While this BL drama might not be a shining gem in its genre, the conflicts between God and Diew actually spark some super interesting discussions. And let’s be real—it’s more than just a classic “introvert vs. extrovert” debate. Let’s dig a little deeper, shall we?
So, let’s talk about the whole personality thing. Early on, the show brings up the 16 personality types (MBTI), which might give viewers a neat little framework to think about the characters… but also, yikes. MBTI is catchy and fun, but not exactly a favorite in the psychology world. And more importantly, Diew and God’s issues go way beyond just personality type differences. It’s not that simple. Being introverted doesn’t mean you have trouble communicating. In fact, introverts often have deep, meaningful conversations. But Diew’s struggle isn’t about being introverted; it’s about his past, his trauma, and, oh boy, does he have a lot of it.
Yes, Diew is definitely an introvert—he recharges by being alone, and he’s happiest when he’s in his own head. But his real issue is that he lacks the ability to face conflict and express his emotions or opinions. And here’s where it gets serious: this isn’t about being shy or neurodivergent; it’s about trauma. Diew’s inability to speak up in critical moments isn’t some personality quirk—it’s straight-up PTSD. Growing up, he faced bullying from his peers, and his parents’ inconsistent parenting styles didn’t help either. His dad let him live in his own little world, while his mom was anxiously pushing him to fit in. With no consistent support, Diew never learned to find his voice.
So when he wants to open up to God about his past relationship, it’s not like he doesn’t want to be honest. He just can’t. He’s paralyzed by the idea of revisiting those memories—it’s like putting himself on trial and reliving all that pain and humiliation. Ever heard of survivors freezing up on the witness stand when asked to recount their trauma? Yeah, that’s Diew. He’s just trying to survive, and the easiest way to do that is to keep quiet, keep calm, and carry on…or, y’know, flee.
When faced with conflict, Diew either freezes or flees. Doesn’t matter if it’s dealing with Jane, his ex, or a whole bunch of mocking friends—he shuts down. And honestly, expecting him to spill his guts to God about his entire emotional history? Come on. For most of us, that’s hard enough even without a traumatic backstory. It’s not that Diew lacks the will to be honest or the courage to confront his past—he simply doesn’t have the tools. His trauma has stolen his voice and buried him in his shell.
Enter God: our resident good guy and all-around human green flag. He’s patient, he respects Diew’s boundaries, and he’s willing to take things at a pace that Diew is comfortable with. And yes, Diew has grown; he’s reached a point where he’s able to tell God that he doesn’t want to be coddled 24/7. He doesn’t want God to treat him like some delicate service puppy—he wants space to be himself. And that’s huge! It shows he’s making progress.
But Diew’s shadow is long. It’s not easy to overcome all that history, and when his ex walks back into his life, all those survival instincts kick right back in. He retreats, he freezes, and he just can’t deal. That’s classic trauma response. God, meanwhile, just wants Diew to show that he’s willing to be open. He’s disappointed, not because he thinks Diew’s disloyal, but because he sees Diew missing all these opportunities to talk, to share, to connect. It’s a different kind of hurt—it’s the hurt of feeling like the person you love is always one step away from letting you in.
Sure, bringing back an ex to stir up drama might be a bit predictable, but honestly, even without that plot twist, these two would eventually have to face these challenges. Every relationship has its “grow or go” moments where both partners have to step out of their comfort zones. And here’s where this BL drama hits a real, relatable nerve: when we’re building healthy, happy relationships, it’s not just about having the desire to make it work. It’s about having the ability—and the support system—to actually do it.
All things considered, both God and Diew are on a journey toward growth. Word on the street is that it’s a happy ending, and it seems like these two are finding their way to their own version of happily ever after. And really, isn’t that what matters? They’re healing, they’re learning, and they’re slowly stepping out of their shells to meet each other where they’re at.
So yeah, that’s my two cents on the psychology of this love story. Keep growing, keep talking, and remember—love’s all about finding your voice, even if it takes a while to get there.
The power of poetry lies in its ability to move us before we even understand it—when our minds have yet to catch up with our hearts, and the tears are already there.
That’s exactly how Episode 12 felt to me. It took almost two hours to come down from the emotional high before I could even find the words to describe it.
The opening scene is heartbreaking: Sheng Wang sits alone in a dark, nearly empty classroom, staring down at a Chinese essay exam. For a second, I wondered if this was a dream sequence. But no—it’s real. This is Sheng Wang’s high school mock test, and he’s purposefully erasing every word he writes. It’s not that he’s struggling for the right words. He knows them. But he needs to fail. The only way to keep his distance from Jiang Tian is to escape the honors class—to make sure they’re no longer together.
And why? Because he loves Jiang Tian too much. It’s a love that’s too strong, too overwhelming for him to bear. He needs space, a way to dull the sharpness of his feelings. And so, he breaks the promises they made—to stay close, to look after each other always. The lucky bracelet on their wrists once symbolized that bond. Now, just as Jiang Tian’s bracelet has snapped, Sheng Wang is breaking his promise, letting his love bleed out so he can survive it.
But oh, how it hurts. Sheng Wang is drowning in a storm of emotion. As he says in his monologue, "I’m only 17, but loving Jiang Tian has thrown my world into chaos." The Chinese idiom he uses, 兵荒馬亂 (bing huang ma luan), is so vivid—it means war-torn, describing a time when everything is upside down, broken, and unsettled. That’s how his secret love feels: like a war inside him, one he’s fighting every single day.
He can’t avoid the truth, though: just as his straight dorm mate dreams of his girlfriend, Sheng Wang dreams of Jiang Tian. His friend gushes about his girlfriend’s dimples and sweet laughter, and Sheng Wang sits there, trying to hide the way his gaze lingers on Jiang Tian’s Adam’s apple as he drinks. He notices every detail—the way Jiang Tian’s throat moves, how his face softens when he’s thinking. And then he’s lost, pulled deeper into those feelings that keep him awake at night.
And it’s not just him who notices—his sleepless nights have left dark circles under his eyes, which catch everyone’s attention. Even Jiang Tian sees them. Of course he does; he sees everything when it comes to Sheng Wang. So, he prepares two hard-boiled eggs—because apparently, pressing warm eggs against your eyes helps fade dark circles. It’s such a gentle, thoughtful gesture. Jiang Tian is like that, always attentive, always caring. It makes it even harder for Sheng Wang to pull away.
Sheng Wang lies—to his teachers, to his classmates—but when it comes to Jiang Tian, the truth clings to his throat. And still, he says it: "I failed my test." But how could he ever explain the truth? How could he say, "It’s not that I failed, it’s that I love you so much, that being in the same class, sitting so close to you every day, feels like it’s tearing me apart"? How could he admit that the only way to survive was to sabotage himself, to run?
And in the midst of all this, his body betrays him. The stress and anxiety bring on sharp stomach pains that he can’t hide. He sets his chopsticks down, unable to eat, and Jiang Tian is immediately at his side. It’s second nature to Jiang Tian, taking care of Sheng Wang—this time with mint leaves, boiling them to make a tea that will calm his nerves. Whether it's hawthorn snacks, lemon water, or freshly brewed mint tea, Jiang Tian’s kindness is like a light that won’t stop shining, no matter how much Sheng Wang tries to look away.
