MsD7

An Incurable Case of Obsession

This series presents itself as a light-hearted romantic comedy, yet its central dynamic relies on clichés that are, in many respects, troubling, making it painful to watch.

At the centre of the story is Sakura’s relentless pursuit of Dr. Tendo. The series frames this persistence as romantic devotion, but the boundary between devotion and stalking remains uncomfortably thin. The narrative repeatedly leans on the familiar trope that rejection can eventually be overcome through enough determination. In an era where “no means no” is widely recognized as fundamental to consent, the suggestion that refusal may simply require persistence to become affectionate feels distinctly outdated.

Sakura’s attachment is also rooted less in a genuine relationship than in a childhood impression. A brief encounter in the past crystallized into an idealized image of Dr. Tendo, suggesting she is pursuing a fantasy. When the real Dr. Tendo proves emotionally distant and verbally abusive, the story does little to interrogate the gap between fantasy and reality. Instead, it turns that tension into the engine of its romance, producing something closer to fixation rather than an incurable case of love.

As Dr. Tendo holds professional authority over Sakura, his repeated verbal abuse and public humiliation become normalized within their interactions. Over time, a pattern in which moments of minimal sympathy are interspersed with persistent verbal abuse, while he maintains far more functional relationships with colleagues, family members, and past partners. The effect is a dynamic that at times resembles a troubling pleasure in provoking and observing her submission rather than a healthy interpersonal bond.

Equally notable is Sakura’s perception of the situation. The series repeatedly emphasizes her unconventional personality, her unfiltered enthusiasm, exaggerated emotional responses, and an almost child-like excitement. While intended to make her charming, these traits also suggest a naïve emotional and intellectual understanding of the world around her.

Ironically, obsessive attachment and abusive dynamics are among the more realistic aspects of the story. What strains credibility is the expected fairytale resolution: the emotionally distant man ultimately softens and reciprocates the heroine’s devotion. By pairing realistic dysfunction with an idealized romantic payoff, the narrative risks sending a troubling message.

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Conformity vs. Surrender

Kyoichi plays with theatrical precision the role of a “good man”. The reliable employee, a "good husband" who discreetly fails as an adulterer within patriarchal acceptance. His affairs are extensions of conformity, with women who are aesthetically pleasing and submissive. His life feels less immoral than anesthetized.

The sudden reappearance of Wataru, who has secretly loved Kyoichi since their college days, brings this façade crashing down. Wataru knows his weaknesses, his failures, and his ugly truths. Armed with that knowledge, he overwhelms him emotionally, as well as physically. What begins as a surrender of control gradually turns into a revelation.

The film’s explicit sex scenes may strike some as disruptive; however, their structural similarity is precisely the point. The mechanics of desire remain comparable, yet the emotional posture differs radically. With women, Kyoichi’s sexuality appears performative and rushed. In contrast, the intimacy between the two men unfolds through passion and a gentler mutuality. The difference lies not in the act, but in Kyoichi’s state.

Further within this new arrangement, Kyoichi appears generally more carefree, his laughter unforced, his gestures playful, almost boyish. Their shared space mirrors this contradiction. Though modest and framed by cold concrete and urban austerity, it radiates a quiet warmth, an intimacy carved out of an otherwise indifferent world, a fragile pleasure that seems in need of protection.

Yet the past catches up. Kyoichi’s habitual impulse to fill his inner void with trivial encounters remains omnipresent. The social “unacceptability” of their relationship, coupled with the weight of internalized shame, begins to erode their relationship. Longing turns into insecurity; vulnerability into pain.

During their ritualized separation, Wataru describes the type of woman who would best suit Kyoichi, painting an image of conformity and comfortable domesticity. In return, Kyoichi wishes Wataru a love that will grant him the affection he deserves, a quiet, guilty confession as farewell.

In his anguish, Kyoichi seeks another taboo breach, yet he cannot bring himself to follow through. Instead, he returns to old patterns, a new doll-like girl, and an outlook of domesticated security.

Wataru can't let go. Another passionate collision makes a defeated Wataru discard the small sign of hope he once left behind in Kyoichi’s space, and leave without a goodbye. Only then does Kyoichi realize the true imprisonment was neither marriage nor desire, but conformity and the emptiness that comes with it. He breaks with social comfort, choosing an uncompromising loyalty to his own emotions, even if that means solitude.

