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The Witch - The Spellbinding Story of Love Beyond Logic
There are love stories, and then there is The Witch—a drama that fools you into thinking it’s about logic versus superstition, only to unravel into something far more poignant and layered. For clarity, this is Kang Full’s The Witch, existing within the same universe as Light Shop and Moving, and not to be confused with Park Hoon-jung’s The Witch movie series. While its title might suggest a supernatural thriller, what lies beneath is a deeply human story about the weight of perception, the chains of rumor, and an unwavering love that refuses to yield.
Lee Dong-jin (Park Jin-young) is a data miner, a man who lives by statistics and probability, drawn to cold, hard facts. But the one thing he cannot quantify is his enduring love for Park Mi-jeong (Roh Jeong-eui), the girl who was once labeled a witch. Since childhood, tragedy seemed to follow Mi-jeong wherever she went—every boy who harbored feelings for her met with misfortune, from accidents to death, until the entire town cast her out. Whether the curse was real or not became irrelevant; the belief in it was enough to destroy her life. Forced into isolation, Mi-jeong accepted her fate, resigned to existing on the fringes of society. But Dong-jin never let go. Ten years later, when their paths cross again, he is determined to prove, through data and logic, that she is not cursed—that her misfortunes are merely statistical anomalies. What he doesn’t realize is that this mission is less about disproving a curse and more about giving himself permission to love her.
From the outset, The Witch is a visual masterpiece. The cinematography crafts an atmosphere both melancholic and dreamlike, using slow-motion snowfall, flickering lights, and carefully framed distances between Mi-jeong and Dong-jin to reinforce the emotional and physical barriers between them. The way the camera lingers on Mi-jeong’s silent suffering, often capturing her in isolation or at the edges of the frame, makes her loneliness palpable. And then there’s the soundtrack—every track carefully chosen to heighten the aching longing between them. Close My Eyes by Dahye stands out as one of the most hauntingly beautiful OSTs of 2025, encapsulating the heartbreak, the hope, and the quiet desperation that define their story.
Roh Jeong-eui delivers an absolutely breathtaking performance as Park Mi-jeong. There is an art to smiling through pain, to wearing resilience like armor while your eyes betray every unspoken sorrow, and Roh Jeong-eui embodies this flawlessly. She is neither fragile nor overtly defiant; she simply exists, surviving rather than living, too afraid to hope for more. Every microexpression, every slight tremor in her voice, every lingering pause speaks volumes. Her portrayal of Mi-jeong is the heart of this drama—a woman sculpted by years of whispered fears and wary glances, navigating a world that has already decided what she is before she can define herself.
On the other side of this emotional battlefield is Park Jin-young’s Lee Dong-jin, a character that defies easy categorization. He is, by definition, a stalker—watching Mi-jeong from afar, gathering data on her life, orchestrating ways to be near her without her knowing. And yet, his intent reframes his actions in a way that makes them strangely endearing rather than unsettling. Dong-jin isn’t watching to control or possess her; he is watching because he genuinely believes he can save her. He is desperate to prove that her isolation is unnecessary, that the walls she has built around herself can be torn down. His methods are flawed, but his devotion is unwavering. He is not a hero in the traditional sense, nor is he a villain. He is simply a man who has loved someone for so long that he cannot accept a world where she continues to suffer alone.
Jang Hee-ryung’s Heo Eun-sil provides a much-needed counterbalance to Dong-jin’s distant observation. Unlike him, she doesn’t stand on the sidelines analyzing Mi-jeong’s pain—she jumps into the abyss with her. Where Dong-jin watches, Eun-sil acts. She becomes the anchor Mi-jeong never had, the first true expression of unconditional acceptance since her father’s death. This friendship, this sisterhood, is one of the most beautiful aspects of the drama. It highlights the stark difference between passive love and active love, between watching someone drown and diving in to pull them out. Eun-sil is a force of warmth in Mi-jeong’s otherwise cold world, and Jang Hee-ryung plays her with a sincerity that makes every scene with her feel like a lifeline.
