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A hypnotic debut about the pivotal summer that shatters the delicate balance between three best friends.

Fifteen-year-old Mina’s whole world is her two best friends, but after an unexpected kiss, the established dynamics of their trio quickly unravel. Everything that was once shared openly, from clothes to secrets, now feels impossibly fragile. Loyalties shift and tensions simmer across the long days of this pivotal summer, where the girls have nowhere new to go and everything new to feel.

Looking back, an adult Mina traces the undercurrents of longing that shaped her first experience of desire. The rituals of girlhood—gossip, selfies, sleepovers, and videogames—become threads in a delicate, volatile web of intimacy, in which everything feels achingly fleeting and permanently etched. Loving one person, Mina learns, can change the way we love everyone else—including ourselves.

Bold, vulnerable, and sharply observant, Girl’s Girl is a sundrenched and dewy snapshot of modern girl culture set in the blaze of one suburban Midwest summer.

Don't just take our word for it...

“Girl’s Girl is the novel I’ve been waiting for, the one that proves the project of literature is not over. New and profound depths of the heart are waiting to be captured by the written word, and Sonia Feldman is unafraid to reach for them. She does so beautifully, generously, and on every single page.”
– Maggie Thrash, author of Rainbow Black

“The Greta Gerwig/Call Me By Your Name mashup you didn’t know you needed, Girl’s Girl captures that particular summer urgency we all remember: the friendships that felt like everything, the self-discovery that had nowhere to hide, that specific sensation of being on the edge of something you can’t yet name. Sonia Feldman renders it all with startling honesty, sharing the universal awkwardness of becoming.”
– Jason Blitman, Gays Reading Podcast

“An extraordinary book about friendships, first lust, and other quiet terrors… Full of longing and many different kinds of love.”
– Frances Cha, author of If I Had Your Face

Taste the very first page

Growing up, I had two best friends— Margaret, whom I had known my whole life, and Eleanor, with whom I was in love, though for years I had no reason to tell my feelings for one apart from my feelings for the other. Both were fervent.

Eleanor asked me for advice about her Sims, then never took it. Margaret asked me in which of a series of nearly identical photos I thought her boobs looked best for the internet, so I told her. I kept the clothes Eleanor lent me for too long, and I kept the clothes Margaret lent me for too long. Eleanor didn’t borrow anybody’s clothes, and Margaret never gave mine back at all.

We chose each other’s outfits. We slept in each other’s beds. I had a near constant awareness of both my friends as existing in parallel to myself. And that awareness became tender when we were apart, painful when I was apart from them and they were not apart from each other. This happened often enough. They both had a great deal more freedom than I did. Margaret because she was lawless and Eleanor because her parents never made any laws.

Until the summer before our sophomore year of high school, I thought my love for Eleanor was my love for Margaret. Distinctions between ways of loving are fuzzy, and I couldn’t name them, didn’t even know I felt them, and least of all suspected I would soon ruin my life learning to distinguish them— learning I wanted more than one way to love my friends.

June 2026