Unknown Seoul (2025)

a mi-ji...

A série teve uma evolução gigante com todos os personagens.
A avó teve conseguiu demonstrar que amava a filha.
O par romântico da Mi-ji conseguiu perceber porque queria ser advogado e aceitou a sua doença.
A Mi-rae conseguiu despedir-se e ver a sua queixa de assédio sexual seguir em frente e a ganhar.
Até a colega da Mi-rae conseguiu seguir em frente e sair de casa!
A mãe delas voltou a pintar e a fazer o que gostas.
E a Mi-ji, que evoluiu tanto ao longo dos episódios... no último episódio voltaram na a meter como uma miúda, infantil que só chumba na escola. Não só em um episódio falhou 2x na admissão para a faculdade, como deram a entender que ela teria de repetir o curso e depois ainda "recusou" casar com ele porque vai fazer o mestrado para ser terapeuta. Por este andar vai andar a estudar mais 10 anos, trabalhar em part-time com a Rosa para sempre e o amor da vida dela vai continuar em pausa porque ela tem de receber o ser primeiro ordenado do trabalho que ainda não está garantido que consiga com o curso.
Mas bem, só achei essa grande falha pois meio que destruíram algo que a personagem já tinha criado, isto é, a responsabilidade do trabalho e o relacionamento adulto com o seu amor se infância.
Mas em geral foi bom, gostei.

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One of those series whose true beauty unfolds only gradually

Happily, another jewel in the KDrama sky of 2025. Our Unwritten Seoul is one of those series whose true beauty unfolds only gradually—like the secret bloom of an evening primrose, opening quietly under the cover of dusk, revealing its radiance only to those who wait with patience.

Many voices have called the series emotionally profound, poetic, introspective, healing… It spent weeks in the global Netflix charts and entered the Top 10 in more than 28 countries. At its heart, it is a drama about identity, self‑perception, and familial wounds. And within it, Park Bo‑young surpasses herself in a dual role as Mi‑ji and Mi‑rae.

What first appears to be a quiet drama reveals itself as a finely woven net of fate, self‑deception, transformation, and quiet hope. It does not show a world that is better, but one that is honest. A world where dreams fail, families grow weary, people live side by side without listening to each other. And yet: there are strawberries. There are warm embraces. There is the possibility of beginning again.

The story of twin sisters who exchange roles may sound familiar, but here it becomes a meditation on identity, self‑worth, and the longing to be someone else.

Park Bo‑young does not merely carry the series—she shapes it. As Mi‑ji and Mi‑rae—and, in truth, as four substantial versions of them: each as herself, and each as the other in disguise. She grows through the subtle distinctions of expression, the quiet shifts in tone and posture, the evolving body language. Rarely has a double role been so convincingly embodied.

Lee Ho‑su (Park Jin‑young) is not the typical love interest. He is a man marked by scars, visible and invisible. Half deaf, half estranged from his own body, he becomes a mirror of imperfection—the very quality that makes the series so valuable. His relationships with mentor, mother, past, and with Mi‑rae and Mi‑ji are told without pathos.

The cafeteria jobs, the small‑town life, the broken dreams—these make Our Unwritten Seoul a counterpoint to dramas suffocated by glamour. Even though its stars come from the KPop orbit, their performances reach a new level: restrained, reflective, human. Even the supporting characters carry their own stories, which gradually draw us in. This makes the world believable and layered. The supporting actresses Cha Mi‑kyung, Kim Sun‑young, and Jang Young‑nam add depth without overshadowing.

And then the deliberate contrasts: city and countryside, high‑rise and strawberry farm. The farm scenes are almost meditative—a place of healing. Han Se‑jin’s departure from the hedge‑fund world is more than symbolic: it is about rediscovering a way of life that does not need to be efficient.

The theme of self‑compassion also finds its place here: the series asks not only how we see others, but how we treat ourselves when no one is watching.

The OST serves as an emotional companion. The visual design is carefully attuned to the story. The series employs a chiastic structure, working with opposites and reflections so that the characters’ development and healing become visible. Even the colors shift gradually, reflecting the inner states of the protagonists.

In the end, the story closes a circle. The characters return to places where they began—changed, grown, carrying their old wounds, which now can begin to heal. Subtle, beautiful. And, indeed: valuable.

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