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This episode feels like a threshold, a moment where we see these two boys' stories step into a new chapter.

After the storm passes, Jian Tian looks at Sheng Wang with such seriousness and says, "From now on, I’ll eat lunch with you, I’ll live with you, and you better not regret it." Sheng Wang’s response? A casual, "To hell with regret." The subtext behind those words is just so romantic, so full of quiet promise.

But what’s even more striking is that their love story hasn’t fully begun yet. It’s just that finally, these two boys—both sensitive and emotional, yet so careful not to disturb anyone else, because they haven’t had much and have lost too much—have let down their walls. They’re finally ready to let each other in, to allow closeness in a way they hadn’t before.

Sheng Wang, always the one with a plan, relies on his goals to shield himself. Look at how he studies, so focused on efficiency, highlighting what matters most, determined to get results. It’s his way of coping. So when he hears that Jian Tian is planning to apply for a dorm room, it hits him hard. That loss of connection plunges him into a dark place, like the black profile picture he chooses on his chat app—cold, closed off. His immediate response? Get back to the plan, grind harder, schedule every minute for studying. It’s a pattern of self-protection, a way to avoid the pain of feeling too much. Just like his nickname on the app, “Closed for Business,” his heart, too, has shut down.

This careful planning, this strategy of shutting off emotions, keeps him safe—or so he thinks. It stops him from getting swept up in feelings, from fearing the hurt that comes with being vulnerable. It's a defense mechanism, like the way he keeps his distance from the grandfather who tries to get close to him. And yet, it’s all because he’s scared—scared of forming connections, scared of the pain of losing them.

The grandfather sees it clearly: Sheng Wang and Jian Tian are the same, both of them afraid to let others in, guarding their hearts closely. But here’s the thing: in this episode, something shifts.

For the first time, Jian Tian lets his emotions show. He protests, he pushes back against Sheng Wang’s coldness, saying he doesn’t want the token repayment of a bottle of water. Jian Tian has already crossed that line; he’s no longer just an observer in Sheng Wang’s world—he’s in it.

We, the audience, can see it so clearly. Jian Tian has been quietly watching, protecting Sheng Wang all along, keeping an eye on him in ways that speak louder than words. He noticed the moment Sheng Wang changed his profile picture, saw the new nickname, and his gaze has been following Sheng Wang ever since.

It reminds me of John Lennon’s famous line from Beautiful Boy (Darling Boy):

"Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans."

Love, like life, sneaks up on you when you’re not looking for it. Sheng Wang, always so obsessed with his plans, is finally beginning to realize this. When he sees that Jian Tian is willing to stand by him, willing to reject the model student role, to forgo the dorms just to be with him, Sheng Wang starts to let go of his need for control. He’s learning to live in the moment, to embrace the now, to be young and free. He’s ready to stop being the boy the literature teacher spoke of—the one who spends his life planning, only to end up crying in the end.

And it’s fitting that all of this happens at a little café called “Alors”. The name is French for “so” or “therefore,” and it’s like a quiet metaphor for the shift happening in their relationship. Like the word itself, which hints at a transition, the café becomes the place where their connection deepens, where the next step is about to happen. Love, after all, rarely sticks to plans. It happens quietly, unexpectedly, often when you’ve closed your heart off and are too busy worrying about other things.

Sheng Wang is finally starting to understand that plans aren’t everything, especially when it comes to love. The little gestures, the silent care, the times Jian Tian has watched over him—those moments of love have already rooted deep in their hearts. And now, it’s ready to bloom, just waiting for them to open the door and let it in.

Okay, let’s talk about Yu and Yo, because these guys didn’t just confess their feelings—they turned it into the BL version of a red-carpet proposal. And it was iconic in the most awkward, extra way possible.

Yu, our emotionally constipated older brother, has known Ai, his younger neighbor, forever. He used to tease him like it was his life’s mission. Then one day, Yu wakes up like, “Oh no, I’m in love.” Cue panic mode. But does Yu go for a big speech or some flowers? Nope, too mainstream. Instead, Yu goes for the ultimate callback to their childhood and brings back a swing. Not just any swing, though—the swing he promised Ai when they were kids. Because apparently, the best way to say “I love you” is to casually drop, “Hey, remember that thing I promised you when you were like 10? Here it is. Surprise, I’m in love with you.” Was it grand? Not exactly. But was it perfectly Yu? Oh, 100%.