Overall, I appreciate the message because it refuses to offer an easy answer. The ending remains open and rightly so. It does not follow the formula of the romanticized myth of “I can change him” with a happy ending. Both Kyoichi and Wataru carry deeply rooted issues. Their emotional baggage and trust issues cannot simply be undone by passion. Yet it does not feel hopeless. Change will be slow and self-driven. Whether their paths cross again or not, something essential has shifted within them, especially within Kyoichi.

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Some stories leave you with thoughts. This one left me still searching for language.

I usually write reviews when I feel compelled to. Not because I have watched something good, but because I have encountered something that leaves a lasting imprint through a performance, a story, a visual language, or an emotional experience that continues to linger after the credits roll.

This series captivated me, yet it has proven remarkably difficult to write about. Not because there is nothing to say, every time I try to define what exactly touched me, the words seem to flatten something that felt infinitely more complex.

First, thank you to the creators for giving us something original, willing to challenge its audience. In an industry increasingly reliant on recycling familiar concepts, proven formulas, and recognizable tropes, this series feels refreshing. And perhaps that is where my difficulty begins.

Is it a love story? Certainly. Yet calling it a love story feels insufficient, as though it reduces something much larger. Is it a journey of self-discovery, healing, and reflection? Also yes. Yet even that description feels strangely shallow. The emotional landscape of this series is vast and layered, so any attempt to summarize it risks diminishing it.

Perhaps the series itself provides the answer. At one point, the protagonists reflect on whether love can be displayed as a singular emotion, suggesting instead that it is a construct composed of emotions, experiences, perceptions, and contradictions. In many ways, the series functions similarly. It feels less like a story that communicates a message and more like a construct designed to evoke something profoundly personal.

The story is generally described as one of struggle, and the two protagonists appear to embody that struggle. Yet that never sat quite right with me. As the narrative unfolds, it becomes clear that everyone around them is struggling. What distinguishes Hwang Dong Man and Byeon Eun A is not the severity of their suffering, but their relationship to it. Paradoxically, this same vulnerability grants them a kind of freedom that many other characters never achieve.

Both seem less constrained by social expectations and less dependent on being accepted, validated, or understood by others. Their struggles run so deep that they manifest physically and therefore become impossible to hide, creating an emotional detachment that is often painful to witness. For that reason, I did not see them as tragic heroes. The series contains so much subtext that reducing its characters to conventional archetypes feels almost profane. Beneath every conversation lies another conversation. Beneath every conflict lies another wound. Perhaps that is why the moments that remain with me most strongly are not the dramatic plot points, but the quieter emotional expressions.

I have to commend the writers for the intoxicating language they gave Hwang Dong Man. His quiet monologues of love for Byeon Eun A are some of the most beautiful moments in the series. They are unconventional, almost nonsensical at times, yet deeply sincere. Through ordinary objects, fleeting observations, and seemingly insignificant details, he transforms everyday life into symbols of connection and affection.

Equally moving is Byeon Eun A's recognition of Dong Man's empathy and sincerity. She sees something precious in him that others overlook or dismiss. Her appreciation of his compassion feels less like romantic admiration and more like an acknowledgment of something fundamentally necessary in the world. Their relationship transcends conventional romance and becomes an exploration of transformative love itself, love as understanding, acceptance, and recognition.

And finally, a humble declaration of love for Koo Kyo Hwan's art. He achieves far more than simply portraying a character. He creates an entire emotional ecosystem, capturing the multifaceted universe of a deeply complex personality. As someone who tends to engage with performances through empathy, I found myself absorbed by every nuance of the character's emotional landscape. Every subtle shift, every contradiction, every unspoken emotion felt tangible. It is precisely here that words fail me most.

The closest comparison I can offer is that of a child staring into a snow globe that has just been shaken. At first, everything appears chaotic, beautiful fragments swirling in every direction. Yet the longer you watch, the more you realize that every piece belongs exactly where it is. The chaos possesses its own logic, its own significance, its own reason for existing.

That is how his performance felt to me.

In the end, these elements became so impactful that the storyline itself occasionally felt secondary. Not because the narrative lacks value, but because it succeeds in what I believe it ultimately sets out to do: provide a thread strong enough to carry an emotional experience. And what remains is a story filled with compassion, hope, longing, vulnerability, and the quiet reassurance that every person is fighting a battle against their own sense of inadequacy.

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A remarkably gentle and emotionally intelligent love story

There is a tendency to categorize this story as a “mature BL,” largely because its protagonists are adults rather than students or young men at the beginning of their lives. Yet I find this label somewhat misleading. The drama’s maturity does not stem primarily from the age of its characters but from its understanding of love itself. Rather than relying on emotional turbulence, misunderstandings, jealousy, or dramatic obstacles, it presents love as a slow-burning flame: steady, enduring, and quietly transformative.

