Editorial Reviews:

Readers' Arcades' Editorial Review of Before They Got Onto The Roof by Tina Isabel Leung

Enemies to lovers. Classmates who can't stand each other but can't stop staring. Mutual pining so intense it hurts. Queer longing that neither character fully understands. Depression. Bullying. The brutal reality of growing up when the world feels like it's crushing you. If any of these tropes make your heart race, buckle up—because published by the Polish publishing house Hasalynx Press, Before They Got Onto The Roof by Tina Isabel Leung is about to become your entire personality for the foreseeable future.

This is the prequel to The Summer That Changed Everything, and honestly? It's the backstory we all needed. Markus Leitner and Karsten Haas in high school, before they got together—and the tension between them is electric. We're talking the kind of charged, agonizing chemistry that makes you forget to breathe.

Markus is drowning. He's invisible to most of his classmates, buried under the weight of his unrequited feelings for Susanna—a girl in Italy who exists in a world of sunshine and spontaneity while he's stuck in Berlin's cold, gray reality. His only real friend, Schon, has been pulled away by a manipulative sister, and the bullies at school make every single day a fresh exercise in humiliation. He's spiraling, and his blog is becoming a chilling record of his darkest thoughts. But here's the thing about Markus—he's not just sad. He's complicated. He's angry. He's fiercely intelligent. And he's feeling things he doesn't quite understand, especially when it comes to a certain copper-haired classmate he claims to despise, but then again wants to make friends with (sounds familiar?).

Enter Karsten. On the surface, he's got it all—easy charm, effortless social skills, the ability to move between groups without ever becoming a target. He laughs with the wolves, plays it safe, survives. But inside? He's hiding a secret that's slowly destroying him: he's hopelessly in love with Markus. And the guilt of staying silent while others torment the boy he loves is eating him alive. The tension is unbearable every time they're in the same room—the stolen glances, the charged silences, the moments where Karsten almost says something and then doesn't. Anyone searching for Before They Got Onto The Roof by Tina Isabel Leung reviews to understand the emotional core of this story should know this: it's about wanting someone so badly you can't breathe, and being too terrified to reach for them.

The dynamic between Markus and Karsten is one of those rare fictional relationships that will have readers screaming at the page. Markus tells himself he hates Karsten. He hates that Karsten can be kind to him in private but never defends him in public. He hates that Karsten is friends with the bullies. He hates that Karsten makes him feel things he doesn't want to feel. But then there are those moments—the feather brushing off Karsten's shoulder, the shared laugh in the hallway, the study sessions where something fragile and precious flickers between them. And Markus dreams. In his dreams, Karsten kisses him, and it feels like coming home to a place he didn't even know he was missing. Those fantasies are intense, vivid, and deeply confusing for a boy who's convinced he's in love with a girl in Italy. Because the truth Markus can't admit is that he wants Karsten—needs Karsten—in ways that terrify him. He doesn't just want Karsten to defend him; he wants Karsten to choose him. Publicly. Unambiguously. To prove that he matters. And Karsten's failure to do so feels like the deepest betrayal, even as it fuels an attraction Markus refuses to acknowledge.

Meanwhile, Karsten is drowning in his own way. He's so afraid of losing his fragile social position that he can't act on what he feels—even as he watches Markus slipping further away. The glimpses of self-harm, the blog posts that grow more ominous by the day—Karsten sees all of it, and still, he hesitates. His passivity is infuriating and heartbreaking in equal measure, because readers will recognize the reality of it: the terror of being outed, the fear of becoming a target, the desperate hope that maybe someone else will step in so you don't have to. But no one does. And when Karsten finally realizes that Markus is planning to end his life, the stakes become horrifyingly clear. Those who enjoy honest book reviews will appreciate that Before They Got Onto The Roof doesn't offer easy answers or simple resolutions. Instead, it sits in the messiness of human emotion and asks the hard questions about what we owe to the people we love.

