Alternating perspectives in fiction can be tricky. Done poorly, they confuse readers or dilute the story’s impact. Done well, they offer nuance, depth, and an emotional resonance that a single voice could never achieve. In Vega Belogui’s There’s Something I Need to Tell You, the dual narrative is not just a stylistic choice—it’s a lifeline for the story’s integrity. By giving us two narrators, a twelfth-grade student and her teacher, Belogui allows us to confront a painful reality with the honesty and complexity it deserves.
At the center of the novel is a shared diagnosis: HPV. Both the student and the teacher find their lives disrupted by this revelation, and both must wrestle with the emotional aftermath. The student’s chapters are filled with the raw immediacy of youth: fear of judgment, fragile self-worth, and a desperate longing to be understood. The teacher’s perspective is heavier, tempered by age and shadowed by past choices. He faces responsibility, guilt, and the slow realization that silence has consequences. Together, their voices weave a tapestry of human frailty and resilience.
The brilliance of alternating perspectives lies in how it reshapes the reader’s role. Instead of being told what to think, we are asked to hold space for two truths that sometimes align and sometimes clash. We see how the same moment can fracture into different meanings, depending on who is experiencing it. This dual lens not only deepens the story, it models empathy. It reminds us that behind every “fact” is a human being with an interior world we may never fully grasp.
Suspense in Belogui’s novel comes not from spectacle, but from this shifting interplay of voices. The past begins to seep into the present; the future looms, uncertain and demanding. Readers feel the tightening coil of revelation as events darken and the characters’ lives become more tightly entwined. What keeps the pages turning is not shock value, but the relentless pull of empathy: we want to understand, to witness, to know how it ends.
The subject matter is not easy. Physical abuse, trauma, and shame thread through the narrative. But Belogui’s handling of these themes is deeply ethical. Harm is not presented for sensational effect, it is named, acknowledged, and treated with dignity. In doing so, the book models what it means to write about trauma without reenacting it. Survivors are portrayed not as symbols, but as people: flawed, frightened, courageous, and real.
The men in this story play a crucial role. They are not monolithic, nor are they caricatures of villainy or heroism. Some act protectively, others cause harm, and many remain silent. Each presence or absence leaves a mark, shaping the journeys of the student and teacher. These portrayals underscore one of the book’s most pressing questions: what does responsibility look like in unequal power dynamics? It’s a question that lingers long after the final page.
What makes There’s Something I Need to Tell You so necessary right now is its refusal to simplify. HPV is common, but the shame surrounding it isolates countless people. By presenting two parallel stories, Belogui challenges readers to see beyond stigma, to sit with complexity, and to ask harder questions about love, consent, accountability, and healing. In an age of snap judgments and oversimplified narratives, that courage matters.
For readers who crave fiction that both unsettles and restores, this novel is a gift. It demands emotional engagement but rewards it with insight. Belogui trusts the reader to do difficult work, and in return, delivers a story that lingers long after the last line.
This is not just a novel about a diagnosis. It is a novel about perspective itself, about the courage to face the truth from more than one angle, and the wisdom that comes from seeing through another’s eyes.
Amazon Link: There’s Something I Need To Tell You
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