This sensibility is reflected in the series’ visual language, which echoes the symbolism embedded in its title. The “smokey blue” is more than a colour palette; it becomes an emotional atmosphere that permeates the narrative. Cool blue tones dominate much of the drama, while warm amber light gradually emerges during moments of intimacy, creating a subtle emotional rhythm. These contrasts reinforce the series’ central idea that love is not an escape from reality but a refuge within it.

The symbolism extends beyond colour. In the early episodes, cigarettes and smoke function as a quiet bridge between two emotionally reserved individuals. Sharing a cigarette allows them to occupy the same space in silence, sharing fleeting moments of connection while preserving the ambiguity they both seem to need. In this sense, the smoke adds another layer to the title's symbolism. The brief comfort of a shared cigarette gradually gives way to the deeper comfort of genuine companionship.

Much of this delicate emotional atmosphere would not work without the performances of Takeda Kouhei and Kento Shibuya. Their chemistry is built on authenticity, and they portray affection with such natural ease that the relationship feels lived-in rather than idealized. In their performances, the warmth suggested by the series’ visual and symbolic language becomes tangible, drawing the audience into the intimacy at the heart of the story.

The story itself begins with both protagonists embodying a conventional definition of success. Having built respected careers, they possess professional standing, financial stability, and social recognition. Yet beneath this success lies a growing sense of anxiety and exhaustion. It is no coincidence that Kuji’s encounter with Azuma occurs on the night of his farewell party. What begins as a passionate and seemingly impulsive encounter becomes a symbolic rupture, severing him from his past life. By walking away from careers that once guaranteed stability, both men choose uncertainty, embarking on a search for something less tangible but ultimately more meaningful, a search that gradually draws them back toward one another.

From the beginning, Azuma’s feelings for Kuji are immediate, though expressed more openly. He seeks closeness in a tender, understated way, occasionally revealing flashes of jealousy that he nevertheless handles with restraint and respect. Throughout the relationship, he is also the one who is most actively rooting for a shared future. One of the most revealing moments is when Azuma speaks about settling down. The home he seeks is not geographical but relational, and it becomes increasingly clear that it already exists with Kuji. Equally significant is his gradual process of coming out, openly introducing Kuji as his partner and integrating this relationship into his sense of self and future.

Kuji’s development is just as compelling, albeit more inward-looking. His emotional reserve is not merely a character trait but the result of accumulated alienation from his family, the loss of loved ones, and a sense of responsibility. Even his initial infatuation with Azuma is marked by withdrawal; he chooses to step away to leave behind a life that had become defined by emotional depletion. Over time, he comes to recognize that the hours he spends with Azuma offer something he has long been deprived of: a sense of quiet, unpressured happiness that does not demand sacrifice. His affection remains largely unspoken, expressed through hesitation, restraint, and small acts of care that Azuma acknowledges.

One of the series’ most affecting moments comes in the final episode, when Tamaki is overwhelmed with happiness for his uncle. What initially appears to be admiration for achievements is revealed to be something deeper: recognition of Azuma’s kindness, integrity, and capacity to care for others. Tamaki’s reaction embodies one of the drama’s most humane ideas: that everyone deserves the chance to find comfort, belonging, and companionship with the person they love.

In another romance, this might seem self-evident. Yet within a same-sex love story, where emotional conflict is often shaped by social stigma, self-doubt, and fear of acceptance, such happiness carries additional weight. Tamaki’s joy is not merely approval; it transforms a private love into something openly acknowledged and affirmed, making the scene one of the series’ most emotionally resonant.

What makes it especially powerful is Kuji’s reaction. Faced with Tamaki’s unconditional acceptance, he breaks down emotionally, as though finally granted permission to embrace his own happiness without restraint. Throughout the series, Kuji’s feelings for Azuma remain deeply felt yet carefully contained. Here, for perhaps the first time, those emotions surface fully. His tears become the clearest expression of his love, not because they are dramatic, but because they release what has long been held back.

Seeing Tamaki’s sincerity and Kuji’s vulnerability also profoundly affects Azuma. What begins as a conversation evolves into an affirmation that happiness does not need to be justified, hidden, or earned. The scene crystallizes the series’ central message: that being loved and allowing oneself to be loved are equally acts of courage.

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