If you've seen the Polish film Suicide Room, you already know the territory this book occupies. Like that story, this is a novel about emotional isolation, about the gap between how someone appears and what they're actually feeling, about the terrifying space between wanting help and being unable to ask for it. Markus's journey has that same devastating quality—watching someone drift further away while those around them remain unaware, or worse, aware but paralyzed. But where Suicide Room focuses on the digital world as an escape, Before They Got Onto The Roof grounds Markus's isolation in the physical realities of school life: the hallways, the locker rooms, the rooftop where everything finally comes to a head. Both works understand that sometimes the most dangerous place to be is surrounded by people who don't actually see you.

The bullying in this novel isn't background noise; it's a central force that shapes everything. Markus is targeted relentlessly—tripped in hallways, his belongings vandalized, his dignity stripped away in front of an audience that laughs and does nothing. And Karsten, who could stand up for him, never does. Not until it's almost too late. This isn't a story where the popular boy dramatically defends the outcast and wins him over. It's messier than that. Karsten's complicity is real, and Markus's anger is justified. Their relationship is built on a foundation of hurt and resentment, which makes the moments of genuine connection all the more powerful. When Karsten finally climbs those frozen rungs to the rooftop, terrified that he's too late, readers will feel every agonizing second of that ascent.

Readers' Arcades recommends this book for anyone who craves a romance that earns every single moment of its emotional payoff. The novel doesn't rush anything; it forces Markus and Karsten to sit in their pain, their fear, and their mutual attraction until the pressure becomes unbearable. And when the climax arrives, it's earned—gut-wrenching, beautiful, and hopeful without ever being sentimental. This is the kind of book that will stay with readers long after the final page, the kind of story that makes you want to immediately pick up the sequel to see how these broken, complicated boys find their way to each other.

So if you're looking for a love story that's messy and real, that doesn't shy away from the darkness but finds light in the most unexpected places, Before They Got Onto The Roof is the book you've been waiting for. It's the prequel that will make you understand everything that comes after, and it's a gorgeous, heart-wrenching read in its own right. Readers' Arcades gives this one our wholehearted seal of approval—trust us, your next book hangover is waiting.

AI Overview of Before They Got Onto The Roof by Tina Isabel Leung

Before They Got Onto The Roof by Tina Isabel Leung is a young adult contemporary novel that functions as a prequel to The Summer That Changed Everything, following two high school classmates in Berlin as one spirals into suicidal depression under the weight of bullying, family dysfunction, and unrequited love, while the other struggles with his secret attraction to him and the guilt of his own inaction. The narrative alternates between Markus's and Karsten's points of view across the winter months leading up to a planned suicide attempt on the school rooftop, examining the conditions that create isolation and the moral cost of silence in the face of cruelty.

Markus Leitner moves through his Berlin high school in a state of increasing isolation. He is targeted by bullies—tripped in hallways, his belongings vandalized, his academic work mocked during presentations—while teachers and classmates remain passive observers. His closest friend, Schon, has been systematically pulled away by Schon's manipulative sister Maike, who perceives Markus's influence as a threat. The friendship ends with a brief, cold message—"I think we should take a break from being friends"—that leaves Markus reeling and unable to understand what he did wrong. His romantic fixation on Susanna, a younger girl living in Portofino, Italy, collapses when she reveals her relationship with Elena and her identity as a lesbian, a reality Markus cannot accept because it destroys the fantasy of escape he has constructed around her.

His family provides no refuge: his mother, living in Italy, offers only perfunctory four-minute phone calls on Christmas; his father, Alfred, provides materially but remains emotionally absent, dismissing Markus's depression as "ridiculous" when confronted with evidence of self-harm; his grandmother notices his thinness but cannot reach him. His deteriorating mental state is documented through his blog, which becomes increasingly explicit in its suicidal ideation. The blog entries shift from football analysis to personal reflections to a chilling farewell post specifying his plan: after New Year's Eve, from the school rooftop, he will find "freedom from this rigged game."