He’s trapped. Sheng Wang is so deeply, painfully in love with Jiang Tian. But then there’s the issue of their families. If their parents marry, Jiang Tian will become his stepbrother. How could he openly, shamelessly love someone who’s going to be his brother? He can’t. So, in a desperate attempt to build walls around his heart, he changes Jiang Tian’s contact name on his phone to “Brother.” He’s trying to reframe their connection, to hammer it into a shape that doesn’t hurt, that doesn’t bleed. He tells himself over and over: *He’s my brother. He can’t be anything more.*
It’s an act of self-preservation, really. The first time he calls Jiang Tian “brother” aloud, it’s when he thanks him for something small, and you can hear the tremor in his voice. It’s his way of creating distance, trying to convince himself that this is right, that this is the way to survive the chaos inside him.
But Jiang Tian isn't blind. Ever since they shared a bed together, since Sheng Wang moved back to the top bunk, Jiang Tian has felt the shift. The gap between them grows wider—Sheng Wang physically pulling away, transferring to a class on another floor. And Jiang Tian can only watch, bewildered, hurt, and desperate. When he finally breaks, it’s like a dam shattering—he’s yelling, slamming his fists into the wall, but his cries are swallowed up by the thunderstorm raging outside.
It’s one of the most powerful scenes I’ve ever watched. You can feel Jiang Tian’s pain—his world is unraveling, just like Sheng Wang’s. Both of them are "war-torn," fighting a battle neither knows how to win.
There’s a memory Sheng Wang clings to, of planting mint with his mother when he was a child. When a typhoon came and snapped the branches, they didn’t just give up on the plant. His mother tended to it, carefully trimming away the broken parts until new leaves sprouted again. It’s a quiet foreshadowing—a sign that, despite the storm in their hearts, Sheng Wang and Jiang Tian’s love might grow back too, finding new life even after being torn apart.
And then there’s Jiang Tian, sitting in Sheng Wang’s seat, holding the broken bracelet like it’s the most precious thing in the world. He vows silently, “Sheng Wang, I will wait for you.” They’re just 17 years old, these two boys, but their love is like a promise to the future. As hinted at in the last episode with the phrase 破鏡重圓 (po jing chong yuan), which means “a shattered mirror restored”—even if they break apart now, one day, they'll find their way back together.
The episode closes with their literature teacher leading a recitation of Su Shi’s poem 定風波(Ding Feng Bo), written while Su Shi was in exile. It’s a poem of resilience, one that captures the art of finding peace within the storm:
Don’t listen to the wind whistling through the leaves, Why not sing as you walk through the rain? My cane and straw shoes are lighter than any horse, So why fear? With just a raincoat, I embrace life’s mist and storm.
The chill spring breeze sobers me, But the mountain sun rises to greet me. Looking back at the desolate places I’ve been, I realize—there is no storm, no sun—just life itself.
In so many ways, this poem is a reflection of Sheng Wang’s journey—a life tossed around by rain and wind, yet met with a quiet acceptance, a refusal to let the storm dictate who he is or who he can be.
And then, there’s that one line from the novel that still makes me cry, that I remember word for word:
“Because I like you so much, I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff, like I’m walking on thin ice. I almost forgot that I’m only 17, and at this age, the whole world belongs to me. I don’t need to hesitate or weigh the risks. I am unbreakable; I can do anything.”
Only one remark: they were not accidentally locked in the gym. It was Qi Jiahao. He after locking the gym's door…
I suspected Qi Jiahao too! His actions seem calculated, especially locking Jiang Tian and Sheng Wang in the gym. Clearly, he knew exactly what he was doing—lying about Sheng’s whereabouts to make sure they couldn’t join their friends. Qi Jiahao’s behavior has crossed the line many times, and it’s frustrating to see him still in school after all the trouble he’s caused, from his manipulation of situations to the violent incidents, even endangering the English teacher.
However, as much as his actions seem unbelievable, it’s important to recognize Qi Jiahao as a dramatic device in the story. He serves to heighten the stakes for Jiang Tian and Sheng Wang, acting as a source of external conflict that tests their bond. Without characters like Qi Jiahao, the emotional tension and sense of threat wouldn’t be as palpable, and his presence adds layers to the narrative, making their journey toward closeness even more challenging and meaningful. His antagonism pushes the story forward, creating moments of vulnerability and strength for our protagonists to overcome.
That being said, it’s still maddening to see such a character go unpunished! His presence amplifies the tension, but we all hope that justice will eventually catch up with him.
Just wanted to say, I love to read your analysis, especially the incorporation of Chinese culture in these episodes…
Thank you so much for your kind words and appreciation of my previous analysis! I’m really glad it resonated with you.
Su Shi’s “Jiang Cheng Zi” is a heartfelt poem about longing and the enduring pain of losing a loved one. Su Shi reflects on how, even after many years, he cannot forget his late wife. The moon in the poem symbolizes both the passage of time and the unfulfilled desire to reunite, conveying a deep sense of emotional distance and yearning.
“The Broken Mirror Repaired” is a legend about a couple separated by fate. Before parting, they break a mirror, each keeping one half. After years apart, the husband uses his half of the mirror to find his wife, who has since been taken as someone else’s wife. Despite the separation, they find a way to reunite, symbolizing that love can withstand obstacles and be made whole once more.
In Jiang Tian and Sheng Wang’s story, “Jiang Cheng Zi” reflects their unspoken longing for each other. Just as Su Shi yearns for his lost wife, Jiang Tian and Sheng Wang share a connection filled with hesitation and unspoken emotion. They are close, yet emotionally distant, unsure if they can ever cross that line. The moon they discuss mirrors their emotional distance, symbolizing both their desire for something deeper and their hesitation to reach for it.
Meanwhile, “The Broken Mirror Repaired” parallels Jiang Tian’s emotional trauma and the challenges they face. Jiang Tian’s past, particularly the memory of seeing his father in an intimate moment, has left him emotionally fractured, much like the broken mirror. But the legend offers hope: just as the broken mirror pieces eventually reunite, there’s the possibility that Jiang Tian and Sheng Wang’s love, despite their emotional scars and barriers, can heal and become whole.
These literary works underscore the themes of longing, separation, and the potential for love to overcome obstacles. In the story of Jiang Tian and Sheng Wang, they highlight both the emotional distance they currently face and the hope that, despite the challenges, their love can find a way to bring them together.
This episode opens with a poignant and reflective literature lesson, setting the tone for the delicate interplay of emotions to follow. In class, Jiang Tian and Sheng Wang’s Chinese teacher introduces Su Shi’s “Jiang Cheng Zi”, a poem laced with heartache, memory, and deep longing. The poem’s melancholic reflections on love and loss seem to serve as a quiet foreshadowing for the two boys’ own evolving story—one that dances on the edge of friendship and something far more intimate. As the teacher moves on to the timeless fable of “The Broken Mirror Repaired,” about lovers separated by fate only to be reunited by chance, the allegory begins to cast a bittersweet shadow over Jiang Tian and Sheng Wang’s relationship. Though they haven’t yet taken that final step towards each other, the ancient tale’s heartache and hope seem to echo in their own journey, making the unspoken tension between them all the more palpable.
