I believe young adult novels are very important because of the audience they are written for. At that stage of life, these young readers are still shaping their identity and how they understand the world, so the stories they read can have a huge impact.
For me, the most valuable aspect of young adult literature is when it reflects both cultural and sexual diversity. When characters come from different backgrounds and live queer experiences in multicultural contexts, the narratives become richer and bring visibility to realities that often remain outside of the mainstream.
And Hani and Ishu’s Guide to Fake Dating, written by Adiba Jaigirdar and originally published in 2021, is a perfect example.
As a child, I remember how difficult it was when my friends doubted me. That lack of trust hurt deeply, because it made me feel as if my identity needed proof to be valid, as if what I said about myself was never enough.
Before continuing with this review, I’d like to give a SPOILERS alert, since what follows contains important details about the plot and character development. I recommend reading the novel before going on.
Humaira “Hani” Khan is one of the most popular girls in her school; everyone loves her, but when she comes out as bi, her friends don’t believe her — after all, she has only dated boys. In a moment of panic, Hani proposes faking a romantic relationship with Ishita “Ishu” Dey, a studious and unpopular girl her friends despise. Ishu agrees on one condition: that Hani help her become more popular so she can win the election for Head Girl.
What begins as a strategic agreement soon becomes complicated as the two start to develop real feelings, while social pressure, jealousy, and prejudice threaten to pull them apart.
From the very beginning, Hani knows who she is. Her bisexuality is not ambiguous or a mystery to be solved: it is explicit and forms the central axis of the conflict. She has already come out to her parents and is clear about her orientation; the problem is not internal, but social. As she herself explains:
I tried to explain to them that I don’t really want to date boys right now … and that brought up the whole bisexual thing and … they were weird about it.
Her parents’ reaction, though imperfect, is supportive. Her mother acknowledges that even for them it was necessary to adjust expectations about their daughter’s future — who she might be with, how the extended family would react — but they never doubt her identity: “Maybe they just need more time?… It can take people time to process things.”
Throughout the story, Hani tries again and again to explain to her friends, Aisling and Dee, that she knows who she is, but her words never seem enough. For them, her confession can only mean two things: either she is a lesbian, or she is confused. They demand proof, as if kissing someone were a requirement to feel attraction, and reduce her identity to a passing phase. When Hani says she simply doesn’t want to date anyone at the moment, the response is painful:
—So why say you’re bisexual instead of just that? —asks Aisling.—Because … I am bisexual, —replies Hani.
—And I also don’t want to date right now.
The novel captures with precision this very common biphobic logic: the idea that bisexuality is only valid if it is constantly proven. Even then, her friends suggest her identity isn’t real, but the result of outside influence: “Ishita didn’t make me bisexual… that’s not how that works.” Hani makes it clear she didn’t tell them earlier precisely because she feared this reaction: “I came out to my parents ages ago. Not to you guys, because I was afraid you would act just like this.”
These moments reflect an experience that is deeply recognizable: the constant suspicion that our identity is confusion, a trend, or the result of someone else. Hani’s bisexuality does not need to be proven, but the world insists on demanding evidence, showing the weight of everyday biphobia.
Despite her friends’ denial, Hani also finds spaces of affirmation. Ishu plays a crucial role in helping her recognize what she keeps trying to justify: that she was not treated with respect. When Ishu asks why she remains friends with people who make her feel that way, Hani becomes defensive, downplays what happened, and insists that things are more complicated than they seem.
The most tender moment comes when Ishu reminds Hani of something essential: people can love her without making her feel that her identity is something to be uncomfortable with. “There will be other people… who will be able to say the word ‘bisexual’ without cringing.” In that phrase, bisexuality stops being just a debated label and becomes a dignified word, filled with affection and legitimacy. The book insists on something powerful: it is not Hani who needs to change, but the environment that resists seeing her as she is. This is precisely where the relevance of Hani and Ishu’s Guide to Fake Dating lies for the bi experience: it presents biphobia as something intimate, everyday, and profoundly painful. The denial does not come from obvious antagonists, but from close friends, supposedly “well-meaning” comments, and uncomfortable silences.
The novel also addresses a very common tension: the fear of losing everything by telling the truth. Hani does not hide her orientation because she doesn’t understand it, but because she understands it too well and knows exactly what it can cost her. Her silence comes not from confusion, but from self-preservation. This approach connects directly to Adiba Jaigirdar’s statements about the book’s origin. The author has explained that the story arose from her dissatisfaction with existing sapphic and bi representation.
As a young adult romance, the novel works beautifully. For me, it was especially meaningful to see Hani owning and being fully aware of her sexuality, and to recognize in her experience the familiar feeling of facing people close to you who question something you already know with certainty.