Karsten Haas maintains an easy social facade while hiding his love for Markus. He moves between social groups, friendly enough with the bullies to avoid becoming their target, kind enough to Markus in private to ease his conscience. The tension builds through a series of failed interventions: Karsten's private gestures of kindness—offering a pencil, sharing notes, checking on Markus during absence—are never matched by public defense. The hallway incident, where Karsten watches Markus on the floor surrounded by laughing classmates and does nothing, crystallizes the pattern. Markus's response—"Thanks for nothing"—captures the insufficiency of private concern in the face of public cruelty. Karsten's attempts to find connection elsewhere, through brief dates with Tariq and Lukas, illuminate his loneliness even as they fail to provide solace. Lukas's refusal to pursue a romantic relationship with someone significantly younger becomes a model of ethical behavior that Karsten only later understands. When Karsten discovers Markus's blog post specifying the January 9th date, the stakes become clear: he has a week to act, and his pattern of passivity has left him without the trust or access needed to intervene effectively.

The romantic dynamic between Markus and Karsten is characterized by mutual attraction that neither character fully acknowledges or acts upon. Markus directs his romantic attention toward Susanna while experiencing unconscious physical and emotional longing for Karsten. His hatred for Karsten functions as a defense mechanism, allowing him to feel the intensity of his investment without admitting its source. The dream sequence in which Markus kisses Karsten is the novel's most explicit revelation of his unconscious desires: the kiss feels like "coming home to a place he hadn't known he was missing." Karsten acknowledges his love for Markus but remains paralyzed by fear of social consequences, exposure, and rejection. His attraction is conscious but unacted upon; his internal monologue reveals a desperate longing that his public behavior contradicts. The relationship arc moves from antagonism and misunderstanding toward a moment of potential connection on the rooftop, where Karsten's decision to declare his feelings creates an opening for the friendship that develops in the subsequent book. The novel ends on a note of possibility rather than resolution, with the romantic journey continuing into the sequel and Markus's recovery extending beyond the narrative frame.

The setting is contemporary Berlin during winter, with the city's cold, gray atmosphere mirroring Markus's emotional state. The East-West divide, the brutalist architecture, the ubiquity of the S-Bahn as a space of transit and isolation—all function thematically, reflecting the distances between characters and the difficulty of connection. The school itself operates as a microcosm of social hierarchy, where bullies operate with impunity and adults remain willfully blind. The classroom, the locker room, the cafeteria—each space reinforces Markus's exclusion. The rooftop serves as the central motif, representing both the site of Markus's planned suicide and the location where Karsten finally acts on his feelings. It is the place where Markus intends to end his life and where Karsten begins to truly see him. The frozen rungs of the fire stairs, climbed in desperation, become a symbol of the effort required to reach someone who has been systematically pushed away. The blog itself functions as a recurring motif, documenting Markus's deterioration and serving as the warning sign Karsten cannot ignore.

The novel's alternating first-person narration creates dramatic irony between the characters' perceptions and actions. Markus cannot see Karsten's love; he can only see Karsten's failure to act. Karsten cannot make Markus understand his fear; he can only offer inadequate gestures that reinforce Markus's sense of being an object of pity. The reader understands both sides, creating a tension that drives the narrative forward. The pacing moves between moments of acute tension—the bullying, the confrontations, the escalating blog posts—and stretches of quiet observation, allowing the weight of Markus's deterioration to register without sensationalism. The prose is precise and controlled, never flinching from the darkness of its subject matter but never exploiting it for effect.

Published by the Polish publishing house Hasalynx Press, this book is intended for readers who enjoy slow-burn romantic tension, dual-perspective narration, and emotionally intense coming-of-age stories. Those who appreciate narratives about mental health, queer longing, and the consequences of social passivity will find the novel's approach compelling. The exploration of attraction that cannot be acted upon, the examination of how fear and self-preservation can lead to complicity in cruelty, the depiction of depression as a condition that shapes every aspect of existence—these elements position the work within a tradition of literary young adult fiction that refuses easy answers. The novel does not offer tidy resolution; Markus's depression will not be cured by a single declaration, and the work of recovery will extend into the sequel. What the novel offers instead is the beginning of possibility, the sense that connection, however imperfect, can interrupt the trajectory toward despair.