But this tender undercurrent is interrupted, at least momentarily, by a lighter moment. The class erupts in celebration when Jiang Tian and Sheng Wang receive the news that they’ve made it to the finals of the city’s English proficiency test. Amid the wave of admiration and teasing from their classmates, Gao Tianyang jokingly asks Sheng Wang which god he prayed to in order to achieve such great results. What Gao doesn’t know is that Sheng Wang’s “god” is much closer than he thinks—hidden in the small, ordinary object clutched close to Sheng Wang’s heart. A transit card—one Jiang Tian had bought for him on the day of the test—now serves as Sheng Wang’s cherished lucky charm. This seemingly insignificant card has taken on immense meaning, a silent token of Jiang Tian’s thoughtfulness, always kept close, like a talisman.
Later, when Sheng Wang accidentally misplaces the card during a badminton match, his casual demeanor hides his growing anxiety. However, Jiang Tian notices. He always notices. Despite Sheng Wang’s attempts to brush off the loss, Jiang Tian stays behind after class, resolutely digging through the gym’s trash cans, determined to retrieve what Sheng Wang won’t admit he cares about. Jiang Tian doesn’t know exactly what Sheng Wang lost, but that doesn’t matter—what matters is that it’s important to him, and that’s enough.
This small act of kindness—this quiet, unsung effort to right something as minor as a lost card—speaks volumes. Jiang Tian’s selflessness and unwavering attention to Sheng Wang’s needs are almost heartbreaking in their sincerity. Without needing to voice his feelings, Jiang Tian’s actions are a testament to the depth of his care. And just when it seems hopeless, Jiang Tian miraculously finds the card. What might seem like a trivial object to others becomes something far more significant: a symbol of Jiang Tian’s unwavering devotion, and perhaps, in Sheng Wang’s heart, something even greater.
The intensity of the moment isn’t quite over yet. As fate would have it, the two end up accidentally locked in the gym, left to face the intimacy of their situation head-on. With no phone signal and no way out, they are alone together—though not entirely by choice. But just as the tension between them begins to build, salvation arrives in the form of two unexpected rescuers: their physics and history teachers, Zhao Xi and Lin Zi, who run a nearby café. But before they unlock the door, the teachers witness something entirely unexpected. In a somewhat humorous twist, Jiang Tian, spotting a cockroach creeping up behind Sheng Wang, instinctively steps forward to protect him. Without warning, he slams his hand against the wall in a dramatic, almost clichéd “kabedon”—a gesture often seen in romantic dramas. The reality is far less romantic than it seems; Jiang Tian is simply killing the insect. But from the teachers’ perspective, it appears as if they’ve stumbled upon something far more intimate, leaving them to wonder if they’ve just interrupted a clandestine moment between the two boys.
After the gym escapade, the episode shifts to a quieter tone. On their way back to the dorms, under the soft glow of the moon, the two engage in a tender conversation about its poetic significance. The moon, long a symbol of yearning, distance, and emotion, becomes a mirror for their own unspoken feelings. Sheng Wang opens up, sharing a poignant memory about his mother, who always encouraged him to look at the moon, to dream, to seek beauty and meaning in life. His father, on the other hand, was more practical, more grounded in reality—choosing instead to focus on “the sixpence” at his feet, the metaphorical stand-in for life’s mundane but necessary details. Sheng Wang recalls how his mother urged him to reach for the moon, to embrace the intangible, the aspirational. And when he asks Jiang Tian what he would choose—the moon or the sixpence—Jiang Tian doesn’t hesitate. He chooses the moon. It’s a telling moment, one that speaks volumes about who Jiang Tian is and what he values. He, too, prefers the beauty and the mystery, the dream over the pragmatism of day-to-day life.
Their conversation seems to draw them closer, but just as they approach the dorms, fate intervenes once again. In a playful moment, Sheng Wang, forgetting his previous injury, impulsively jumps, reinjuring his ankle. As he rests on the sidewalk, Jiang Tian leaves briefly to run an errand, leaving Sheng Wang alone with his thoughts. But while waiting, Sheng Wang witnesses something that catches him completely off guard: an intimate moment between their teachers, Lin Zi and Zhao Xi. Lin, perhaps emboldened by Zhao’s recent hesitation, pulls Zhao into an impromptu kiss, confessing his feelings after what has likely been years of unspoken tension. It’s a moment of courage and vulnerability, one that speaks to the risk of revealing one’s true feelings. For Sheng Wang, it’s more than just a private moment between two people—it’s a revelation. Watching his teachers share this intimate act awakens something within him, a realization that his feelings for Jiang Tian are not merely brotherly affection, but something deeper, something that has been simmering beneath the surface for longer than he’s been willing to admit.
When they finally return to the dorm, Sheng Wang and Jiang Tian lie in the same bed, side by side, but miles apart in their thoughts. Neither of them can sleep, though both keep their eyes closed, as if pretending will make the tension between them dissipate. Sheng Wang is the first to give in, opening his eyes and gazing at Jiang Tian. His heart pounds with the newfound awareness of his feelings. Overwhelmed, he quietly retreats to the upper bunk, seeking distance from the very person he’s drawn to. Jiang Tian, meanwhile, opens his eyes moments later, sensing the absence. He gazes down at the space where Sheng Wang had been, his body reacting to a truth his mind hasn’t yet fully processed. The physiological response hints at a growing attraction that he, too, is not ready to face, leaving both boys caught between the comfort of denial and the fear of their awakening desires.
The episode concludes with a flashback, a haunting memory from Jiang Tian’s childhood. We see him, wide-eyed and confused, as he stumbles upon his father in an intimate moment with another man. The shock of this revelation leaves Jiang Tian both emotionally scarred and physically hurt, as a dropped cigarette burns his neck, leaving a scar that has yet to heal—both literally and figuratively. This traumatic experience explains so much of Jiang Tian’s current inner turmoil. The fear, the confusion, the conflict between what he feels and what he thinks he should feel—all of it stems from this one moment in his past, when love and desire became tangled with shame and secrecy.
In this episode, the delicate threads of past and present are woven together to create a rich tapestry of emotions, self-discovery, and unspoken desires. Through poetic metaphors, quiet gestures, and small but significant moments, Jiang Tian and Sheng Wang’s relationship moves closer to a precipice—a place where they will have to decide whether to confront their feelings or continue to live in the safety of pretense. The echoes of Su Shi’s poetry and the tale of the broken mirror resonate deeply, as both boys wrestle with their own fractured pasts and the uncertain future that awaits them.
Izumi’s got this deep, resonant voice that sounds like it should belong to a rugged lumberjack, not a baby-faced, golden-haired guy drowning in oversized clothes. The contrast is wild, but somehow, it just works. Like, you’d think it’d be jarring, but nope—it’s pure magic.
And then there’s Amasawa. Tall, broad-shouldered, and looking like he just stepped out of a “World’s Hottest Cop” calendar, especially when he’s in uniform. But the moment he speaks with that gentle voice of his? Total plot twist. It's like watching a superhero baking cookies. You can't help but love it.