But let’s talk about what The Witch does best: subverting expectations. Kang Full has always had a talent for taking what seems obvious and turning it on its head. What begins as a mystery—Is the curse real? Can it be disproven?—slowly morphs into something far more profound. This isn’t a story about logic versus superstition. It is a story about love in all its forms: the love that isolates, the love that clings, the love that frees. It is about how fear shapes perception, how a rumor can take root so deeply that it becomes indistinguishable from reality. It is about self-fulfilling prophecies and cognitive biases, about how believing in something—be it a curse, a fate, a fear—can make it real in its own way. You tell a fish enough times that it belongs in the sky, and one day, it will leap from the water trying to fly, only to drown in the attempt. That is Mi-jeong’s tragedy, and Dong-jin’s struggle is not to prove that she is not cursed, but to make her believe that she deserves to live beyond that belief.
If there is a flaw in The Witch, it is in its pacing. The drama indulges in repeated scenes from different perspectives, which, while effective in deepening character understanding, can feel like padding. The introduction of a secondary couple late in the series also leaves little room for their relationship to develop meaningfully. And then there’s the framing of Dong-jin’s actions—while personally compelling, they tread a fine line that could easily be interpreted as problematic. The drama itself acknowledges this, even having Mi-jeong’s detective friend outright ask if she wants to press charges against Dong-jin. But at its core, The Witch is self-aware. It knows what it’s doing, and it challenges its audience to decide whether Dong-jin’s actions stem from devotion or obsession, whether Mi-jeong’s isolation is chosen or enforced.
By the end, The Witch reveals its final, devastating truth: Mi-jeong had noticed Dong-jin in high school, not out of love, but because he represented everything she wasn’t. He was warmth, joy, and belonging—the kind of life she had always been denied. Her regret was never speaking to him before she disappeared. But as their paths intertwined again, and as she slowly uncovered the depths of his devotion, admiration turned into something deeper. And in the end, the final variable in Dong-jin’s grand experiment—the one factor he never accounted for—was love. Not his love for her, but her love for him. Because in the end, love was the only thing that could break the curse.
Verdict: The Witch is not perfect, but it is unforgettable. It is a slow-burn, a layered, emotionally charged experience that lingers long after the final credits roll. It is a drama that invites you to question, to feel, to reconsider. It takes the simplest of premises and weaves it into something intricate and heartbreaking. And at its heart, it is about one simple, undeniable truth: sometimes, love is not about logic. Sometimes, love is just love.
And that is enough.
Final Score: 8.5/10
An emotionally charged, thought-provoking love story that subverts expectations at every turn. While its slow pacing and unconventional framing may not be for everyone, its depth, performances, and stunning cinematography make it a must-watch for those who love layered storytelling
Lee Dong-jin (Park Jin-young) is a data miner, a man who lives by statistics and probability, drawn to cold, hard facts. But the one thing he cannot quantify is his enduring love for Park Mi-jeong (Roh Jeong-eui), the girl who was once labeled a witch. Since childhood, tragedy seemed to follow Mi-jeong wherever she went—every boy who harbored feelings for her met with misfortune, from accidents to death, until the entire town cast her out. Whether the curse was real or not became irrelevant; the belief in it was enough to destroy her life. Forced into isolation, Mi-jeong accepted her fate, resigned to existing on the fringes of society. But Dong-jin never let go. Ten years later, when their paths cross again, he is determined to prove, through data and logic, that she is not cursed—that her misfortunes are merely statistical anomalies. What he doesn’t realize is that this mission is less about disproving a curse and more about giving himself permission to love her.
From the outset, The Witch is a visual masterpiece. The cinematography crafts an atmosphere both melancholic and dreamlike, using slow-motion snowfall, flickering lights, and carefully framed distances between Mi-jeong and Dong-jin to reinforce the emotional and physical barriers between them. The way the camera lingers on Mi-jeong’s silent suffering, often capturing her in isolation or at the edges of the frame, makes her loneliness palpable. And then there’s the soundtrack—every track carefully chosen to heighten the aching longing between them. Close My Eyes by Dahye stands out as one of the most hauntingly beautiful OSTs of 2025, encapsulating the heartbreak, the hope, and the quiet desperation that define their story.
Roh Jeong-eui delivers an absolutely breathtaking performance as Park Mi-jeong. There is an art to smiling through pain, to wearing resilience like armor while your eyes betray every unspoken sorrow, and Roh Jeong-eui embodies this flawlessly. She is neither fragile nor overtly defiant; she simply exists, surviving rather than living, too afraid to hope for more. Every microexpression, every slight tremor in her voice, every lingering pause speaks volumes. Her portrayal of Mi-jeong is the heart of this drama—a woman sculpted by years of whispered fears and wary glances, navigating a world that has already decided what she is before she can define herself.
