I never thought this day would come, but I can’t seem to muster the energy to watch the third season of And Just Like That, which premieres on the 29th with 12 weekly episodes (every Thursday). And it’s not just because of the rush of life, the algorithms that steal our attention, or the chronic fatigue of someone who already follows too many shows. It’s a deeper kind of exhaustion, almost symbolic. A desire to preserve the Carrie Bradshaw who lives in my memory, before she’s entirely lost in this recycled, stretched, and unconvincing version of herself.

If you think I’m exaggerating, look at the season summary: “the series will continue to explore the lives of Carrie, Miranda, and Charlotte as they navigate the challenges of friendship, love, and career in their 50s in New York City.” Is there really nothing we haven’t seen before? Oh yes, “the season promises to introduce new characters and storylines, including fresh love interests and personal challenges for the protagonists.” That doesn’t sound new either. At least Michael Patrick King, the show’s creator, revealed that Carrie Bradshaw’s voice-over narration will return this season, because she’s writing a new book (fiction this time), and this choice aims to reconnect the character with her original essence and offer a more intimate perspective to the audience.

Feeling this lack of excitement for a franchise I’ve loved and followed for three decades is strange. Sex and the City was revolutionary — when it premiered in 1998, it offered something unprecedented for television: single women over thirty talking about sex, careers, friendship, and heartbreak without apologizing. New York was the fifth character, yes — but it was the quartet of protagonists who took us on a walk through the city and, more importantly, into ourselves. The series wasn’t perfect, and even back then, one could point to issues of class, race, and a certain fashion elitism. But there was freshness, boldness, and, most of all, identification. The pain of rejection, the fear of abandonment, and the search for meaning amid the chaos of modern relationships were all there.

Then came the movies. The first, in 2008, was a nostalgic gift for those who missed the show. The second, in 2010, already felt out of place — exotic in the worst way — as if the characters had been turned into caricatures of luxury and superficiality. Even so, there was still some emotional connection. But then came And Just Like That, along with a clumsy attempt to update the series for the current world — and please everyone.

It didn’t work.

The series tried to correct past mistakes but ended up creating new dissonances. The absence of Samantha Jones left a gap that’s been hard to fill, even with constant mentions and a flash return that had no real impact. Miranda Hobbes was deconstructed to the point of becoming someone else, which could’ve been interesting if done with more depth and less haste. Charlotte Goldenblatt seems stuck in a loop of motherhood and perfectionism dilemmas. And Carrie… Carrie has become the center of an increasingly scattered narrative, swinging between attempts at maturity and regressions into a persona that no longer holds. Not to mention the strange math where women in their “late 30s” in the 1990s are now portrayed as fifty-somethings three decades later. We’re watching the misadventures of women in their 60s — why pretend otherwise?

I don’t know if And Just Like That lost its old audience, or if the old audience just got tired of trying to see it with the same eyes. I also don’t know if the series has truly managed to win over a new audience — it doesn’t seem like it has. What I see is a certain fatigue: of formulas, of dialogue, of relevance. The show tries to tackle important issues, but often feels like it’s reading from an inclusion manual rather than telling organic stories. The timing, once Sex and the City’s greatest asset, now always seems offbeat.

For a while, I found it strange that even the set photos in New York revealed so little. In previous seasons, leaks happened, and we deciphered some clues. Now? Just a parade of fashion-forward outfits that work on Sarah Jessica Parker but feel like costumes on everyone else. The official images already released by HBO MAX are bland: Carrie in the kitchen of her new apartment, sitting at the table looking out the window, or having drinks with Charlotte and Miranda. Speaking of which: Charlotte walking her dogs, Miranda back in the office, restarting her career. Seriously, it’s sleep-inducing.

Maybe I’ll go back to watching it — out of loyalty or sheer curiosity. But for now, I’d rather remember the Carrie who wrote about shoes and heartbreaks on a typewriter in the most implausible New York apartment. That Carrie, who, with all her flaws, still made us laugh, cry, and — why not? — dream. We’ll see in a week if I change my mind.