The city breathes differently in season three—a low hum beneath the glossy veneer, like taxis idling outside a dimly lit bistro. Carrie Bradshaw’s stilettos still click against Manhattan sidewalks, but the rhythm feels... altered. Fragmented. Her world orbits Aidan’s earnest stability, yet her gaze drifts toward the elevator doors of her building, where a new neighbour's laughter echoes—sharp, magnetic, smelling faintly of bergamot and risk. Has Carrie made a mistake reigniting her old flame at the same time being drawn to her handsome writer neighbour, downstairs?

Miranda, unmoored and electric, dives into dating apps like a woman chasing lightning. Ché’s ghost lingers in the corners of her Brooklyn loft, but she fills the silence with strangers: a bassist, a barista with ink-stained fingers. Each encounter is a flare shot into the night—brief, blinding, leaving her squinting at her own reflection afterward until she hits the jackpot with a BBC work colleague. I am not sure I can buy into her becoming more interested in Women, when her character has always had such a sex passion for Men but hay-ho that's life I guess.

Charlotte’s Park Avenue haven fractures when Harry’s diagnosis lands like a dropped teacup. Their bed, once a sanctuary of silk and inside jokes, now holds pamphlets about radiation and side effects. She organizes pillboxes with the precision of a museum curator, her smile tight as a corset. Love, she’s learning, isn’t just roses; it’s holding a basin at 3 a.m.

Seema chain-smokes through disastrous setups—men who confuse "sapiosexual" with "pretentious," who eye her designer bag more than her eyes. Lisa, meanwhile, navigates playground politics and a flirty divorcee at PTA meetings, her texts to the group chat dripping in sarcastic emojis.

And yet—always, yet—the city tosses surprises like confetti. A missed train leads to a basement jazz club. A spilled martini becomes a confession in a coat-check room. The women orbit each other, satellites tracing familiar constellations, wondering: *Is this still our sky?*

The answer whispers in taxicab debates, in Charlotte’s white-knuckled grip on Harry’s hand, in Miranda’s reckless swipes right. Not nostalgia, but something raw. Something real. It is not as bad as the reviews but there are many cringe moments for me because these women are not 30 anymore but a bit older and maybe not wiser. I did binge watch the whole thing and pay Prime over the odds to do so, so maybe just maybe, I did liked it more than I am willing to fully admit.