Now, normally, I’m not a fan of grown men patting each other on the head for affection—it often comes off as cheesy and straight-up cringe, especially in BL. It's like, can we tone it down a notch? But Amasawa’s habitual head pats for Izumi? Surprisingly, they don’t trigger my usual eye-roll reflex. Somehow, it stays within the "aww" zone instead of crossing into "yikes" territory.
All in all, the dynamic between Amasawa and Izumi is a study in contrasts, but instead of feeling awkward, it’s like peanut butter and chocolate—an unexpectedly perfect pairing. And those head pats? They land right in the sweet spot—gentle, natural, and just vulnerable enough to tug at your heartstrings without making you cringe. Bravo, boys.
You are very right and I fear this next episode, I will cry because of the scene that is coming up. It is my favorite…
Wow, that’s such a heartfelt response, and I can really feel how deeply Love Sick and Love of Siam connected with you. The way you tied Phun and Noh’s story to Mew and Tong’s is so powerful, especially that idea of liberation and being able to love freely.
Your blog beautifully captures the struggle between love and family, and how Phun’s confession feels like a moment of freedom that so many characters, and people, never get. Thank you for sharing your thoughts—it adds such a meaningful layer to this conversation!
I’m so glad you’re interested! It’s such a unique and emotional show that really dives into identity and self-expression in ways that feel raw and relatable. I can’t wait to hear your thoughts on it
I think when Kirino stepped forward to finish the job of cutting Mishima's hair, he did it to make it pretty --…
Haha, you're absolutely right—Kirino definitely has a future in hairdressing. Maybe his secret dream is to open a salon, and this was just his big audition. 😆
And oh, the wigs! I totally get what you mean. For a show that’s so focused on long hair as a symbol of identity, you'd think they’d have invested in something a little less... *Halloween chic*.
Planning to watch Episode 7 first thing in the morning? Trust me, start with the last 10 minutes, then go back to the beginning. You don’t want to kick off your day with a heartbreak!
For many people living under oppression, they silently endure their pain, becoming numb to both their minds and bodies. But when someone or something comes along that’s worth protecting, it can stir something deep inside, leading to changes they never expected.
Haoren's life is one of those tragic stories that makes your heart ache. He's spent his days running, trying to escape from Maya, who won’t stop hunting him down. His only choice has been to keep fleeing, to hide. That is, until Chihiro came into his life—someone he couldn't help but want to protect.
For the first time, Haoren lost control. For the first time, he felt pure, raw anger. Grabbing a kitchen knife, he did what he never thought he would—he stabbed the person who had tormented him for so long. And he didn’t regret it.
That outburst separated him from Chihiro, but in a strange way, it also set Chihiro free. For someone who had been disowned by his family, knowing there was someone in the world willing to go that far to protect him gave him the courage to rebuild himself. Who among us doesn’t long for that kind of unwavering support—someone who’s there for us when everything else falls apart?
Oppressed people often feel a powerful need to break free, and that need is often fueled by the desire to protect someone they love. But with every righteous revolution, there’s a price to pay.
I hope everyone fighting to escape their own forms of oppression finds that spark of motivation, faces the cost, and ultimately finds the happiness they deserve.
I watched it and really enjoyed it! The story's unconventional charm, especially the age gap dynamic, was handled beautifully. The characters’ bond developing over food and their emotional growth was so heartwarming. The actors truly brought their roles to life, and even without the usual BL elements, the connection felt real and meaningful. Definitely worth watching!
Thank you for sharing such a thoughtful review. You’ve captured the emotional intensity and bravery behind this series perfectly. It sounds like a tough but important watch, and your advice to approach it with support is spot on. Appreciate your insights!
I’ve got to say, the supporting cast in Monster Next Door really steals the show—and in the best way possible. These characters? They’re the MVPs of sidekicks.
First up, there’s Biu. She’s loud, brash, and just a little rough around the edges, like that friend you love but also maybe need to apologize for after they get a little too comfortable at brunch.
Honestly, her booming voice in the café reminds me of the stereotypical American tourist abroad—loud, chaotic, and blissfully unaware of the cultural noise ordinance. But here’s the thing: Biu’s over-the-top energy is exactly what this show needs. She’s got a quick wit and a sharper tongue, calling Diew a “mule deer” and, hilariously, recommending green concealer to cover up his love bites. It’s that kind of humor that softens the tension and keeps this BL from getting too heavy-handed.
And trust me, we need that comic relief, especially when God’s hovering over Diew like he’s trying to wrap him in bubble wrap for his own good. Without Biu breaking the intensity, I’m not sure I could’ve handled it. God is so considerate it almost starts to feel like emotional suffocation—like a really thoughtful hostage situation. Yes, God, we get it, you’re the perfect boyfriend. But can you ease up just a bit? I mean, the whole “feeding him in public” thing? That’s not cute; it’s a little cringe.
Diew, to his credit, finally calls God out on treating him like a toddler. And thank God (pun intended) because God’s constant pampering was starting to feel like too much of a good thing. It’s sweet that he treats Diew like he’s fragile, but at some point, Diew’s gonna need some space to breathe. God needs to take a step back and realize that even the nicest relationships need boundaries—otherwise, you’re not a boyfriend, you’re a babysitter. Luckily, their communication game is strong, and they manage to find a balance before we all suffocate from the sweetness overload.
Now, despite his imposing name, God is less of a Godzilla and more of a giant, clingy golden retriever—loyal to a fault and always there to protect. He’s the kind of guy who’d guard the door while you take a nap, but sometimes you need him to just go lie down in the other room. And honestly, he could stand to be a bit more upfront when it comes to Diew’s romantic past, instead of skirting around the subject like it’s a ticking time bomb.
Then there’s Putter’s cameo. Oh, how I love me some Putter. There’s something about his vibe—like, he’s not conventionally hot in the “abs for days” kind of way, but there’s a subtle magnetism to him that pulls you in. He’s got this effortless screen presence that lets you know he’s packing a whole range of emotions just beneath the surface.
Putter’s character, Tan, is the perfect representation of the friend who had to drop out of college because life just hit too hard. His return highlights that bittersweet reality of growing up—those slight but noticeable shifts that happen when you meet old friends after time has passed. Tan’s struggles are a reminder that the life of the party sometimes has the most going on behind the scenes. His character stands in sharp contrast to Wan, who’s still clinging to the good old days and trying to keep everyone laughing, even as life is throwing curveballs left and right.
And Wan? Oh, honey, he’s got some learning to do. Life isn’t always about keeping the gang together and pretending everything’s fine. People change, situations shift, and it’s okay. Growth is part of the process, and Wan’s gonna need to figure out that not all change is bad. Sometimes, it’s the shake-ups that make us stronger.
In Smells Like Green Spirit, the first episode sets up a deeply personal conflict through Mishima’s long hair, much like Kurt Cobain’s wild mane became a symbol of non-conformity in the grunge era. For Mishima, his hair is more than just a style—it’s a piece of who he is, a small rebellion against the narrow-mindedness of the rural community he’s trapped in. But while it allows him to express his identity, it also makes him a target. The very thing that gives him comfort becomes the reason he’s relentlessly bullied.
