripped away, and she knows it.

Her mother is gone, and she knows it.

There is agony in that picture.

Every time I look at it, I think, I know exactly how she feels.

Without thinking about it, I fish a nubby pencil out of my pocket, and I press it to the paper.

Just below the girl’s shaky script, I add two words of my own.


Me too.

The words are shaking, and I realize it’s not the paper; it’s my hand. The foreign handwriting is almost burning my eyes.

Someone read my letter.

Someone read my letter.

I look around as if it just happened, but the cemetery is empty. I haven’t been here since Tuesday. It’s Thursday morning now, so it’s a miracle the letter is still intact. More often than not, the envelope is gone, taken by weather or animals or possibly the cemetery staff.

But not only is the letter here, someone felt the need to add commentary.

The paper is still shaking in my fist.

I can’t—

This is—

What—who would—how—

I want to scream. I can’t even think in complete sentences. Rage is burning up my insides.

This was private. Private. Between me and my mother.

It has to be a guy. Greasy fingerprints line the edges, and the handwriting is blocky. It smacks of arrogance, to insert himself into someone else’s grief and claim a part of it. Mom used to say that words always carried a bit of the writer’s soul, and I can almost feel it pouring off the page.

Me too.

No, not him too. He has no idea.

I’m going to complain. This is unacceptable. This is a cemetery. People come here to grieve privately. This is my space. MINE. Not his.

I stomp across the grass, refusing to allow the cool morning air to steal any of my fire. My chest hurts and I’m dangerously close to crying.

This was ours. Mine and hers. My mother can’t write back anymore, and his words on my letter seem to drive that point home. It’s like he stabbed me with the pencil.

By the time I crest the hill, tears hang on my lashes and my breathing is shuddering. The wind has turned my hair into a mess of tangles. I’m going to be a wreck in a minute. I’ll show up late for school with reddened eyes and running makeup. Again.

The guidance counselor used to have some sympathy. Ms. Vickers would pull me into her office and offer a box of tissues. At the end of my junior year, I was getting pats on the shoulder and whispers of encouragement to take all the time I needed.

Now that we’re in the middle of September, Mom’s been dead for months. Since school started, everyone has been wondering when I’m going to get my act together. Ms. Vickers stopped me on Tuesday, and instead of giving a kind look, she pursed her lips and asked if I was still going to the cemetery every morning, and maybe we should talk about more constructive uses of my time.

Like it’s any of her business.

It’s not every morning anyway. Only the mornings when Dad leaves for work early—though half the time I’m convinced he wouldn’t know the difference either way. When he’s home, he makes himself two eggs and eats them with a bowl of grapes I’ve washed and pulled from the vines. He sits at the table and stares at the wall and doesn’t speak.

I could light the place on fire and it’d be even odds that he’d get out in time.

Today was an early-work morning. The sunlight, the breeze, the peaceful tranquility of the cemetery all seemed like a gift.

The two words scrawled on my letter feel like a curse.

A middle-aged Hispanic man is blowing leaves and lawn clippings from the paved road, and he stops when I approach. He’s wearing some type of maintenance uniform, and the name across his breast reads Melendez.

May I help you? he says with a hint of an accent. His eyes aren’t unkind, but he looks tired.

There’s wariness in his voice. I must look fierce. He expects a complaint. I can tell.

Well, I’m about to give him one. There should be some kind of regulation against this. My fist clenches around the letter, crumpling it, and I inhale to speak—

Then I stop.

I can’t do this. She wouldn’t want me to do this.

Temper, Juliet.

Mom was always the calm one. Level-headed, cool in a crisis. She had to be, what with jetting from war zone to war zone.

Besides, I’m about to sound like a jacked-up freak of nature. I already look like one. What am I going to say? Someone wrote two words on my letter? A letter I wrote to someone who isn’t even alive? It could have been anyone. Hundreds of graves line the field around my mother’s. Dozens of people must visit every day—if not more.

And what’s the lawn-care guy going to do? Babysit my mother’s headstone? Install a security camera?

To catch someone with a hidden pencil?

I’m fine, I say. I’m sorry.

I walk back to her grave and sit down in the grass. I’m going to be late for school, but I don’t care. Somewhere in the distance, Mr. Melendez’s leaf blower kicks up again, but here I’m alone.

I’ve written her twenty-nine letters since she died. Two letters every week.

