Celebrity 
This review may contain spoilers
"It's a person's free will to like who they like. Do what you desire." — Ogata
The character of Nagisa forced me to deeply rethink the concept of second chances and what truly constitutes the strength of a marriage. It asks a blue question: Is granting a second chance ever worth it when it comes at the cost of the time you spent feeling rejected, deserted, and left entirely alone? Can the dejected, melancholic fragments of a life left behind really foster a new beginning with the very hand that rejected you in the first place?
From the very beginning, Nagisa's sudden arrival did not sit well with me. His original vision of being a "real man"—sleeping with a woman he did not love, having a child with her, and getting married purely to please societal norms—is deeply flawed. What makes it worse is the way he suddenly returned to Shun on what felt like a whim, acting like it was completely fine, simply because he reached a breaking point where he could no longer live a lie. Imposing his presence and instantly offloading his childcare responsibilities onto Shun was incredibly selfish.
Thankfully, he eventually apologized, recognized his wife Rena’s immense struggles, and rightfully let her have custody of Sora. Too often, LGBTQ+ films try to normalize, justify, or downplay the devastating consequences of cheating just because a closeted character is involved. Being gay does not give anyone a free pass to sneak around and mistreat others. Nagisa did not just lie to and cheat on Rena; he actively tried to suppress and rewrite his entire identity, even if it meant deceiving his own family.
In the end, the only moments that felt genuinely pleasant were the light, sweet conversations between Shun and the elderly neighbor, Ogata, alongside the quiet frames where Shun, Nagisa, and Sora spent Christmas together. Aside from those rare glimpses of warmth, watching the rest of the film felt like sitting through a routine story.
The character of Nagisa forced me to deeply rethink the concept of second chances and what truly constitutes the strength of a marriage. It asks a blue question: Is granting a second chance ever worth it when it comes at the cost of the time you spent feeling rejected, deserted, and left entirely alone? Can the dejected, melancholic fragments of a life left behind really foster a new beginning with the very hand that rejected you in the first place?
From the very beginning, Nagisa's sudden arrival did not sit well with me. His original vision of being a "real man"—sleeping with a woman he did not love, having a child with her, and getting married purely to please societal norms—is deeply flawed. What makes it worse is the way he suddenly returned to Shun on what felt like a whim, acting like it was completely fine, simply because he reached a breaking point where he could no longer live a lie. Imposing his presence and instantly offloading his childcare responsibilities onto Shun was incredibly selfish.
Thankfully, he eventually apologized, recognized his wife Rena’s immense struggles, and rightfully let her have custody of Sora. Too often, LGBTQ+ films try to normalize, justify, or downplay the devastating consequences of cheating just because a closeted character is involved. Being gay does not give anyone a free pass to sneak around and mistreat others. Nagisa did not just lie to and cheat on Rena; he actively tried to suppress and rewrite his entire identity, even if it meant deceiving his own family.
In the end, the only moments that felt genuinely pleasant were the light, sweet conversations between Shun and the elderly neighbor, Ogata, alongside the quiet frames where Shun, Nagisa, and Sora spent Christmas together. Aside from those rare glimpses of warmth, watching the rest of the film felt like sitting through a routine story.
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