There’s something heartbreaking about how Mishima sneaks his mother’s lipstick late at night. It’s a small, intimate ritual, an attempt to connect with a part of himself that he feels he has to hide. In those quiet moments, you can almost feel the relief he gets from seeing his true self reflected back in the mirror. But that relief is fleeting—just like the lipstick that fades after he rubs it away, the world outside doesn’t let him hold onto that version of himself for long.
Even when Mishima tries to embrace these small acts of self-expression in the daytime, he’s met with hostility. The truck drivers who mistake him for a woman and then harass him are a grim reminder of how cruel the world can be to anyone who doesn’t fit neatly into society’s expectations. It’s a scene that feels all too real, showing the everyday dangers of stepping outside the bounds of what’s considered “normal.”
His mother, however, is a bright spot. She calls him “baby” with such affection, and her T-shirt—emblazoned with “Harajuku,” a place known for celebrating individuality—feels like a subtle sign that she accepts him for who he is. In a rural town that stifles difference, she’s his safe space, even if she doesn’t fully understand his struggles.
And then there’s Kirino. At first, he’s the one cutting Mishima’s hair and leading the bullying, but when he steps in to stop the truck drivers from harassing Mishima, you can sense there’s more to him. His actions reveal a conflict within him, suggesting that his bullying might be as much about his own fears and confusion as it is about targeting Mishima. It’s clear that Kirino’s story will be one of inner turmoil and possible redemption.
This episode captures the quiet yet powerful ways that queer individuals navigate hostile environments. Whether it’s Mishima’s hidden acts of self-expression, his mother’s understated support, or Kirino’s complicated role, the show is setting up a deeply human exploration of what it means to be different in a world that’s not always kind.
Oh, you did not comment on his voice, too! I literally said the same, LOL! If he talks to me like that for more…
OMG, yes! That "No Violence" t-shirt while going full WWE on the guy had me dying! 😂 It’s like Tattoo was saying, “Peace and love, but also… I’m gonna wreck you!” Honestly, that shirt deserved its own moment in the credits.
Oh, you did not comment on his voice, too! I literally said the same, LOL! If he talks to me like that for more…
Ah, that bag doesn’t just steal the show—it shocks it. Thanks to Tattoo’s magic touch, this already flashy LED-lit clutch doesn’t just light up a room, it packs a literal punch. Get too close? ZAP! You’ve been warned. It’s like the perfect accessory for anyone who’s got no time for nonsense and wants their fashion to come with a side of “don’t mess with me.” Who needs pepper spray when you’ve got a bag that’s both stylish and electrifying? Talk about killer accessories!
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12 
So, let’s talk about the whole personality thing. Early on, the show brings up the 16 personality types (MBTI), which might give viewers a neat little framework to think about the characters… but also, yikes. MBTI is catchy and fun, but not exactly a favorite in the psychology world. And more importantly, Diew and God’s issues go way beyond just personality type differences. It’s not that simple. Being introverted doesn’t mean you have trouble communicating. In fact, introverts often have deep, meaningful conversations. But Diew’s struggle isn’t about being introverted; it’s about his past, his trauma, and, oh boy, does he have a lot of it.
Yes, Diew is definitely an introvert—he recharges by being alone, and he’s happiest when he’s in his own head. But his real issue is that he lacks the ability to face conflict and express his emotions or opinions. And here’s where it gets serious: this isn’t about being shy or neurodivergent; it’s about trauma. Diew’s inability to speak up in critical moments isn’t some personality quirk—it’s straight-up PTSD. Growing up, he faced bullying from his peers, and his parents’ inconsistent parenting styles didn’t help either. His dad let him live in his own little world, while his mom was anxiously pushing him to fit in. With no consistent support, Diew never learned to find his voice.
So when he wants to open up to God about his past relationship, it’s not like he doesn’t want to be honest. He just can’t. He’s paralyzed by the idea of revisiting those memories—it’s like putting himself on trial and reliving all that pain and humiliation. Ever heard of survivors freezing up on the witness stand when asked to recount their trauma? Yeah, that’s Diew. He’s just trying to survive, and the easiest way to do that is to keep quiet, keep calm, and carry on…or, y’know, flee.
When faced with conflict, Diew either freezes or flees. Doesn’t matter if it’s dealing with Jane, his ex, or a whole bunch of mocking friends—he shuts down. And honestly, expecting him to spill his guts to God about his entire emotional history? Come on. For most of us, that’s hard enough even without a traumatic backstory. It’s not that Diew lacks the will to be honest or the courage to confront his past—he simply doesn’t have the tools. His trauma has stolen his voice and buried him in his shell.
Enter God: our resident good guy and all-around human green flag. He’s patient, he respects Diew’s boundaries, and he’s willing to take things at a pace that Diew is comfortable with. And yes, Diew has grown; he’s reached a point where he’s able to tell God that he doesn’t want to be coddled 24/7. He doesn’t want God to treat him like some delicate service puppy—he wants space to be himself. And that’s huge! It shows he’s making progress.
But Diew’s shadow is long. It’s not easy to overcome all that history, and when his ex walks back into his life, all those survival instincts kick right back in. He retreats, he freezes, and he just can’t deal. That’s classic trauma response. God, meanwhile, just wants Diew to show that he’s willing to be open. He’s disappointed, not because he thinks Diew’s disloyal, but because he sees Diew missing all these opportunities to talk, to share, to connect. It’s a different kind of hurt—it’s the hurt of feeling like the person you love is always one step away from letting you in.
Sure, bringing back an ex to stir up drama might be a bit predictable, but honestly, even without that plot twist, these two would eventually have to face these challenges. Every relationship has its “grow or go” moments where both partners have to step out of their comfort zones. And here’s where this BL drama hits a real, relatable nerve: when we’re building healthy, happy relationships, it’s not just about having the desire to make it work. It’s about having the ability—and the support system—to actually do it.
All things considered, both God and Diew are on a journey toward growth. Word on the street is that it’s a happy ending, and it seems like these two are finding their way to their own version of happily ever after. And really, isn’t that what matters? They’re healing, they’re learning, and they’re slowly stepping out of their shells to meet each other where they’re at.
So yeah, that’s my two cents on the psychology of this love story. Keep growing, keep talking, and remember—love’s all about finding your voice, even if it takes a while to get there.
That’s exactly how Episode 12 felt to me. It took almost two hours to come down from the emotional high before I could even find the words to describe it.
The opening scene is heartbreaking: Sheng Wang sits alone in a dark, nearly empty classroom, staring down at a Chinese essay exam. For a second, I wondered if this was a dream sequence. But no—it’s real. This is Sheng Wang’s high school mock test, and he’s purposefully erasing every word he writes. It’s not that he’s struggling for the right words. He knows them. But he needs to fail. The only way to keep his distance from Jiang Tian is to escape the honors class—to make sure they’re no longer together.
And why? Because he loves Jiang Tian too much. It’s a love that’s too strong, too overwhelming for him to bear. He needs space, a way to dull the sharpness of his feelings. And so, he breaks the promises they made—to stay close, to look after each other always. The lucky bracelet on their wrists once symbolized that bond. Now, just as Jiang Tian’s bracelet has snapped, Sheng Wang is breaking his promise, letting his love bleed out so he can survive it.