When she was alive, I wrote her hundreds. Her career kept her on the cutting edge of technology, but she craved the permanence and precision of the old-fashioned. Handwritten letters. Cameras with film. Her professional shots were always digital, stuff she could edit anywhere, but film was her favorite. She’d be in some African desert, shooting starvation or violence or political unrest, and she’d always find time to write me a letter.

We did the normal thing, too, of course: emails and video chatting when she had a chance. But the letters—those really meant something. Every emotion came through the paper, as if the ink and dust and smudges from her sweat lent weight to the words, and I could sense her fear, her hope, and her courage.

I’d always write her back. Sometimes she wouldn’t get them for weeks, after they’d filtered their way through her editor to wherever she was on assignment. Sometimes she was home, and I could hand her the letter on my way out the door. It didn’t matter. We just thought on paper to each other.

When she died, I couldn’t stop. Usually, the instant I get to her grave, I can’t breathe until I’m pressing a pen against the paper, feeding her my thoughts.

Now, after seeing this response, I can’t write another word to her. I feel too vulnerable. Too exposed. Anything I say could be read. Twisted. Judged.

So I don’t write a letter to her.

I write a letter to him.


Privacy is an illusion.

Obviously you know this, since you read my letter. It wasn’t addressed to you. It wasn’t for you. It had nothing to do with you. It was between me and my mother.

I know she’s dead.

I know she can’t read the letters.

I know there’s very little I can do to feel close to her anymore.

Now I don’t even have this.

Do you understand what you’ve taken from me? Do you have any idea?

What you wrote implies that you understand agony.

I don’t think you do.

If you did, you wouldn’t have interfered with mine.

My first thought is that this chick is crazy. Who writes to a random stranger in a cemetery?

My second thought is that clearly I’m not one to throw stones here.

Either way, she doesn’t know me. She doesn’t know what I understand.

I shouldn’t even be standing here. It’s Thursday night, meaning I’m supposed to be mowing on the other side of the cemetery. It’s not like I have tons of spare time to stand around reading a letter from a stranger. Melonhead gave a glare at his watch when I walked into the equipment shed five minutes late. If he catches me slacking off, there’ll be hell to pay.

If he keeps threatening to call the judge, I’m going to lose it.

After a moment, my initial irritation seeps out, leaving guilt behind. I’m standing here because I felt a connection with the last letter. I wanted to see if another had been left.

I didn’t expect anyone to read what I’d written.

It’s a slap in the face to realize she must have felt the same way.

I dig in my pockets for a pencil, but all I find are my keys and my lighter.

Oh wait. Rev needed a pencil in seventh period. It’s unlike him not to return something he borrowed, even something as stupid as an old pencil.

Maybe this is fate’s way of telling me to stop and think before I speak. Before I write. Whatever.

I fold up her rant and shove it in my pocket. Then I pull on my gloves and go to find my mower. I hate being here, but after weeks of doing this, I’ve found that hard labor is good for thinking.

I’ll work, and I’ll think.

And, later, I’ll be back to write.


I don’t think you understand agony yourself. If you did, you wouldn’t have interfered with mine.

Did you ever think that my words weren’t meant for you to read, either?


I look up. The cafeteria is nearly empty, and Rowan is standing there, looking at me expectantly.

Are you okay? she asks. The bell rang five minutes ago. I thought you were going to meet me at my locker.

I refold the tattered letter I found this morning and shove it into my backpack, jerking at the zipper. I don’t know when he wrote it, but it must have been last week, because the paper is crinkly like it’s been wet and dried again, and we haven’t had rain since Saturday.

It was the first weekend I didn’t go to the cemetery in a while. A little part of me is irritated that this letter sat for days. His self-righteousness has probably faded, while mine feels fresh and new and hot in my chest.

I’m glad I went this morning. They mow on Tuesday nights, and it probably would have gotten thrown away by the staff.

What were you looking at? says Rowan.

A letter.

She doesn’t push past that. She thinks it’s a letter to my mother. I let her think that.

I don’t need anyone to think I’m any crazier than they do already.

The late bell rings. I need to move. If I get another tardy, I’ll end up in detention. Again. The thought is enough to add extra speed to my step.

I can’t get another detention. I can’t sit in that room for another hour. The silence hurts my ears and leaves me with too much time to think.

