The Heartbreak Trap: Why Amazon’s ‘Every Year After’ Misses the Mark
There’s something oddly relatable about obsessing over a past relationship—until it becomes your entire identity. Personally, I think that’s the core issue with Amazon’s Every Year After. It’s like watching a friend who’s been stuck in the same heartbreak loop for a decade, rehashing the same story, the same regrets, the same feelings. But here’s the twist: this friend isn’t your friend. They’re a fictional stranger, and their emotional baggage feels less like a compelling story and more like a tedious monologue. What makes this particularly fascinating is how the show tries—and fails—to recapture the magic of The Summer I Turned Pretty, proving that nostalgia alone can’t carry a narrative.
The Problem with Perpetual Heartbreak
Let’s talk about Percy Fraser, our protagonist. She’s a 28-year-old obituary writer—a detail that feels almost too on-the-nose for a character so fixated on her own emotional death. Her breakup with Sam, the boy next door, is the defining event of her life. In my opinion, this is where the show stumbles. Heartbreak is universal, but when it becomes the sole source of a character’s identity, it stops being relatable and starts feeling self-indulgent. What many people don’t realize is that romantic misery can be compelling—if it’s balanced with growth, self-awareness, or even a hint of humor. Every Year After gives us none of that. Instead, it drowns in its own melancholy, expecting us to feel moved by what feels more like emotional stagnation.
Teen Love vs. Adult Stagnation
One thing that immediately stands out is the contrast between the show’s portrayal of teen love and its depiction of adulthood. The early scenes of Percy and Sam bonding over horror movies and lake swims are charming, thanks in large part to the younger actors. But as they grow older, their relationship devolves into a cycle of almost-confessions, jealousy, and breakups. If you take a step back and think about it, this is a classic trope—but it only works if the characters evolve. Here, they don’t. Even as adults, they’re still stuck in the same emotional patterns, weeping about their inability to be together for reasons that feel contrived. This raises a deeper question: Why should we care about a romance that neither party seems willing to fight for?
The Toxicity of Unresolved Feelings
What this really suggests is that Every Year After is less about love and more about the toxicity of unresolved feelings. The show tries to romanticize this—cue the Lana Del Rey soundtrack and the longing gazes—but it comes off as exhausting rather than poignant. Personally, I think the show’s biggest missed opportunity is its failure to call out this behavior. Hulu’s Tell Me Lies succeeded because it didn’t shy away from the ugliness of its characters’ actions. Every Year After, on the other hand, seems to want us to root for Percy and Sam without ever questioning why they’re so determined to stay stuck.
The Supporting Characters: A Glimmer of Hope
A detail that I find especially interesting is how much more likable the show becomes when it focuses on anyone but its leads. Chantal, Percy’s best friend, starts as a thankless sidekick but evolves into a compelling character when she connects with Jordy, the motel owner. Delilah’s subplot about marital troubles adds a layer of depth that’s sorely missing from the main story. Even Sue, Sam’s mother, shines in flashbacks, offering moments of genuine warmth. This makes me wonder: Why didn’t the creators lean into these characters instead of forcing us to endure Percy and Sam’s endless moping?
The Bigger Picture: Why This Matters
From my perspective, Every Year After is a cautionary tale about the dangers of over-relying on nostalgia. It’s clear the creators wanted to recreate the success of The Summer I Turned Pretty, but they forgot that what made that show work wasn’t just the setting or the romance—it was the characters’ growth and the sense of possibility. Every Year After feels trapped in the past, both narratively and thematically. What many people don’t realize is that romantic dramas need more than just heartbreak to thrive; they need stakes, self-awareness, and characters we can root for.
Final Thoughts
If there’s one takeaway from Every Year After, it’s this: not every heartbreak deserves a second chance. The show’s attempt to romanticize stagnation feels out of touch in a world where audiences crave stories of resilience and growth. Personally, I think this is a missed opportunity—a show that could have explored the complexities of love and loss but instead chose to wallow in its own misery. If you’re looking for a romantic drama that actually moves you, this isn’t it. But if you want a masterclass in what not to do, Every Year After is a fascinating study in how not to handle heartbreak—both on-screen and off.