This book is not for readers sensitive to topics including bullying, self-harm, depression, mental health struggles, or anorexia. It is also not for those expecting a romantic resolution or a kiss at the end, as this is a prequel to The Summer That Changed Everything. Finally, readers seeking explicit content or alpha male protagonists will not find them here.

Hasalynx Press Editorial Review of Before They Got Onto The Roof by Tina Isabel Leung

The German Bildungsroman has long concerned itself with the interior landscapes of its protagonists, from Goethe's tormented Werther to the existential reckonings of post-war literature. Tina Isabel Leung's Before They Got Onto The Roof enters this tradition with a contemporary sensibility, transplanting the classic coming-of-age narrative into the fraught terrain of Berlin's divided geography and the even more treacherous landscape of adolescent consciousness. This is a novel that understands how place and psyche intertwine, how the physical divides of a city can mirror the internal schisms of its young inhabitants. The book functions as a prequel to the author's The Summer That Changed Everything, yet it stands on its own as a meticulous examination of the conditions that precipitate crisis—a study in how isolation, unrequited longing, and the failure of adult observation can push a sensitive soul toward the precipice. In doing so, it offers a narrative that is simultaneously specific to its time and place and resonant with timeless questions about belonging, identity, and the moral obligations we bear toward one another.

At its center are two young men whose orbits intersect but never quite align. Markus Leitner moves through the corridors of his Berlin high school like a specter, visible only to those who would torment him. His interiority is rendered with remarkable precision—the crushing weight of unreciprocated love for Susanna, a girl in Italy whose effortless vivacity stands in stark opposition to his own paralysis; the slow unraveling of his friendship with Schon, poisoned by the manipulative Maike; the relentless bullying that transforms each school day into an exercise in endurance. Leung charts Markus's psychological deterioration with unflinching honesty, from the sharp edges of his anger to the creeping numbness that eventually overtakes him. His blog entries function as a chilling counterpoint to the narrative, a window into a mind increasingly convinced of its own irrelevance. What makes Markus's portrayal so compelling is the refusal to sentimentalize his suffering; he is not merely a victim but a complex young man whose own defenses—his sarcasm, his withdrawal, his rigid sense of justice—contribute to his isolation. His inability to see Susanna as she truly is, his blindness to his own feelings for Schon, his contempt for Karsten that masks a desperate desire for connection—these are not flaws that excuse his tormentors but dimensions that make him human.

Karsten Haas presents a different kind of struggle, one that the novel handles with equal nuance. He moves through the same social ecosystem with apparent ease, his charm and adaptability the very qualities Markus despises. Yet beneath this veneer lies a torment of his own—a secret love for Markus that he can neither express nor escape, and a guilt that compounds with each moment he fails to defend the boy he watches from a distance. Leung refuses easy judgments here; Karsten's passivity emerges not from malice but from a desperate calculus of survival in a hierarchy that punishes those who step out of line. Those seeking Before They Got Onto The Roof by Tina Isabel Leung book reviews will find a narrative that refuses to moralize, instead presenting both characters' failings as consequences of the same toxic environment. Karsten's attempts at connection elsewhere—brief, unsatisfying encounters with Tariq and Lukas—illuminate his loneliness even as they fail to provide the solace he seeks. Lukas's refusal to pursue a romantic relationship with someone significantly younger becomes not a rejection but an act of responsibility, one that Karsten only later understands as a model of ethical behavior. The novel handles these minor characters with care, ensuring they serve not as mere plot devices but as reflections of the larger themes—the importance of queer found family, the necessity of boundaries, the possibility of friendship across difference.

However, the most psychologically intricate relationship in the novel is the one that exists between Markus and Karsten themselves—a dynamic of mutual attraction, profound misunderstanding, and corrosive inaction that forms the emotional core of the narrative. This is not a straightforward romance, nor is it a simple story of unrequited love. Instead, Leung constructs a relationship of almost unbearable tension, one in which both characters feel powerfully drawn to each other while simultaneously repelling one another through fear, pride, and circumstance. The attraction between them is palpable from the earliest chapters, yet it manifests in ways neither can fully recognize or articulate. Markus's fixation on Karsten is expressed through anger and contempt—he hates Karsten for his social fluidity, for his friendship with the bullies, for his apparent ease in a world that offers Markus only pain. Yet this hatred is a cover for something deeper, a desperate longing for Karsten to see him, to choose him, to prove that he matters. The intensity of Markus's reaction to Karsten's failures—the way he feels betrayed not just by Karsten's inaction but by his very existence—suggests an investment that goes far beyond what a classmate's behavior should warrant. Markus wants Karsten's approval, his attention, his love, and the impossibility of obtaining these things fuels a fury that masks the vulnerability beneath.