And then there’s Yo. This guy has been dodging Ing’s feelings like he’s in an action movie, ducking behind every emotional corner. But when Yo finally decides to stop running, he doesn’t just say, “I love you.” Nah, that’s too easy. Instead, he rolls in with a full-on rap. Yes, Yo raps his love confession. Because why go for heartfelt words when you can drop some sick beats? Ing’s standing there, probably expecting something normal, and Yo’s out here performing like he’s headlining Coachella. Is it dramatic? Absolutely. Is it cringey? Totally. But hey, it’s Yo in all his chaotic, lovable glory.

These confessions? They’re not just “I like you.” They’re the BL equivalent of getting down on one knee with a skywriter spelling out your feelings. Yu’s heartfelt swing move and Yo’s “I’m-gonna-rap-this-out” confession are the stuff of legends. They turned their stress into the most delightfully weird, over-the-top declarations of love, and we’re living for it.

This episode felt like poetry—every scene delicate, every moment full of symbolism and rhythm. I found myself holding my breath, eyes fixed on the screen, afraid to look away, as if even the smallest blink would make me miss the beauty unfolding. And what made it all the more captivating was how a simple physics principle, Bernoulli’s Principle, took on a whole new meaning in Chinese.

In science, Bernoulli’s Principle is all about how the faster a fluid moves, the lower the pressure it exerts. But in Chinese, it’s translated as “白努力定律” (Bai Nu Li Ding Lv). What’s fascinating is that “白努力” sounds like it means “working hard for nothing” or “efforts in vain.” Imagine hearing something scientific and realizing it also describes one of your deepest fears—trying your best but still failing.

For Sheng Wang, this phrase isn’t just physics—it’s personal. He hates it because, for him, it’s a reminder of how terrifying it is to give your all and end up with nothing to show for it. And that’s also why he can’t stand Qi Jiaohao, another character. Qi is ambitious to a fault, working so hard, but in a way that feels too aggressive, too focused on success, even if it means losing his sense of right and wrong. To Sheng Wang, Qi represents the worst kind of “努力”—working hard but forgetting what really matters.

If you dig a little deeper, the beauty behind Bernoulli’s Principle becomes a metaphor for Sheng Wang’s relationship with Jiang Tian. The more people try to pull them apart, the closer they seem to be drawn together, like some unseen force keeps bringing them back to each other. But there was this shadow that loomed over their connection—the fear hidden in the Chinese translation. Will all their efforts to be together end in vain? Is it just another case of “白努力,” where love and effort lead nowhere?

One of the most touching moments comes when Sheng Wang realizes Jiang Tian truly understands him. Jiang Tian even tracked down the thugs who had hurt Sheng Wang and beat them up in retaliation. That’s when Sheng Wang, eyes filled with tears, finally lets his guard down. Instead of staying in that vulnerable moment, though, he does something so simple yet so profound—he jumps onto Jiang Tian’s back, asking him to carry him upstairs. It’s a quiet, intimate gesture, a way of saying, “I trust you. I need you.” But even in this tender moment, there’s that lingering question: Will this trust be rewarded? Or is it just another effort destined to end in nothing?

The beauty of this story isn’t just in the plot or the characters—it’s in how something as scientific as Bernoulli’s Principle can be layered with emotional meaning. It reminds us that love, like anything worthwhile, takes effort. But the hardest part is often trusting that all the effort, all the vulnerability, won’t be for nothing.

Hey there! First off, I want to say that my intention was never to upset anyone, least of all Banky. I’m truly sorry to hear that he was hurt by the comments; no one wants to see an artist feel that way about their work.

But I also think it’s important to remember that when a show is out there for public consumption, viewers are bound to have a range of reactions—some positive, some not so much. We all bring our own experiences and tastes to the table, which means we’re going to see things differently. That’s part of what makes discussions like these so lively and interesting!

