Loveless meets This Time It’s Real in this aroace story about challenging the idea that romance is the ultimate life goal and finding where you fit in when you don’t follow society’s script.
Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from Shapes of Love by L.V. Peñalba, which releases on May 19th 2026.
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 favorite 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 prioritize 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.
From Shapes of Love by L. V. Peñalba. Copyright © 2026 by the author, and reprinted with permission of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
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 colorful 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 honored.” 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 spiraled 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.