But oh, how it hurts. Sheng Wang is drowning in a storm of emotion. As he says in his monologue, "I’m only 17, but loving Jiang Tian has thrown my world into chaos." The Chinese idiom he uses, 兵荒馬亂 (bing huang ma luan), is so vivid—it means war-torn, describing a time when everything is upside down, broken, and unsettled. That’s how his secret love feels: like a war inside him, one he’s fighting every single day.
He can’t avoid the truth, though: just as his straight dorm mate dreams of his girlfriend, Sheng Wang dreams of Jiang Tian. His friend gushes about his girlfriend’s dimples and sweet laughter, and Sheng Wang sits there, trying to hide the way his gaze lingers on Jiang Tian’s Adam’s apple as he drinks. He notices every detail—the way Jiang Tian’s throat moves, how his face softens when he’s thinking. And then he’s lost, pulled deeper into those feelings that keep him awake at night.
And it’s not just him who notices—his sleepless nights have left dark circles under his eyes, which catch everyone’s attention. Even Jiang Tian sees them. Of course he does; he sees everything when it comes to Sheng Wang. So, he prepares two hard-boiled eggs—because apparently, pressing warm eggs against your eyes helps fade dark circles. It’s such a gentle, thoughtful gesture. Jiang Tian is like that, always attentive, always caring. It makes it even harder for Sheng Wang to pull away.
Sheng Wang lies—to his teachers, to his classmates—but when it comes to Jiang Tian, the truth clings to his throat. And still, he says it: "I failed my test." But how could he ever explain the truth? How could he say, "It’s not that I failed, it’s that I love you so much, that being in the same class, sitting so close to you every day, feels like it’s tearing me apart"? How could he admit that the only way to survive was to sabotage himself, to run?
And in the midst of all this, his body betrays him. The stress and anxiety bring on sharp stomach pains that he can’t hide. He sets his chopsticks down, unable to eat, and Jiang Tian is immediately at his side. It’s second nature to Jiang Tian, taking care of Sheng Wang—this time with mint leaves, boiling them to make a tea that will calm his nerves. Whether it's hawthorn snacks, lemon water, or freshly brewed mint tea, Jiang Tian’s kindness is like a light that won’t stop shining, no matter how much Sheng Wang tries to look away.
He’s trapped. Sheng Wang is so deeply, painfully in love with Jiang Tian. But then there’s the issue of their families. If their parents marry, Jiang Tian will become his stepbrother. How could he openly, shamelessly love someone who’s going to be his brother? He can’t. So, in a desperate attempt to build walls around his heart, he changes Jiang Tian’s contact name on his phone to “Brother.” He’s trying to reframe their connection, to hammer it into a shape that doesn’t hurt, that doesn’t bleed. He tells himself over and over: *He’s my brother. He can’t be anything more.*
It’s an act of self-preservation, really. The first time he calls Jiang Tian “brother” aloud, it’s when he thanks him for something small, and you can hear the tremor in his voice. It’s his way of creating distance, trying to convince himself that this is right, that this is the way to survive the chaos inside him.
But Jiang Tian isn't blind. Ever since they shared a bed together, since Sheng Wang moved back to the top bunk, Jiang Tian has felt the shift. The gap between them grows wider—Sheng Wang physically pulling away, transferring to a class on another floor. And Jiang Tian can only watch, bewildered, hurt, and desperate. When he finally breaks, it’s like a dam shattering—he’s yelling, slamming his fists into the wall, but his cries are swallowed up by the thunderstorm raging outside.
It’s one of the most powerful scenes I’ve ever watched. You can feel Jiang Tian’s pain—his world is unraveling, just like Sheng Wang’s. Both of them are "war-torn," fighting a battle neither knows how to win.
There’s a memory Sheng Wang clings to, of planting mint with his mother when he was a child. When a typhoon came and snapped the branches, they didn’t just give up on the plant. His mother tended to it, carefully trimming away the broken parts until new leaves sprouted again. It’s a quiet foreshadowing—a sign that, despite the storm in their hearts, Sheng Wang and Jiang Tian’s love might grow back too, finding new life even after being torn apart.
And then there’s Jiang Tian, sitting in Sheng Wang’s seat, holding the broken bracelet like it’s the most precious thing in the world. He vows silently, “Sheng Wang, I will wait for you.” They’re just 17 years old, these two boys, but their love is like a promise to the future. As hinted at in the last episode with the phrase 破鏡重圓 (po jing chong yuan), which means “a shattered mirror restored”—even if they break apart now, one day, they'll find their way back together.
The episode closes with their literature teacher leading a recitation of Su Shi’s poem 定風波(Ding Feng Bo), written while Su Shi was in exile. It’s a poem of resilience, one that captures the art of finding peace within the storm:
Don’t listen to the wind whistling through the leaves,
Why not sing as you walk through the rain?
My cane and straw shoes are lighter than any horse,
So why fear? With just a raincoat, I embrace life’s mist and storm.
The chill spring breeze sobers me,
But the mountain sun rises to greet me.
Looking back at the desolate places I’ve been,
I realize—there is no storm, no sun—just life itself.
In so many ways, this poem is a reflection of Sheng Wang’s journey—a life tossed around by rain and wind, yet met with a quiet acceptance, a refusal to let the storm dictate who he is or who he can be.
And then, there’s that one line from the novel that still makes me cry, that I remember word for word:
“Because I like you so much, I feel like I’m standing at the edge of a cliff, like I’m walking on thin ice.
I almost forgot that I’m only 17, and at this age, the whole world belongs to me. I don’t need to hesitate or weigh the risks.
I am unbreakable; I can do anything.”
😭
However, as much as his actions seem unbelievable, it’s important to recognize Qi Jiahao as a dramatic device in the story. He serves to heighten the stakes for Jiang Tian and Sheng Wang, acting as a source of external conflict that tests their bond. Without characters like Qi Jiahao, the emotional tension and sense of threat wouldn’t be as palpable, and his presence adds layers to the narrative, making their journey toward closeness even more challenging and meaningful. His antagonism pushes the story forward, creating moments of vulnerability and strength for our protagonists to overcome.
That being said, it’s still maddening to see such a character go unpunished! His presence amplifies the tension, but we all hope that justice will eventually catch up with him.
Su Shi’s “Jiang Cheng Zi” is a heartfelt poem about longing and the enduring pain of losing a loved one. Su Shi reflects on how, even after many years, he cannot forget his late wife. The moon in the poem symbolizes both the passage of time and the unfulfilled desire to reunite, conveying a deep sense of emotional distance and yearning.
“The Broken Mirror Repaired” is a legend about a couple separated by fate. Before parting, they break a mirror, each keeping one half. After years apart, the husband uses his half of the mirror to find his wife, who has since been taken as someone else’s wife. Despite the separation, they find a way to reunite, symbolizing that love can withstand obstacles and be made whole once more.
In Jiang Tian and Sheng Wang’s story, “Jiang Cheng Zi” reflects their unspoken longing for each other. Just as Su Shi yearns for his lost wife, Jiang Tian and Sheng Wang share a connection filled with hesitation and unspoken emotion. They are close, yet emotionally distant, unsure if they can ever cross that line. The moon they discuss mirrors their emotional distance, symbolizing both their desire for something deeper and their hesitation to reach for it.