When I referred to the comments section as a “comedy club,” I meant it as a lighthearted observation about how people express their opinions with a dash of humor and wit. It wasn’t meant to undermine anyone’s feelings, but rather to highlight how creative and, yes, sometimes sarcastic, the internet can be when people share their thoughts.

Art, whether it’s a TV show, music, or a painting, will always have its lovers and its critics. That’s what makes it art—it sparks conversation, debate, and yes, even some playful banter. The important thing is that we can share our opinions without tearing each other down.

I totally respect that you and other fans have a deep appreciation for Banky and his work, and I think that’s awesome! Everyone’s perspective adds something unique to the mix. So, while I may poke fun at certain aspects, it’s all in the spirit of enjoying and engaging with the content in our own ways.

Let’s keep the conversation going, but maybe with a little more room for all the different takes out there. After all, variety is the spice of life, right?

This adaptation beautifully captures the somber mood of Tokyo's forgotten alleys, where the city's most vulnerable struggle to find their place. The visual treatment highlights the melancholy that permeates both the setting and the characters' lives. Chihiro’s frail form and tragic circumstances evoke a profound empathy, drawing viewers into his world of pain and resilience.

Keito’s backstory, equally heart-wrenching, adds depth to their evolving relationship. Together, they navigate a harsh world, and in their tentative connection, we glimpse the possibility of healing. The series doesn’t just tell a story of brokenness—it gently reveals the strength found in companionship, even in the darkest moments.

This adaptation stays true to the emotional core of the original manga, offering a viewing experience that lingers long after the final scene.

In the crowded world of Thai BL dramas, where new actors constantly emerge, August Vachiravit truly stands out. I first noticed him years ago in Lovesick the Series, where he had a minor role. Since then, the Thai BL scene has exploded, but August seemed to fade from view—until Addicted Heroin brought him back into the spotlight.

What amazed me most was how effortlessly August, now 28, could still convincingly play a high school student. Initially, I was struck by his youthful appearance, but as I watched more, I realized it was his acting that really drew me in.

By the fourth episode, when his character's secret is revealed—that he’s Pop's stepbrother, sparking intense family drama—August’s performance truly shines. The way he reacts to Pop’s words, with such genuine emotion and intensity, left me thoroughly impressed.

Honestly, in this Thai adaptation, it’s August’s talent that keeps me hooked. He’s not just acting; he’s embodying the character in a way that feels genuine and relatable, making this show a must-watch.

Episode ten has this one scene that just stays with me—it's this quiet, intimate moment that says everything without saying a word. There’s Taishin on the left, lying on the floor, eyes fixed on Takara, his senior, who’s right there beside him. Taishin’s gaze is full of curiosity and something a little deeper, while Takara covers his face with one hand, as if he’s hiding from the very feelings that are catching up with him. The night around them isn’t lonely—it’s tender, holding them in this shared, unspoken connection.

Taishin started out just feeling grateful to Takara, thankful for all the ways he’s been there for him. But over time, that gratitude deepened into something more—a kind of love that crept in quietly and settled in his heart. Takara isn’t just the cool, distant senior anymore—he’s the person who’s come to mean everything to Taishin, almost without him realizing it. But Takara’s story is different. He’s been hurt, scarred by a childhood where his mother’s materialism left him cold and wary. He’s scared to let anyone in, afraid of turning out just as possessive as she was. But then there’s Taishin—so pure, so honest in his awkwardness—and he starts to chip away at Takara’s walls, little by little.

This scene is where Takara can’t stand the loneliness any longer. It’s the middle of the night, and he finds himself needing Taishin, craving the comfort that only Taishin seems to bring. The floor they’re lying on is hard, but that doesn’t matter—they’re together, and that’s what counts. As they lie there, side by side, the rest of the world just falls away. It’s just their breathing, their heartbeats, and this warm, soft light that makes everything feel a little bit safer, a little more okay. In this moment, their guards drop, and the distance between them closes until it’s almost gone.