Rowan is right beside me. She’ll probably escort me to class and sweet-talk the teacher out of writing me a late slip. She doesn’t need to worry about tardies or detention—teachers love her. She sits in the front row of every class and hangs on their every word, as if she wakes up every morning thirsting for knowledge. Rowan is one of those girls you love to hate: delicately pretty, with a kind word for everyone, and a seemingly effortless straight-A average. She’d be more popular if she weren’t so perfect. I tell her that all the time.

If we’re calling a spade a spade, she’d be more popular if she weren’t best friends with the senior-class train wreck.

When I found the letter this morning, I expected to read it and start crying. Instead, I want to find this loser and punch him in the face. Every time I read it, I get a bit more furious.

Did you ever think that my words weren’t meant for you to read, either?

The fury helps cover up the little part of me that wonders if he’s right.

The hallways are empty, which seems impossible. Where are the rest of the slackers? Why am I always the only late one?

Besides, it’s not like I wasn’t here. I’m physically in the building. It’s not like I’m going to turn into a model student once a teacher starts doing the Charlie Brown at the blackboard.

By the time we reach the language arts wing, we’re half running, skidding through turns. I grab hold of the corner to help propel me down the last hall.

I feel the burn before I feel the collision. Hot liquid sears my skin, and I cry out. A cup of coffee has exploded across my chest. I slam into something solid, and I’m skidding, slipping, falling.

Someone solid.

I’m on the ground, eyes level with scuffed black work boots.

In a rom-com, this would be the meet-cute. The boy would be movie-star hot, first-string quarterback, and class valedictorian. He’d offer me his hand, and he’d coincidentally have an extra T-shirt in his backpack. I’d change into it in the restroom, and somehow my boobs would be bigger, my hips would be smaller, and he’d walk me to class and ask me to prom.

In reality, the guy is Declan Murphy, and he’s practically snarling. His shirt and jacket are soaked with coffee, too, and he’s pulling material away from his chest.

If the rom-com guy was the star quarterback, Declan is the senior-class reject. He’s got a criminal record and a frequent seat in detention. He’s big and mean, and while reddish-brown hair and a sharp jaw might turn some girls on, the dark look in his eyes is enough to keep them away. A scar bisects one eyebrow, and it’s probably not his only one. Most people are afraid of him, and they have reason to be. Rowan is simultaneously trying to help me up and pull me away from him.

He looks at me with absolute derision. His voice is rough and low. "What is wrong with you?"

I jerk away from Rowan. My shirt is plastered to my chest, and I can guarantee he’s getting a great view of my purple bra through my pastel-green shirt. For as hot as the coffee was, now I’m wet and freezing. This is humiliating and horrible, and I can’t decide if I want to cry or if I want to yell at him.

My breath actually hitches, but I suck it up. I’m not afraid of him. "You ran into me."

His eyes are fierce. I wasn’t the one running.

Then he moves forward sharply. I shrink away before I can help it.

Okay, maybe I am afraid of him.

I don’t know what I thought he was going to do. He’s just so intense. He stops short and scowls at my reaction, then finishes his motion to lean down and grab his backpack where it fell.


There probably is something wrong with me. I want to yell at him all over again, even though all this was my fault. My jaw tightens.

Temper, Juliet.

The memory of my mother hits me so hard and fast and sudden that it’s a miracle I don’t burst into tears right here. There’s nothing holding me together, and one wrong word is going to send me straight off an edge.

Declan is straightening, and that scowl is still on his face, and I know he’s going to say something truly despicable. This, after the chastising letter, might be enough to turn me into a sopping mess.

But then his eyes find mine, and something he sees there steals the dark expression from his face.

A tinny voice speaks from beside us. Declan Murphy. Late again, I see.

Mr. Bellicaro, my freshman year biology teacher, is standing beside Rowan. Her cheeks are flushed and she looks almost panicked. She must have sensed trouble and gone running for a teacher. It’s something she would do. I’m not sure whether I’m annoyed or relieved. A classroom door hangs open behind him, and kids are peering into the hallway.

Declan swipes at drops of coffee clinging to his jacket. "I wasn’t late. She ran into me."

Mr. Bellicaro purses his lips. He’s short and has a round gut that’s accentuated by a pink sweater-vest. He’s not what you’d consider well-liked. No food is allowed outside the cafeteria—

Coffee isn’t food, says Declan.

