Not every Hermès handbag deserves a permanent place in the closet. Sometimes, you simply have to gaze at it one last time over a glass of champagne and sigh: it’s just not that anymore. A similar fate befell And Just Like That…—a decadent continuation of an even more decadent legend. Fashions change, loves fade, and even Sarah Jessica Parker must eventually close the door to her closet.
It’s official: the third season will be the last. Michael Patrick King, the architect of the Upper East Side neurosis universe, announced the conclusion in collaboration with HBO—and, in a perfectly contrasting flourish, with Carrie Bradshaw herself. “This is the perfect place to stop,” he wrote in an official statement, as if excerpted from a “Life Lessons” column circa 2003. Picture this: Carrie perched in a Perry Street window, sipping prosecco from a glass she never washes. An ending that feels less like a finale and more like a perfectly styled pause.
But nostalgia alone can’t carry this curtain call. The decision to wrap the series reeks less of sentiment and more of Chanel No. 5 mixed with the sweat of disappointment and the lingering scent of dwindling ratings. On paper, everything aligned: a reinvented New York, new faces, new drama. But the end result felt as stiff and awkward as a greige power suit. The show aimed to be inclusive, contemporary, progressive—but often landed like Crocs paired with a tuxedo: technically modern, tonally off.
Instead of biting wit, we were served dialogue that often sounded like transcripts from DEI training sessions. There were flashes—scenes, lines, outfits—where the old magic flickered. But overall, it felt like flipping through outdated issues of Vogue: nostalgic, yes, but with no real urge to revisit those trends.
Because And Just Like That… was never truly about plot. It was about mood. About style. An emotional escapade. A Pinterest board from the analog era. No one really walked Manhattan in stilettos, no one had time for daily brunch, no one solved existential crises with a cat and an Oscar Wilde quote. And yet, we watched—for the illusion. For that fleeting fantasy that neurosis could be luxurious and the chaos of life arranged like a Harper’s Bazaar spread.
The sequel, like many sequels, felt like bumping into an ex who still thinks he’s charming. Familiar, vaguely comforting, but after an hour, you’re quietly scanning for the exit. In this case, it came in the form of the finale.
The two-part conclusion—expanding beyond the usual ten episodes—was billed as a gift to fans. In reality, it felt more like a gift card to a boutique going out of business: technically free, but everything overpriced and non-refundable.
Michael Patrick King thanked viewers for welcoming these characters into their homes and hearts. Touching. Though some of those characters barely stopped by, leaving behind only a lingering trace of cheap prosecco and an uncomfortable question: why are we still doing this?
Amid the over-constructed return, one character stood out: Samantha. The only one with enough self-awareness not to come back full-time. Her brief, almost symbolic appearance was like a message from an ex in St. Tropez—unnecessary, but unexpectedly warm. Ironically, she felt the most modern of them all: she knew how to cut ties with something that no longer served her.
And just like that… it ends. Without drama. With French melancholy and American flair. With a soft smile and a sigh, because not everything once stylish is meant to last. Style is one thing. The need for something new is another. And change? Sometimes it comes in a beige coat and white sneakers, quietly stepping in to take the last stiletto off its pedestal. A chapter closes. Not with a bang, but with the subtle click of a closet door. And maybe that’s the most stylish goodbye of all.
Photo courtesy of Harper‘s Bazaar
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