Takara covering his face isn’t just a random move—it’s a reflex, a way to shield himself from emotions he’s not ready to face. He’s terrified of becoming like his mother, of letting love turn into something ugly and possessive. So he hides behind coldness, thinking it’ll protect him. But then there’s Taishin, with that steady, caring gaze that’s like a soft light, gently breaking through Takara’s darkness, offering him a kind of safety he hasn’t felt in years.

The beauty of this scene is in its simplicity. There’s nothing fancy, no big dramatic speeches—just two people, raw and real, connecting on the most basic, human level. The bare floor they’re on mirrors the honesty of the moment, stripping everything down to what truly matters—their feelings, laid bare and unfiltered. It’s the kind of scene that pulls you in, making you feel the quiet intensity between them.

And that’s why this moment sticks with you. The way the light, the camera, the way they move, all of it comes together to create something that’s both heartbreaking and warm. Takara’s loneliness, his fear, Taishin’s care, his understanding—it’s all there, in this one beautiful, quiet moment. Time seems to stand still, and you just want to stay there with them, feeling what they feel, for just a little longer.

I hate to be the one to get all serious and maybe put a little damper on your fun, but I just can’t help myself—here are a few thoughts. So, we’ve all been keeping up with *Battle of the Writers*, right? The whole Shan and Ob-un situation has more twists than a soap opera, and while it’s got all the romance vibes we love, I can’t help but think, “Whoa, Shan, what are you doing?”

Let’s take a trip down memory lane. Picture this: 16-year-old Shan, temporarily blind after a freak accident (because why not?), stumbles into the sweet, sunshine-y world of Ob-un. These two hit it off like peanut butter and jelly, spending their days making up stories and having deep, life-changing conversations. But just as Shan’s about to see the light—literally—Ob-un vanishes like a rom-com cliché. And poor Shan is left with nothing but his mom’s description of Ob-un: "sunny, bright, with eyes like a baby deer.” Fast forward ten years, and guess who’s still stuck on that mystery boy? Yep, Shan—who, by the way, is now a bestselling novelist instead of the cop he once wanted to be. (Let’s be real, writing novels is way more fun than writing tickets.)

So, here’s where things get interesting. Out of the blue, some of Shan’s fans slide into his DMs to accuse a writer known as “Little Prince” of plagiarism. Shan takes a peek and—hold the phone!—this “plagiarism” turns out to be the very stories he and Ob-un cooked up together back in the day. Coincidence? I think not. Shan suddenly has a lead on Ob-un, and let’s just say, he’s not about to let this one slip away.

Now, if you thought Shan was going to play it cool, you’d be wrong. This man goes full detective, tracking down Ob-un and orchestrating a reunion that’s straight out of a rom-com, complete with a fake need for a roommate to “split the rent.” Yeah, because the wealthy, successful Shan really needs to cut down on living expenses. But hey, he pulls it off! Ob-un moves in, clueless that Shan’s his long-lost buddy. Shan’s got it all figured out—except for the part where he’s being a little (okay, a lot) manipulative. But who’s keeping track?

So there’s Shan, pulling the strings like a master puppeteer, getting Ob-un involved in writing BL novels with him and a bunch of other authors from their publishing house. It’s all part of Shan’s plan to spend more time with Ob-un, who, naturally, falls for Shan’s charm, generosity, and general swoon-worthiness. They even share kisses—cue the fireworks! But there’s just one tiny problem: Ob-un has no clue that Shan is the same guy he befriended years ago. Only Shan knows, and it’s killing him not to spill the beans.

Things reach a boiling point when Shan, feeling all sorts of emotional, tries to kiss Ob-un while he’s sleeping (creepy, but also, come on, it’s a rom-com), only to get caught by their mutual friend Ozone. Now Shan’s got no choice but to come clean about their shared history. Ozone, who was ready to tear Shan a new one for overstepping, ends up being so touched by Shan’s backstory that he switches teams and becomes their biggest cheerleader.

So here’s where I get all serious on you: Shan’s devotion is nothing short of heartwarming, but let’s be real, his methods are about as subtle as a sledgehammer. On the one hand, it’s incredibly romantic that he’s gone to such lengths to find Ob-un again. Who wouldn’t be flattered by someone going all out for love like this? But on the other hand, Shan’s playing a risky game. He’s not just bending the truth—he’s doing the cha-cha on the line between love and manipulation.