Mr. Murphy, I believe you know the way to the principal’s office.

Yeah, I could draw you a map. His voice sharpens, and he leans in, glowering. This isn’t my fault.

Rowan flinches back from his tone. Her hands are almost wringing. I don’t blame her. For an instant, I wonder if this guy is going to hit a teacher.

Mr. Bellicaro draws himself up. Am I going to have to call security?

No. Declan puts his hands up, his voice bitter. His eyes are dark and furious. No. I’m walking. And he is, cursing under his breath. He crumples his paper cup and flings it at a trash can.

So many emotions ricochet around my skull that I can barely settle on one. Shame, because it really was my fault, and I’m standing here, letting him take the blame. Indignation, for the way he spoke. Fear, for the way he acted.

Intrigue, for the way the darkness fell off his face when his eyes met mine.

I wish I had a photograph of his face at precisely that moment. Or now, capturing his walk down the shadowed hallway. Light flashes on his hair and turns it gold when he passes each window, but shadows cling to his broad shoulders and dark jeans. I haven’t wanted to touch my camera since Mom died, but all of a sudden I wish I had it in my hands. My fingers itch for it.

For you, Miss Young.

I turn, and Mr. Bellicaro is holding out a white slip of paper.

Detention. Again.


You’re right.

I shouldn’t have interfered with your grief.

I’m sorry.

That doesn’t mean you were right to read my letter. I still kind of hate you for that. I’ve been trapped here for fifteen minutes, staring at a blank piece of paper, trying to remember how it felt to write to her, to know my thoughts were more permanent than a conversation.

Instead, all I can think about is you and your Me too and what it meant and whether your pain is anything like mine.

Not that it’s any of my business.

I don’t know if you’ll even read my apology, but I need to say the words to someone. Guilt has been riding my shoulders awhile now.

Not guilt because of you. Because of someone else.

I owe this someone an apology, but I don’t know him any better than I know you. I’m certainly not going to start writing notes to two strangers. For now, this is the best I can do, and I’ll just have to hope that the guilt catches up.

