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This review may contain spoilers
My Strawberry Film — When Love Exists Only in the Eyes
Many viewers claim My Strawberry Film is “not really BL or GL.”
But this reaction says more about what we expect from the genre than about what this drama truly is. This is not a story about labels, kisses, or confessions shouted into the rain. It is a story about people who don’t yet have the words to name what they feel. And because of that, it is one of the most emotionally honest dramas I have watched in years.
A Story Built on Echoes, Not Declarations:
At its heart, My Strawberry Film is about how love is inherited, not biologically, but emotionally. Minami discovers that her mother, Mizuki, was once in love with her best friend Kaoru, now married to a man. When an old video of Mizuki is exposed online, Minami is forced to face the truth: her mother’s first love was a woman. This revelation doesn’t feel like a plot twist. It feels like a quiet earthquake. Minami begins to recognize herself in her mother. The same sensitivity. The same emotional intensity. The same instinct to care too deeply, too quickly. Her feelings toward Chika are not random; they are a reflection, a continuation of a story that was never allowed to finish. The series does not frame this as tragedy, but as inheritance: love passing through time, reshaped by a society that has only recently begun to allow it to exist.
Ryo and Hikaru: Love Without a Vocabulary
The emotional core of the drama belongs to Ryo. Ryo is an introvert who has been in love with Hikaru for a long time. But instead of confessing, he does what many queer people learn to do early: he supports from a distance. He hides. He waits.
For six episodes, he encourages Hikaru’s attraction to Minami, even though it quietly breaks him. The camera often places Ryo on the edges of the frame, watching from doorways, corners, behind glass. His emotional isolation becomes visual language.
Hikaru, meanwhile, does not understand himself. He is drawn to Minami because he projects onto her the look he once saw in Mizuki’s eyes in that old video—the look of someone deeply in love. But Minami never looks at him that way. The person who does is Ryo. The playground scene, where Hikaru finally asks Ryo if he has feelings for him, is one of the most painful moments of the series. Ryo hesitates. Hikaru’s eyes fill with fear. So Ryo lies. Not because he doesn’t love him—but because he does.
The Past as a Mirror
Episode 7 recontextualizes everything. Hikaru realizes that Mizuki’s gaze in the video was the gaze of a woman in love with another woman. He understands, perhaps for the first time, that love like this had no safe place to exist 25 years ago. And suddenly, he understands Ryo. When Hikaru finally says that Ryo looks at him the same way Mizuki looked at Kaoru, the series completes its emotional circle. Love has traveled through time, waiting for a moment where it can finally be named.
The final scene is not a spectacle. No kiss. No music swelling. Only two hands holding each other. And that is more than enough.
Why Some Viewers “Didn’t See It”
Many online reactions describe the series as “one-sided” or “not really BL.” But My Strawberry Film is not about resolution. It is about recognition. This drama belongs to the same cinematic family as His (2019), Taiikukan Baby (2008), and Asymmetry (2008)—stories where desire is expressed through silence, through gaze, through what is never said. It trusts the audience to feel. And if you were waiting for visible confirmation, you missed the emotional language the show is written in.
Final Thought
My Strawberry Film is not about who ends up together. It is about the moment someone finally understands why their heart has always been restless. If you thought nothing happened, then maybe you weren’t watching the faces. Because in this series, every silence is a confession.
But this reaction says more about what we expect from the genre than about what this drama truly is. This is not a story about labels, kisses, or confessions shouted into the rain. It is a story about people who don’t yet have the words to name what they feel. And because of that, it is one of the most emotionally honest dramas I have watched in years.
A Story Built on Echoes, Not Declarations:
At its heart, My Strawberry Film is about how love is inherited, not biologically, but emotionally. Minami discovers that her mother, Mizuki, was once in love with her best friend Kaoru, now married to a man. When an old video of Mizuki is exposed online, Minami is forced to face the truth: her mother’s first love was a woman. This revelation doesn’t feel like a plot twist. It feels like a quiet earthquake. Minami begins to recognize herself in her mother. The same sensitivity. The same emotional intensity. The same instinct to care too deeply, too quickly. Her feelings toward Chika are not random; they are a reflection, a continuation of a story that was never allowed to finish. The series does not frame this as tragedy, but as inheritance: love passing through time, reshaped by a society that has only recently begun to allow it to exist.
Ryo and Hikaru: Love Without a Vocabulary
The emotional core of the drama belongs to Ryo. Ryo is an introvert who has been in love with Hikaru for a long time. But instead of confessing, he does what many queer people learn to do early: he supports from a distance. He hides. He waits.
For six episodes, he encourages Hikaru’s attraction to Minami, even though it quietly breaks him. The camera often places Ryo on the edges of the frame, watching from doorways, corners, behind glass. His emotional isolation becomes visual language.
Hikaru, meanwhile, does not understand himself. He is drawn to Minami because he projects onto her the look he once saw in Mizuki’s eyes in that old video—the look of someone deeply in love. But Minami never looks at him that way. The person who does is Ryo. The playground scene, where Hikaru finally asks Ryo if he has feelings for him, is one of the most painful moments of the series. Ryo hesitates. Hikaru’s eyes fill with fear. So Ryo lies. Not because he doesn’t love him—but because he does.
The Past as a Mirror
Episode 7 recontextualizes everything. Hikaru realizes that Mizuki’s gaze in the video was the gaze of a woman in love with another woman. He understands, perhaps for the first time, that love like this had no safe place to exist 25 years ago. And suddenly, he understands Ryo. When Hikaru finally says that Ryo looks at him the same way Mizuki looked at Kaoru, the series completes its emotional circle. Love has traveled through time, waiting for a moment where it can finally be named.
The final scene is not a spectacle. No kiss. No music swelling. Only two hands holding each other. And that is more than enough.
Why Some Viewers “Didn’t See It”
Many online reactions describe the series as “one-sided” or “not really BL.” But My Strawberry Film is not about resolution. It is about recognition. This drama belongs to the same cinematic family as His (2019), Taiikukan Baby (2008), and Asymmetry (2008)—stories where desire is expressed through silence, through gaze, through what is never said. It trusts the audience to feel. And if you were waiting for visible confirmation, you missed the emotional language the show is written in.
Final Thought
My Strawberry Film is not about who ends up together. It is about the moment someone finally understands why their heart has always been restless. If you thought nothing happened, then maybe you weren’t watching the faces. Because in this series, every silence is a confession.
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