Meanwhile, “The Broken Mirror Repaired” parallels Jiang Tian’s emotional trauma and the challenges they face. Jiang Tian’s past, particularly the memory of seeing his father in an intimate moment, has left him emotionally fractured, much like the broken mirror. But the legend offers hope: just as the broken mirror pieces eventually reunite, there’s the possibility that Jiang Tian and Sheng Wang’s love, despite their emotional scars and barriers, can heal and become whole.
These literary works underscore the themes of longing, separation, and the potential for love to overcome obstacles. In the story of Jiang Tian and Sheng Wang, they highlight both the emotional distance they currently face and the hope that, despite the challenges, their love can find a way to bring them together.
But this tender undercurrent is interrupted, at least momentarily, by a lighter moment. The class erupts in celebration when Jiang Tian and Sheng Wang receive the news that they’ve made it to the finals of the city’s English proficiency test. Amid the wave of admiration and teasing from their classmates, Gao Tianyang jokingly asks Sheng Wang which god he prayed to in order to achieve such great results. What Gao doesn’t know is that Sheng Wang’s “god” is much closer than he thinks—hidden in the small, ordinary object clutched close to Sheng Wang’s heart. A transit card—one Jiang Tian had bought for him on the day of the test—now serves as Sheng Wang’s cherished lucky charm. This seemingly insignificant card has taken on immense meaning, a silent token of Jiang Tian’s thoughtfulness, always kept close, like a talisman.
Later, when Sheng Wang accidentally misplaces the card during a badminton match, his casual demeanor hides his growing anxiety. However, Jiang Tian notices. He always notices. Despite Sheng Wang’s attempts to brush off the loss, Jiang Tian stays behind after class, resolutely digging through the gym’s trash cans, determined to retrieve what Sheng Wang won’t admit he cares about. Jiang Tian doesn’t know exactly what Sheng Wang lost, but that doesn’t matter—what matters is that it’s important to him, and that’s enough.
This small act of kindness—this quiet, unsung effort to right something as minor as a lost card—speaks volumes. Jiang Tian’s selflessness and unwavering attention to Sheng Wang’s needs are almost heartbreaking in their sincerity. Without needing to voice his feelings, Jiang Tian’s actions are a testament to the depth of his care. And just when it seems hopeless, Jiang Tian miraculously finds the card. What might seem like a trivial object to others becomes something far more significant: a symbol of Jiang Tian’s unwavering devotion, and perhaps, in Sheng Wang’s heart, something even greater.
The intensity of the moment isn’t quite over yet. As fate would have it, the two end up accidentally locked in the gym, left to face the intimacy of their situation head-on. With no phone signal and no way out, they are alone together—though not entirely by choice. But just as the tension between them begins to build, salvation arrives in the form of two unexpected rescuers: their physics and history teachers, Zhao Xi and Lin Zi, who run a nearby café. But before they unlock the door, the teachers witness something entirely unexpected. In a somewhat humorous twist, Jiang Tian, spotting a cockroach creeping up behind Sheng Wang, instinctively steps forward to protect him. Without warning, he slams his hand against the wall in a dramatic, almost clichéd “kabedon”—a gesture often seen in romantic dramas. The reality is far less romantic than it seems; Jiang Tian is simply killing the insect. But from the teachers’ perspective, it appears as if they’ve stumbled upon something far more intimate, leaving them to wonder if they’ve just interrupted a clandestine moment between the two boys.
After the gym escapade, the episode shifts to a quieter tone. On their way back to the dorms, under the soft glow of the moon, the two engage in a tender conversation about its poetic significance. The moon, long a symbol of yearning, distance, and emotion, becomes a mirror for their own unspoken feelings. Sheng Wang opens up, sharing a poignant memory about his mother, who always encouraged him to look at the moon, to dream, to seek beauty and meaning in life. His father, on the other hand, was more practical, more grounded in reality—choosing instead to focus on “the sixpence” at his feet, the metaphorical stand-in for life’s mundane but necessary details. Sheng Wang recalls how his mother urged him to reach for the moon, to embrace the intangible, the aspirational. And when he asks Jiang Tian what he would choose—the moon or the sixpence—Jiang Tian doesn’t hesitate. He chooses the moon. It’s a telling moment, one that speaks volumes about who Jiang Tian is and what he values. He, too, prefers the beauty and the mystery, the dream over the pragmatism of day-to-day life.
Their conversation seems to draw them closer, but just as they approach the dorms, fate intervenes once again. In a playful moment, Sheng Wang, forgetting his previous injury, impulsively jumps, reinjuring his ankle. As he rests on the sidewalk, Jiang Tian leaves briefly to run an errand, leaving Sheng Wang alone with his thoughts. But while waiting, Sheng Wang witnesses something that catches him completely off guard: an intimate moment between their teachers, Lin Zi and Zhao Xi. Lin, perhaps emboldened by Zhao’s recent hesitation, pulls Zhao into an impromptu kiss, confessing his feelings after what has likely been years of unspoken tension. It’s a moment of courage and vulnerability, one that speaks to the risk of revealing one’s true feelings. For Sheng Wang, it’s more than just a private moment between two people—it’s a revelation. Watching his teachers share this intimate act awakens something within him, a realization that his feelings for Jiang Tian are not merely brotherly affection, but something deeper, something that has been simmering beneath the surface for longer than he’s been willing to admit.
When they finally return to the dorm, Sheng Wang and Jiang Tian lie in the same bed, side by side, but miles apart in their thoughts. Neither of them can sleep, though both keep their eyes closed, as if pretending will make the tension between them dissipate. Sheng Wang is the first to give in, opening his eyes and gazing at Jiang Tian. His heart pounds with the newfound awareness of his feelings. Overwhelmed, he quietly retreats to the upper bunk, seeking distance from the very person he’s drawn to. Jiang Tian, meanwhile, opens his eyes moments later, sensing the absence. He gazes down at the space where Sheng Wang had been, his body reacting to a truth his mind hasn’t yet fully processed. The physiological response hints at a growing attraction that he, too, is not ready to face, leaving both boys caught between the comfort of denial and the fear of their awakening desires.
The episode concludes with a flashback, a haunting memory from Jiang Tian’s childhood. We see him, wide-eyed and confused, as he stumbles upon his father in an intimate moment with another man. The shock of this revelation leaves Jiang Tian both emotionally scarred and physically hurt, as a dropped cigarette burns his neck, leaving a scar that has yet to heal—both literally and figuratively. This traumatic experience explains so much of Jiang Tian’s current inner turmoil. The fear, the confusion, the conflict between what he feels and what he thinks he should feel—all of it stems from this one moment in his past, when love and desire became tangled with shame and secrecy.
In this episode, the delicate threads of past and present are woven together to create a rich tapestry of emotions, self-discovery, and unspoken desires. Through poetic metaphors, quiet gestures, and small but significant moments, Jiang Tian and Sheng Wang’s relationship moves closer to a precipice—a place where they will have to decide whether to confront their feelings or continue to live in the safety of pretense. The echoes of Su Shi’s poetry and the tale of the broken mirror resonate deeply, as both boys wrestle with their own fractured pasts and the uncertain future that awaits them.