Have you

You've reached the end of this preview. Sign up to read more!
Page 1 of 1


What people think about Letters to the Lost

91 ratings / 19 Reviews
What did you think?
Rating: 0 out of 5 stars

Reader reviews

  • (5/5)
    It's the best, it's wonderfully beautiful, so much captured in the book, I loved it!I received the e-arc for an honest review, thanks a million!Letters to the lost is beautiful YA literature, it is about finding way how to overcome grief, guilt, see and learn the story from another perspective. It's Ya, but it was intriguing interesting this is something great when the story can get all of my attention. It was heart-aching to read the pain that was revealed by both main characters Juliet and Declan. Both have lost somebody from their family, Juliet her mum in car accident and without a chance to say goodbye, and Declan his little sister and dad in one. Both meet by accident, well, not meet directly but they start writing anonymous letters to each other and hide them in graveyard, discussing important topics via hypothetical questions. More and more they realize they are students in one school, in contrast they have met in real but then they are sharp to each other as everybody else, having stereotypes taking place about who may one is. I loved that the book proved there's surface underneath the "front face", that not everyone seems who you think they are. I love the reality point and both families, it was heartbreaking but realistic.My new favorite, plus I really enjoy the cover!
  • (5/5)
    Really great read. I was captivated by the characters
  • (5/5)
    This book had me in tears. It was such a great read.
  • (5/5)
    Enjoyed this book! The plot was pretty obvious but there were little twists and turns along the way I wasn't expecting.
  • (5/5)
    I LOVED this book. I feel like loved isnt a strong enough word for the emotions this book made me feel. Juliet and Declan are both fighting a lose and they find each other and help each other to fight threw that lose. Before they were both falling down a rabbit hole and once they start opening up to each other, a light is at the end of the rabbit hole. They can overcome anything, with each other. But this book has so much more than that. It has teachers who wont give up on their students, and parents, and mentors who all guide them in the right direction. Showing that if you dont give up on someone that you can really touch someone's soul. This is the best book I have read in a while. 100 stars!!
  • (5/5)
    This book is EVERYTHING I wanted it to be and even MORE. I smiled, A LOT. I felt bad for Declan most of the time and fell under his charm wayyy to quickly ? shame on me I guess. I love Juliet as a lead female character she felt real and passionate And JUST GO READ THIS BOOK IF YOU HAVENT YET!!!!
  • (4/5)
    This is a very well written story, and the author is obviously very talented, If you have some great stories like this one, you can publish it on Novel Star, just submit your story to or
  • (4/5)
    Wish there was more content about Juliet and Declan as a couple, otherwise very good book :))
  • (5/5)
    This book is so cute . At times the character behaviors were irritating but they are teenagers so their thought processes & decisions are understandable with that in mind . Fantastic character development all around , & truly real friendships most people aren't lucky enough to have . Solid lessons about passing judgement on people without knowing them as well .Great , easy read .
  • (5/5)
    I thoroughly enjoyed the format of this book; I loved how a letter from one was being read by the other and how the story was told through alternating perspectives. Obviously though I loved a lot more than that since lots of books are told using that method.I liked the believability of the issues both Juliet and Declan struggled with. I liked how confrontational they were when they met and how open they were when they wrote. I liked the angst and the surprises. It has a “You’ve got mail” feel to it because one of them finds out who the other is, but chooses to continue the written correspondence and not reveal the truth about who they are. I picked this book up because I wanted to read more by this author after reading “A curse so dark and lonely” and “A heart so fierce and broken.” Kemmerer is definitely my new favourite YA author.Highly recommended.
  • (5/5)
    I loved the way the book demonstrates how our view of others can hinder our associations with them. If somebody makes a mistake, does that make them an awful person forever. On the off chance that somebody is reclusive does that mean they are cold or uninterested, maybe they are just hurting inside. I enjoyed this book. Shows how we can be judgmental to others and to ourselves.
  • (4/5)
    One of my favorite Booktubers recommend this. I actually had it on my shelf, so I thought I would pick it up. As I started reading, I thought “Ok, this is living up to the hype.” This started off so strong. We have Declan and Jules who write letters back and forth to one another around their losses. I liked the mystery around what happened to Declan and I devoured the first half. Then the story moved into a modern day Cinderella story. No, for real! Have you seen the movie with Hilary Duff? Two people messaging each other and not knowing that person is. That is what it turned into for me which I did not mind. It did start to drag a little in the middle, but picked back up towards the end.This had a plot twist that was not really a plot twist. I did not see it coming as something that could have happened. This will make sense once you read this, as I do not want to give it away. But, my jaw dropped and I said NO! That cannot be. There is another plot twist which I wish did not happen and that the story did not go in that direction, but it did not take away from me liking the story.I thought this book was going to emotional break me. However; I kept waiting for that moment, and it never came. Yes, it was sad and sad what the characters went through, but it lacked that emotional pull that I was looking forward too.I really loved the side characters in this especially Frank and Rev. I loved how Frank becomes a father figure for Declan and as he was talking to him I found myself saying, “You go Frank” out loud! I just loved him. I also really loved Rev. I also really loved Rev, and I am so excited that there is a companion novel around his story. Overall, this had its ups and downs but I ended up really enjoying it. I will definitely be picking up the next book that follows Rev soon!
  • (5/5)
    This novel is on the 2019 Lone Star list; it is realistic fiction.Declan finds a letter at the cemetery about a girl with blood everywhere:“At first you see the horror because it’s so perfectly etched in the girl’s expression.Then you see the blood. The flowers. The gun. The boots.Some of your photographs are equally gripping. I should probably be thinking of your work. It seems wrong to be leaning against your headstone and thinking about someone else’s talent.I can’t help it.You can see it on her face. Her reality if being ripped away, and she knows it.There is agony in that picture.Every time I look at it, I think, “I know exactly how she feels.”Declan responds on the paper with “Me too.” This begins a writing dialogue between Declan and Juliet. This is a novel where information is revealed over time. It’s not something I can write much about because you’ll miss out on the discovery of each person’s truths. Juliet is lonely because her mom is gone. Her father isn’t coping well either so she feels alone. She’s given up photography because she can no longer hold a camera--it’s too painful. Her mother was a famous news photographer who traveled the world going to hotspots to show people what is happening around the globe. Juliet knows that people expect her to “get over it,” but she can’t get past the trauma. Declan is doing community service--you’ll learn why as the book progresses. Because he doesn’t really know how to talk without “barking,” people think he’s a difficult kid and don’t give him any chances. No one listens to him. His responses to the letter writer give him a chance to tell his truth--to be heard. They don’t know who the other person is, but they do wonder if they know each other from school. Because each person feels a connection, they are afraid to learn each other’s identity because it might spoil this feeling of connection that they don’t have anywhere else.I loved this book. I read it straight through and found the pacing and writing believable, moving, and honest. It’s a great selection for Lone Star.
  • (4/5)
    What a touching, moving romance "Letters to the Lost" turned out to be. Filled with heartache and pain, the novel focused on two teenagers brought together through grief Even though the plot moved at a slower pace than what I usually like, I found myself avidly turning the pages as the drama intensified.Both Juliet and Declan were very sympathetic characters and their emotions were both raw and believable which came through in their letters/emails to each other. The fact that they didn't know who they were writing to was an important factor for both of them as they gradually opened up to each other, found solace and formed an emotional connection. While they weren't perfect and made silly mistakes, both Declan and Juliet grew and matured throughout the book.I also liked that the two protagonists had very supportive friends. Declan's best (only) friend, Rev, was a fabulous character with his own tragic past, and I hope the author writes his story in the future as I would like to learn more about him.Dealing with loss, family, trust, friendship, prejudice and letting go, "Letters to the Lost" was a refreshing, heartwarming read.
  • (5/5)
    I loved the way the book demonstrates how our view of others can hinder our associations with them. If somebody makes a mistake, does that make them an awful person forever. On the off chance that somebody is reclusive does that mean they are cold or uninterested, maybe they are just hurting inside. I enjoyed this book. Shows how we can be judgmental to others and to ourselves.
  • (5/5)
    I started reading this book on the subway and started to bawl. I think some people were freaked out. It was that good
  • (5/5)
  • (3/5)
    This may not have made me cry but it was certainly emotional from beginning to end.