The dream sequence in which Markus kisses Karsten is the novel's most revealing moment regarding this dynamic. In waking life, Markus cannot admit to any attraction toward Karsten; when Dr. Fein asks if he has a crush, his denial is immediate and defensive. Yet in the dream, the kiss is rendered with extraordinary intimacy and passion—"I ran my fingers through his copper hair... our bodies fit together with a rightness that seemed predestined... It felt like coming home to a place I hadn't known I was missing." The dream functions as a confession that Markus cannot make in his waking life, revealing the depth of his desire for connection with the one person who has shown him moments of genuine kindness. The fact that this dream comes so soon after his rejection by Susanna is significant; in losing his fantasy of heterosexual romance, Markus's unconscious begins to acknowledge what has been there all along—his attraction to Karsten, which he has suppressed through anger and contempt.

Karsten's attraction to Markus is more conscious but equally fraught. He knows he loves Markus, has known for years, yet he cannot act on this love. The reasons are multiple and compelling—fear of social rejection, fear of losing the tenuous position he has carved out in the school's hierarchy, fear of what his family might think, and perhaps most significantly, the fear that Markus would never return his feelings. Karsten's passivity is the novel's central moral failing, a refusal to act that nearly leads to tragedy. Yet this passivity is not a simple character flaw; it emerges from the same survival instinct that has kept him safe in an environment where safety is never guaranteed. The novel does not let Karsten off the hook—his inaction in the hallway, his failure to intervene when Markus is being bullied, his silence in the face of cruelty—these are presented as genuine failures, moments of cowardice that Markus rightly perceives as betrayal. Yet the novel also understands that Karsten's passivity is a symptom of the same system that produces Markus's despair, a system that punishes those who step outside acceptable social boundaries.

The toxic dynamic between them is compounded by the structural inequality of their positions. Karsten moves freely between social groups, his status sufficiently secure that he can risk private gestures of kindness toward Markus—offering a pencil, sharing notes, checking on him during absence. Yet he will not make these gestures public, will not risk his social standing by openly defending Markus against the bullies. This half-measure is perhaps the most wounding aspect of Karsten's behavior; Markus experiences it not as kindness but as condescension, a token gesture that costs Karsten nothing while offering Markus nothing of substance. The phrase "Thanks for nothing" is devastating precisely because it captures the insufficiency of Karsten's private concern in the face of public cruelty. Markus does not want Karsten's pity; he wants Karsten's courage, his visible solidarity, his public choice. And Karsten cannot give this—not until it is nearly too late.

Those considering Before They Got Onto The Roof by Tina Isabel Leung review should understand that the novel's tension derives not from external obstacles but from this internal conflict, the gap between what each character feels and what they can express. The alternating point of view structure is essential to this project, allowing the reader to see the mismatch between Markus's perception of Karsten as a traitor and Karsten's internal experience of his own cowardice. Markus cannot see Karsten's love; he can only see Karsten's failure to act. Karsten cannot make Markus understand his fear; he can only offer inadequate gestures that reinforce Markus's sense of being an object of pity rather than genuine care. The novel is, in many ways, a study in miscommunication—the ways in which we fail to convey our true feelings, the ways in which our actions are misinterpreted, the ways in which love itself can become a source of pain when it cannot be expressed openly and honestly.