And then there’s Amasawa. Tall, broad-shouldered, and looking like he just stepped out of a “World’s Hottest Cop” calendar, especially when he’s in uniform. But the moment he speaks with that gentle voice of his? Total plot twist. It's like watching a superhero baking cookies. You can't help but love it.
Now, normally, I’m not a fan of grown men patting each other on the head for affection—it often comes off as cheesy and straight-up cringe, especially in BL. It's like, can we tone it down a notch? But Amasawa’s habitual head pats for Izumi? Surprisingly, they don’t trigger my usual eye-roll reflex. Somehow, it stays within the "aww" zone instead of crossing into "yikes" territory.
All in all, the dynamic between Amasawa and Izumi is a study in contrasts, but instead of feeling awkward, it’s like peanut butter and chocolate—an unexpectedly perfect pairing. And those head pats? They land right in the sweet spot—gentle, natural, and just vulnerable enough to tug at your heartstrings without making you cringe. Bravo, boys.
Your blog beautifully captures the struggle between love and family, and how Phun’s confession feels like a moment of freedom that so many characters, and people, never get. Thank you for sharing your thoughts—it adds such a meaningful layer to this conversation!
And oh, the wigs! I totally get what you mean. For a show that’s so focused on long hair as a symbol of identity, you'd think they’d have invested in something a little less... *Halloween chic*.
Haoren's life is one of those tragic stories that makes your heart ache. He's spent his days running, trying to escape from Maya, who won’t stop hunting him down. His only choice has been to keep fleeing, to hide. That is, until Chihiro came into his life—someone he couldn't help but want to protect.
For the first time, Haoren lost control. For the first time, he felt pure, raw anger. Grabbing a kitchen knife, he did what he never thought he would—he stabbed the person who had tormented him for so long. And he didn’t regret it.
That outburst separated him from Chihiro, but in a strange way, it also set Chihiro free. For someone who had been disowned by his family, knowing there was someone in the world willing to go that far to protect him gave him the courage to rebuild himself. Who among us doesn’t long for that kind of unwavering support—someone who’s there for us when everything else falls apart?
Oppressed people often feel a powerful need to break free, and that need is often fueled by the desire to protect someone they love. But with every righteous revolution, there’s a price to pay.
I hope everyone fighting to escape their own forms of oppression finds that spark of motivation, faces the cost, and ultimately finds the happiness they deserve.
First up, there’s Biu. She’s loud, brash, and just a little rough around the edges, like that friend you love but also maybe need to apologize for after they get a little too comfortable at brunch.
Honestly, her booming voice in the café reminds me of the stereotypical American tourist abroad—loud, chaotic, and blissfully unaware of the cultural noise ordinance. But here’s the thing: Biu’s over-the-top energy is exactly what this show needs. She’s got a quick wit and a sharper tongue, calling Diew a “mule deer” and, hilariously, recommending green concealer to cover up his love bites. It’s that kind of humor that softens the tension and keeps this BL from getting too heavy-handed.
And trust me, we need that comic relief, especially when God’s hovering over Diew like he’s trying to wrap him in bubble wrap for his own good. Without Biu breaking the intensity, I’m not sure I could’ve handled it. God is so considerate it almost starts to feel like emotional suffocation—like a really thoughtful hostage situation. Yes, God, we get it, you’re the perfect boyfriend. But can you ease up just a bit? I mean, the whole “feeding him in public” thing? That’s not cute; it’s a little cringe.
Diew, to his credit, finally calls God out on treating him like a toddler. And thank God (pun intended) because God’s constant pampering was starting to feel like too much of a good thing. It’s sweet that he treats Diew like he’s fragile, but at some point, Diew’s gonna need some space to breathe. God needs to take a step back and realize that even the nicest relationships need boundaries—otherwise, you’re not a boyfriend, you’re a babysitter. Luckily, their communication game is strong, and they manage to find a balance before we all suffocate from the sweetness overload.
Now, despite his imposing name, God is less of a Godzilla and more of a giant, clingy golden retriever—loyal to a fault and always there to protect. He’s the kind of guy who’d guard the door while you take a nap, but sometimes you need him to just go lie down in the other room. And honestly, he could stand to be a bit more upfront when it comes to Diew’s romantic past, instead of skirting around the subject like it’s a ticking time bomb.
Then there’s Putter’s cameo. Oh, how I love me some Putter. There’s something about his vibe—like, he’s not conventionally hot in the “abs for days” kind of way, but there’s a subtle magnetism to him that pulls you in. He’s got this effortless screen presence that lets you know he’s packing a whole range of emotions just beneath the surface.
Putter’s character, Tan, is the perfect representation of the friend who had to drop out of college because life just hit too hard. His return highlights that bittersweet reality of growing up—those slight but noticeable shifts that happen when you meet old friends after time has passed. Tan’s struggles are a reminder that the life of the party sometimes has the most going on behind the scenes. His character stands in sharp contrast to Wan, who’s still clinging to the good old days and trying to keep everyone laughing, even as life is throwing curveballs left and right.
And Wan? Oh, honey, he’s got some learning to do. Life isn’t always about keeping the gang together and pretending everything’s fine. People change, situations shift, and it’s okay. Growth is part of the process, and Wan’s gonna need to figure out that not all change is bad. Sometimes, it’s the shake-ups that make us stronger.
There’s something heartbreaking about how Mishima sneaks his mother’s lipstick late at night. It’s a small, intimate ritual, an attempt to connect with a part of himself that he feels he has to hide. In those quiet moments, you can almost feel the relief he gets from seeing his true self reflected back in the mirror. But that relief is fleeting—just like the lipstick that fades after he rubs it away, the world outside doesn’t let him hold onto that version of himself for long.
Even when Mishima tries to embrace these small acts of self-expression in the daytime, he’s met with hostility. The truck drivers who mistake him for a woman and then harass him are a grim reminder of how cruel the world can be to anyone who doesn’t fit neatly into society’s expectations. It’s a scene that feels all too real, showing the everyday dangers of stepping outside the bounds of what’s considered “normal.”
His mother, however, is a bright spot. She calls him “baby” with such affection, and her T-shirt—emblazoned with “Harajuku,” a place known for celebrating individuality—feels like a subtle sign that she accepts him for who he is. In a rural town that stifles difference, she’s his safe space, even if she doesn’t fully understand his struggles.
And then there’s Kirino. At first, he’s the one cutting Mishima’s hair and leading the bullying, but when he steps in to stop the truck drivers from harassing Mishima, you can sense there’s more to him. His actions reveal a conflict within him, suggesting that his bullying might be as much about his own fears and confusion as it is about targeting Mishima. It’s clear that Kirino’s story will be one of inner turmoil and possible redemption.
This episode captures the quiet yet powerful ways that queer individuals navigate hostile environments. Whether it’s Mishima’s hidden acts of self-expression, his mother’s understated support, or Kirino’s complicated role, the show is setting up a deeply human exploration of what it means to be different in a world that’s not always kind.