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This review may contain spoilers
Run your race. Everyone else is running theirs.
TLDR: Shirasaki wasn’t just making everything about himself. His questions to Asami: “What do YOU want?” and “Who are you acting for?”, exposed the fact that Asami wasn’t living for himself. Shirasaki’s problem is anxiety and self-criticism. Asami’s problem is self-abandonment. Both of them are talented, both are stuck for different reasons, and the role in the play was the first time Asami actually chose something for himself, but then he relented.
Although it looks like Shirasaki made everything about himself, he actually did the one thing nobody else ever did for Asami: he asked him two hard questions — “What do YOU want?” and “Who are you acting for?” That wasn’t selfish. That was truth.
Since college, Shirasaki treated acting like a sacred craft. He worked for it, lived for it, and took pride in being respected for it. Then he lost his way. By the time he got his first breakout role, he was taking the craft so seriously that it became a cage. His work ethic turned into anxiety and self-criticism that kept him from enjoying the success he earned.
Asami, on the surface, was the opposite. He looked like someone who didn’t even have to try. Even though he’s a great actor, opportunities seemed to fall into his lap. He booked more roles partly because he didn’t take himself too seriously. Nothing was life or death to him. He just did whatever he was told — modeling, acting, whatever came next.
So yes, I understand Shirasaki’s frustration. It’s the same frustration everyone else has with Asami. Asami has what they all want, yet he floats through his career like it doesn’t matter. Even his manager said, “At first he just took anything I gave him.” The first time he finally expressed interest in something, she immediately asked him to take a different role — and he caved because “that’s what’s expected of me.” He still couldn’t choose himself.
And Shirasaki didn’t know the full story. Asami never talked to him about the emotional abuse, the pressure to perform, or the way he felt responsible for keeping his mother happy after the divorce. That kind of childhood teaches you to please others instead of wanting things for yourself. So imagine loving someone who is brilliant, gifted, and admired by the world, yet refuses to live authentically — and is quietly miserable because of it. That’s Asami in Season 1 and most of Season 2. A zombie.
Which is why taking the movie role was the best thing that could have happened — not for his career, but for his life. He finally got a chance to express emotions he’s buried for years. He didn’t need another job. He needed a release. Those emotions had to surface before he could let go of the past and start building a life driven by his own wants, not other people’s expectations.
And Shirasaki has his own work to do. Until he treats his anxiety, he’ll keep sabotaging himself. His competition is always internal, not external. My mother used to say, “Run your race. Everyone else is running theirs.” Shirasaki’s biggest enemy isn’t the industry or Asami — it’s his belief that he has to suffer to be good.
He needs to free himself from himself, just like Asami needs to stop abandoning himself.
That’s the tragedy and the beauty of their arc: both of them are talented. Both of them are stuck. And both of them need to choose themselves before they can truly love each other.
Although it looks like Shirasaki made everything about himself, he actually did the one thing nobody else ever did for Asami: he asked him two hard questions — “What do YOU want?” and “Who are you acting for?” That wasn’t selfish. That was truth.
Since college, Shirasaki treated acting like a sacred craft. He worked for it, lived for it, and took pride in being respected for it. Then he lost his way. By the time he got his first breakout role, he was taking the craft so seriously that it became a cage. His work ethic turned into anxiety and self-criticism that kept him from enjoying the success he earned.
Asami, on the surface, was the opposite. He looked like someone who didn’t even have to try. Even though he’s a great actor, opportunities seemed to fall into his lap. He booked more roles partly because he didn’t take himself too seriously. Nothing was life or death to him. He just did whatever he was told — modeling, acting, whatever came next.
So yes, I understand Shirasaki’s frustration. It’s the same frustration everyone else has with Asami. Asami has what they all want, yet he floats through his career like it doesn’t matter. Even his manager said, “At first he just took anything I gave him.” The first time he finally expressed interest in something, she immediately asked him to take a different role — and he caved because “that’s what’s expected of me.” He still couldn’t choose himself.
And Shirasaki didn’t know the full story. Asami never talked to him about the emotional abuse, the pressure to perform, or the way he felt responsible for keeping his mother happy after the divorce. That kind of childhood teaches you to please others instead of wanting things for yourself. So imagine loving someone who is brilliant, gifted, and admired by the world, yet refuses to live authentically — and is quietly miserable because of it. That’s Asami in Season 1 and most of Season 2. A zombie.
Which is why taking the movie role was the best thing that could have happened — not for his career, but for his life. He finally got a chance to express emotions he’s buried for years. He didn’t need another job. He needed a release. Those emotions had to surface before he could let go of the past and start building a life driven by his own wants, not other people’s expectations.
And Shirasaki has his own work to do. Until he treats his anxiety, he’ll keep sabotaging himself. His competition is always internal, not external. My mother used to say, “Run your race. Everyone else is running theirs.” Shirasaki’s biggest enemy isn’t the industry or Asami — it’s his belief that he has to suffer to be good.
He needs to free himself from himself, just like Asami needs to stop abandoning himself.
That’s the tragedy and the beauty of their arc: both of them are talented. Both of them are stuck. And both of them need to choose themselves before they can truly love each other.
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