The resolution of this dynamic, such as it is, comes in the novel's climactic scene on the rooftop. When Karsten climbs the frozen rungs toward Markus, he is finally acting—finally choosing Markus over the safety of inaction. The scene is rendered with almost unbearable suspense, the cold and the height and the silence all contributing to the sense of a moment suspended between tragedy and possibility. Karsten's decision to tell Markus he loves him is a turning point, a moment when he finally risks everything for the person who matters most. Yet the novel does not offer a tidy resolution; Markus's depression will not be cured by a single declaration, and the work of recovery will extend into the sequel. What the novel offers instead is the beginning of possibility—the sense that connection, however imperfect, can interrupt the trajectory toward despair.

The novel's treatment of Markus's other significant relationships—with Schon and Susanna—further illuminates his dynamic with Karsten. Markus's love for Schon is never fully acknowledged as romantic, yet the depth of his grief when the friendship ends suggests feelings that go beyond the platonic. Schon represents a different kind of possibility—a connection that is uncomplicated by Karsten's social maneuvering, a friendship that exists outside the hierarchy of the school. When Maike destroys this friendship, Markus loses not just a friend but a version of himself that was possible only in Schon's presence. The unresolved nature of this relationship, the fact that Schon will not answer Markus's Christmas text, contributes to Markus's sense of abandonment and his conviction that he is fundamentally unlovable. Similarly, Susanna's rejection represents the collapse of Markus's fantasy of escape, his dream of a life in Italy with someone who would see him as worthy. These losses compound, creating a sense of isolation that no single person could heal. Karsten's failure to act is part of this pattern—another person who could have helped but didn't, another connection that failed to provide the support Markus needed.

What makes Before They Got Onto The Roof a genuinely literary work is its refusal to resolve these tensions neatly. The novel ends with Karsten climbing toward Markus, with the possibility of connection, but it does not pretend that connection alone will solve everything. Markus's depression is real, his pain is real, and the journey toward healing will be long. The novel trusts its readers to understand this, to sit with the discomfort of unresolved questions and imperfect solutions. In this way, Leung's work engages with the tradition of the Bildungsroman while moving beyond it, acknowledging that growing up is not a linear process and that some wounds leave permanent marks.

Hasalynx Press has published a work that understands adolescence not as a phase to be romanticized or minimized but as a formative period in which the stakes are genuinely life-and-death. The novel's treatment of mental health is particularly noteworthy; Markus's depression is not a plot device but a condition that shapes every aspect of his existence, from his physical health to his relationships to his sense of self. The novel is also notable for its handling of queer identity—the uncertainty, the fear, the slow process of self-recognition that cannot be forced or rushed. Karsten's journey toward accepting his sexuality is mirrored by Markus's unconscious attraction, suggesting that the path to self-knowledge is rarely straight, and often obscured by other desires and defenses.

In its rendering of family—the absent mother, the emotionally unavailable father, the grandmother who tries but cannot bridge the gap—the novel speaks to a universality of experience that transcends its specific setting. The failures of adult attention, the well-meaning but ultimately inadequate gestures, the sense of being seen but not understood—these are experiences that resonate across cultures and generations. Yet the novel remains grounded in its particularity, in the specific texture of Berlin in winter, in the rhythms of German school life, in the cultural references that mark its characters as products of their time and place. This specificity is not a barrier to universality but its precondition; the novel earns its broader resonance by attending carefully to the particular.

The prose is precise and controlled, never flinching from the darkness of its subject matter but never exploiting it for effect. The dialogue crackles with subtext, particularly in the exchanges between Markus and Karsten, where every word carries weight beyond its surface meaning. Leung's sentences are clean and unadorned, allowing the emotional power to emerge from accumulation rather than extravagance. The structure of the novel—the alternating perspectives, the careful pacing of revelation, the gradual escalation toward the climactic scene—reflects a sophisticated understanding of narrative craft. Hasalynx Press has positioned this work within a tradition of literary fiction that refuses to compromise its complexity for accessibility, and the result is a novel that rewards careful reading. The emotional impact of Markus's trajectory lingers long after the final page, a testament to Leung's skill in rendering psychological experience with both precision and compassion. For those considering this novel, what emerges is a work of genuine literary substance, one that engages with the tradition of the Bildungsroman while speaking directly to contemporary concerns about mental health, social isolation, and the moral obligations we bear toward one another.