    Declan finds a letter Juliet had left by her mother's grave and identifies himself so much with her words he can't help but answering it. Despite a little aggravated by having her letter read by a stranger, Juliet comes to confide in him as the two continue an exchange of secret, regrets and doubts.

    It deserved 3.5.

    I liked how both characters were built, and this says a lot. I was sure I wasn't going to stand any of the characters—I was more in this for the story. Grieving girl and rebel boy aren't my thing. And I can't even say they aren't exactly that. Nevertheless, something touched me already from the first chapters, I really cared a lot for the two. That said, the best thing in this book is watching firsthand them learn how to deal with their pain. Character development for the win.

    Some of the conflict was overdone. Perhaps the two could really be so blind not to see the flaws in their preconceptions, but I just couldn't buy it. But this wasn't so bad to a point I felt frustrated for them. Another complaint of mine is how neatly things seemed to fit by the end. It wasn't that the conclusion was too farfetched but after hearing so many of their thoughts and analyzing their feelings for the whole book, the ending could have gone deeper.

    This was an easy read. Even though the secret letter exchange plot has been overdone these past few years, and this book didn't bring a special twist to it, at least the characters weren't so dumb (I mean, I kept wondering why they didn't ask around who in their school had lost a mother or a sister but they weren't that keen to find out their identities, either).

    When I say easy, however, it doesn't mean the plot is that light. I was ready for worse but both characters are still in a dark place in their lives. It features parental abuse, suicide attempts and the such. You shouldn't read it if that is a trigger for you. The book is not really graphic and it doesn't seem to try to shock the reader but the thematic is there. It's a dark plot but not so heavy, don't worry. I liked how the author stayed between the too light and the too strong. She was certainly sensitive in that aspect. This is a good pick for a book club, if you keep in mind the darker themes.

    At the same time, because she probably opted to play it safe, the book is simply that, a nice book. The plot is well built but there isn't any shine to it. It made me not want to stop reading but it still lacked here and there.

    As long as you like YA's, I don't think you'll hate it but I don't think you'll love it. This was a good release, and I liked the take on the letter exchange. There was some mystery, there was some romance, there was some drama. And that mixture came out fine—which is rare. It just didn't go beyond. I do look forward for more from this author, that is true.

    Honest review based on an ARC provided by Netgalley. Many thanks to the publisher for this opportunity.
  • (5/5)

    1 person found this helpful

    Read this basically in one sitting, from about 6PM to 12:30AM only stopping to eat and to settle the baby. This was believable, with moments that had me laughing out loud literally, as well as crying; several times I thought I had guessed a plot twist but was wrong which is actually nice.

    1 person found this helpful