On the other side of this emotional battlefield is Park Jin-young’s Lee Dong-jin, a character that defies easy categorization. He is, by definition, a stalker—watching Mi-jeong from afar, gathering data on her life, orchestrating ways to be near her without her knowing. And yet, his intent reframes his actions in a way that makes them strangely endearing rather than unsettling. Dong-jin isn’t watching to control or possess her; he is watching because he genuinely believes he can save her. He is desperate to prove that her isolation is unnecessary, that the walls she has built around herself can be torn down. His methods are flawed, but his devotion is unwavering. He is not a hero in the traditional sense, nor is he a villain. He is simply a man who has loved someone for so long that he cannot accept a world where she continues to suffer alone.
Jang Hee-ryung’s Heo Eun-sil provides a much-needed counterbalance to Dong-jin’s distant observation. Unlike him, she doesn’t stand on the sidelines analyzing Mi-jeong’s pain—she jumps into the abyss with her. Where Dong-jin watches, Eun-sil acts. She becomes the anchor Mi-jeong never had, the first true expression of unconditional acceptance since her father’s death. This friendship, this sisterhood, is one of the most beautiful aspects of the drama. It highlights the stark difference between passive love and active love, between watching someone drown and diving in to pull them out. Eun-sil is a force of warmth in Mi-jeong’s otherwise cold world, and Jang Hee-ryung plays her with a sincerity that makes every scene with her feel like a lifeline.
But let’s talk about what The Witch does best: subverting expectations. Kang Full has always had a talent for taking what seems obvious and turning it on its head. What begins as a mystery—Is the curse real? Can it be disproven?—slowly morphs into something far more profound. This isn’t a story about logic versus superstition. It is a story about love in all its forms: the love that isolates, the love that clings, the love that frees. It is about how fear shapes perception, how a rumor can take root so deeply that it becomes indistinguishable from reality. It is about self-fulfilling prophecies and cognitive biases, about how believing in something—be it a curse, a fate, a fear—can make it real in its own way. You tell a fish enough times that it belongs in the sky, and one day, it will leap from the water trying to fly, only to drown in the attempt. That is Mi-jeong’s tragedy, and Dong-jin’s struggle is not to prove that she is not cursed, but to make her believe that she deserves to live beyond that belief.
If there is a flaw in The Witch, it is in its pacing. The drama indulges in repeated scenes from different perspectives, which, while effective in deepening character understanding, can feel like padding. The introduction of a secondary couple late in the series also leaves little room for their relationship to develop meaningfully. And then there’s the framing of Dong-jin’s actions—while personally compelling, they tread a fine line that could easily be interpreted as problematic. The drama itself acknowledges this, even having Mi-jeong’s detective friend outright ask if she wants to press charges against Dong-jin. But at its core, The Witch is self-aware. It knows what it’s doing, and it challenges its audience to decide whether Dong-jin’s actions stem from devotion or obsession, whether Mi-jeong’s isolation is chosen or enforced.
By the end, The Witch reveals its final, devastating truth: Mi-jeong had noticed Dong-jin in high school, not out of love, but because he represented everything she wasn’t. He was warmth, joy, and belonging—the kind of life she had always been denied. Her regret was never speaking to him before she disappeared. But as their paths intertwined again, and as she slowly uncovered the depths of his devotion, admiration turned into something deeper. And in the end, the final variable in Dong-jin’s grand experiment—the one factor he never accounted for—was love. Not his love for her, but her love for him. Because in the end, love was the only thing that could break the curse.
Verdict: The Witch is not perfect, but it is unforgettable. It is a slow-burn, a layered, emotionally charged experience that lingers long after the final credits roll. It is a drama that invites you to question, to feel, to reconsider. It takes the simplest of premises and weaves it into something intricate and heartbreaking. And at its heart, it is about one simple, undeniable truth: sometimes, love is not about logic. Sometimes, love is just love.
And that is enough.
Final Score: 8.5/10
An emotionally charged, thought-provoking love story that subverts expectations at every turn. While its slow pacing and unconventional framing may not be for everyone, its depth, performances, and stunning cinematography make it a must-watch for those who love layered storytelling
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