2
3
3
A Sweet Treat With One Very Suspicious Cocoa Bean
Romantic Anonymous is one of those quiet little dramas that initially feels like a warm cup of hot chocolate, gentle, comforting, and a little sweeter than you expect. The early episodes charmed me instantly with their soft pacing and the emotionally grounded premise of two people who struggle to exist in the world. Lee Ha-na, played with a delicate, jittery sincerity by Han Hyo-joo, has scopophobia, the fear of being looked at. For her, eye contact feels like stepping under a spotlight she never asked for. Fujirawa Sousuke played by Oguri Shun, her boss, is mistaken for a germaphobe, but his real wound runs deeper: he’s convinced he is the contamination, shaped by a childhood trauma that he’s carried into adulthood like a hidden scar. Watching these two slowly inch toward each other, awkwardly, cautiously, and sometimes hilariously, was the heart of why I fell for the drama. Their scenes together aren’t sizzling so much as they are quietly tender, shaped by tiny gestures and shy glances that never overplay themselves. Even their attempt to “practice” touch and eye contact comes with a playful self-awareness, the drama jokingly acknowledging how absurd it sounds while still giving the moment emotional weight.
The romance, if you can even call it that for most of the show, isn’t the dramatic sweeping kind. It’s more about two people learning to breathe near each other without panicking. Two turtles slowly poking their heads out of their shells. It’s soft. It’s understated. It’s care-driven rather than chemistry-driven. And honestly, that worked for me. This was always a healing story more than a love story, where chocolate becomes a language, connection becomes courage, and every small step counts.
But then episode 7 happened, and the tonal shift was so abrupt it felt like someone swapped the script with the outline of a completely different show. Suddenly we were in Bali looking for “rare cacao beans,” and in the most spectacularly convenient twist imaginable, the first random restaurant the characters entered just happened to be owned by the exact farmer they needed. I sat there blinking at the screen like my brain had blue-screened. This kind of deus ex machina shortcut is my personal storytelling kryptonite, and it broke my immersion instantly. One drop of that plot convenience landed in my emotional milk and dyed the whole thing grey. I hit the eject button so fast I thought that was the end of it. And normally, for me, it would be. Once I emotionally disconnect from a drama, that’s usually permanent.
But strangely, and I still don’t fully understand why, I came back the next day and picked up the final episode. Maybe it was lingering fondness for the characters, maybe it was curiosity, maybe it was the emotional momentum from the early episodes that hadn’t fully faded. Whatever the reason, I found myself giving the show one last chance. And to my surprise, the finale didn’t just pull itself together, it actually returned to the emotional spine that made the drama charming in the first place. The chaos of Bali slipped into the background, and the story refocused on what truly mattered: Hana finding the courage to step into the world a little more boldly, and Sousuke deciding to protect the chocolate shop not for business or legacy, but because he finally understood what it meant to bring happiness to others. Their personal arcs came full circle in a way that felt sincere and grounded, like the drama remembered exactly what it promised at the beginning and honored it.
The ending isn’t extraordinary, but it is emotionally honest. It’s quiet, thoughtful, and thematically consistent with the gentleness of the early episodes. No fireworks, no grand romantic declarations, just the inevitability of two people who are a little braver, a little healthier, and finally able to look at each other without flinching. That kind of closure, for this kind of story, is enough.
In the end, Romantic Anonymous isn’t a masterpiece and it’s not aiming to be one. It’s a warm, cozy little drama that stumbles hard in one episode but still finds its footing in the finale. If you enjoy soft emotional storytelling, awkward healing arcs, and characters who feel genuinely human in their frailty, it’s well worth watching. Just be prepared for one detour that may test your patience. For me, the journey, even with its flaws, ended on a satisfying note.
I know I don't usually do numerical scores anymore, but I’d give it a solid, warm high 7 out of 10.
The romance, if you can even call it that for most of the show, isn’t the dramatic sweeping kind. It’s more about two people learning to breathe near each other without panicking. Two turtles slowly poking their heads out of their shells. It’s soft. It’s understated. It’s care-driven rather than chemistry-driven. And honestly, that worked for me. This was always a healing story more than a love story, where chocolate becomes a language, connection becomes courage, and every small step counts.
But then episode 7 happened, and the tonal shift was so abrupt it felt like someone swapped the script with the outline of a completely different show. Suddenly we were in Bali looking for “rare cacao beans,” and in the most spectacularly convenient twist imaginable, the first random restaurant the characters entered just happened to be owned by the exact farmer they needed. I sat there blinking at the screen like my brain had blue-screened. This kind of deus ex machina shortcut is my personal storytelling kryptonite, and it broke my immersion instantly. One drop of that plot convenience landed in my emotional milk and dyed the whole thing grey. I hit the eject button so fast I thought that was the end of it. And normally, for me, it would be. Once I emotionally disconnect from a drama, that’s usually permanent.
But strangely, and I still don’t fully understand why, I came back the next day and picked up the final episode. Maybe it was lingering fondness for the characters, maybe it was curiosity, maybe it was the emotional momentum from the early episodes that hadn’t fully faded. Whatever the reason, I found myself giving the show one last chance. And to my surprise, the finale didn’t just pull itself together, it actually returned to the emotional spine that made the drama charming in the first place. The chaos of Bali slipped into the background, and the story refocused on what truly mattered: Hana finding the courage to step into the world a little more boldly, and Sousuke deciding to protect the chocolate shop not for business or legacy, but because he finally understood what it meant to bring happiness to others. Their personal arcs came full circle in a way that felt sincere and grounded, like the drama remembered exactly what it promised at the beginning and honored it.
The ending isn’t extraordinary, but it is emotionally honest. It’s quiet, thoughtful, and thematically consistent with the gentleness of the early episodes. No fireworks, no grand romantic declarations, just the inevitability of two people who are a little braver, a little healthier, and finally able to look at each other without flinching. That kind of closure, for this kind of story, is enough.
In the end, Romantic Anonymous isn’t a masterpiece and it’s not aiming to be one. It’s a warm, cozy little drama that stumbles hard in one episode but still finds its footing in the finale. If you enjoy soft emotional storytelling, awkward healing arcs, and characters who feel genuinely human in their frailty, it’s well worth watching. Just be prepared for one detour that may test your patience. For me, the journey, even with its flaws, ended on a satisfying note.
I know I don't usually do numerical scores anymore, but I’d give it a solid, warm high 7 out of 10.
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