This review may contain spoilers
a brutally honest portrait of love, change, and emotional accountability
this isn’t the kind of BL film that wraps itself in idealized tropes or gives comfort in romance. it’s an uncomfortable, messy, and deeply human story—and for that reason, it's one of the most powerful i’ve seen.
at its core is kyouichi, a man who lives a pitiful and hollow life. a womanizer and emotionally vacant, he gets married not out of love, but out of a vague sense of obligation—because it’s what society expects of him. he’s never really stopped to think about what he wants, who he is, or how his behavior affects others. he moves through life selfishly, detached, never truly caring about those who try to get close to him.
then there’s imagase, who represents everything that challenges kyouichi’s emotional stagnation. his love is obsessive, manipulative—even predatory at times—but it’s also raw, honest, and unwavering. his searing line, “you have a weakness for people who love you, but you don’t trust that love in the end, and sniff around the feelings of those who approach you,” cuts deep, not just into kyouichi’s character but into the emotional detachment that defines many modern relationships.
and yet, what makes this film resonate is not the toxicity—it’s the potential for growth. kyouichi isn’t a likable man, but he is human. and for all his flaws, he proves capable of change. he begins to accept who he is, stops running from himself, and starts taking emotional responsibility—not just for his own life, but for the people he’s hurt. that willingness to grow doesn’t come easily or quickly. it comes from being challenged by someone who, despite everything, truly loved him.
this is beautifully encapsulated in the final scene. kyouichi sits alone at the barstool—on the same stool where Imagase always waited for him. the ashtray is no longer thrown away but placed gently on the table, washed and cleaned. the curtains are white and sheer, replacing the tacky blue ones. small, quiet details, but they say everything. he’s not waiting for someone to fix him anymore. he’s doing what he can, on his own. as he puts it, “i want to wait. by myself. i want to do what i can.”
in the end, imagase's love—unconventional, obsessive, but undeniably pure—becomes the catalyst for kyouichi’s growth. and in that sense, the film suggests that to truly love someone is for them to become your only exception.
it’s not romantic. it’s not easy. but it’s real—and that’s what makes this story unforgettable.
at its core is kyouichi, a man who lives a pitiful and hollow life. a womanizer and emotionally vacant, he gets married not out of love, but out of a vague sense of obligation—because it’s what society expects of him. he’s never really stopped to think about what he wants, who he is, or how his behavior affects others. he moves through life selfishly, detached, never truly caring about those who try to get close to him.
then there’s imagase, who represents everything that challenges kyouichi’s emotional stagnation. his love is obsessive, manipulative—even predatory at times—but it’s also raw, honest, and unwavering. his searing line, “you have a weakness for people who love you, but you don’t trust that love in the end, and sniff around the feelings of those who approach you,” cuts deep, not just into kyouichi’s character but into the emotional detachment that defines many modern relationships.
and yet, what makes this film resonate is not the toxicity—it’s the potential for growth. kyouichi isn’t a likable man, but he is human. and for all his flaws, he proves capable of change. he begins to accept who he is, stops running from himself, and starts taking emotional responsibility—not just for his own life, but for the people he’s hurt. that willingness to grow doesn’t come easily or quickly. it comes from being challenged by someone who, despite everything, truly loved him.
this is beautifully encapsulated in the final scene. kyouichi sits alone at the barstool—on the same stool where Imagase always waited for him. the ashtray is no longer thrown away but placed gently on the table, washed and cleaned. the curtains are white and sheer, replacing the tacky blue ones. small, quiet details, but they say everything. he’s not waiting for someone to fix him anymore. he’s doing what he can, on his own. as he puts it, “i want to wait. by myself. i want to do what i can.”
in the end, imagase's love—unconventional, obsessive, but undeniably pure—becomes the catalyst for kyouichi’s growth. and in that sense, the film suggests that to truly love someone is for them to become your only exception.
it’s not romantic. it’s not easy. but it’s real—and that’s what makes this story unforgettable.
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