For Ob-un, who’s completely in the dark, the whole situation could be a ticking time bomb. If he ever finds out the lengths Shan has gone to (and all the secrets he’s kept), it could rock his world—in the worst way possible. Shan’s actions, while driven by love, could shatter Ob-un’s trust, leaving him feeling hurt, betrayed, and wondering if their entire relationship was built on lies.

So yeah, while *Battle of the Writers* is serving up romance on a silver platter, it’s also giving us a lot to chew on. Shan’s journey to reconnect with Ob-un is the stuff of rom-com dreams, but it’s also a reminder that love needs to be built on honesty if it’s going to last. Because let’s face it, in the real world, love that starts in the shadows often struggles to survive in the light. And if we’re being honest, nobody likes getting caught in the dark.

Kla, the undisputed king of turning down girls and their misguided attempts at wooing him with cupcakes, has always been an enigma—at least to those with a severely malfunctioning gaydar. Despite his constant dessert dodging and zero interest in their advances, they kept baking and hoping. But then Cake strolls in, and suddenly Kla’s all smiles, practically drooling as he teases, ‘Cake? Now that’s a treat I’ve been craving!’ Sorry ladies, it seems the real mystery here is how you missed the neon signs. Kla’s sweet tooth only kicks in for the right kind of dessert—preferably one with a Y chromosome.

Watching The Trainee is like ordering a gourmet burger only to find out they served you a salad. Sure, the salad might be fresh, but it’s not what you came for. The show’s focus on the straight side characters is baffling, especially when the BL storyline was the real reason most of us tuned in. It’s like the writers forgot which genre they were working with halfway through and decided to throw in a hetero subplot for good measure. The result? A frustrating experience for those of us craving more of the main dish and less of the side salad.

I couldn’t handle the cringe past episode 3, but the real entertainment turned out to be the comments section—it’s like the internet’s best-kept comedy club! Honestly, the reactions are funnier than the show ever was!

By the time I hit the finale, I was fast-forwarding like I was on a treasure hunt—except all I found was the pure joy of skipping over the dull bits! Who knew speed-watching could be this satisfying?

As for Lin’s runway look, it’s like someone couldn’t decide whether he was headed to bed, getting married, or hitting the beach, so they just threw all three outfits together! Fashion crisis, anyone?

And that jewelry? It’s like Lin raided the clearance bin at a craft store for a DIY project that screams, “I ran out of time and ideas!” Oh wait… he designed it himself? Well, that explains everything!

If you enjoy this show, don’t let my commentary or the internet’s comedy club sway you—bravely tell me what you like! After all, I’m still on my journey to appreciate the finer, less common… ahem… artistic choices in life.

There might be more to Great and Tyme's relationship than what we've seen so far.

Based on what Great's father said to Tyme in both timelines, it seems the two families were once quite close. Great’s father actually remembers Tyme from his childhood, which suggests they’ve had some significant interaction before.

And then there’s that moment when Great gets scared by the dog, and Tyme says, "You're still afraid of dogs?" Clearly, these two might have known each other as kids, sharing experiences that still linger in their minds.

I can’t help but hope that beneath all the revenge and fiery passion, there’s a deeper connection waiting to be revealed between them. It’s those hidden layers that could make their relationship far more intriguing than what’s on the surface.

In the latest episode, the lines between revenge and passion blur in a way that feels both intoxicating and dangerous.

I can't help but wonder: Can Tyme, so consumed by his need for vengeance, ever truly develop genuine feelings for Great? And what about Great? Even after being coldly discarded by Tyme following their passionate encounter, he still seems electrified by his own subtle rebellion against patriarchy. Has he ever paused to reflect on his true feelings for Tyme, or is he just swept up in the whirlwind of it all?

As someone who can't resist a good romantic storyline, I hold onto the hope that the intensity of their mutual revenge will eventually burn itself out. Maybe, just maybe, in the aftermath of this storm, when Great is left wounded—both physically and emotionally—Tyme might show a flicker of true affection. It feels like their love story hasn't even begun yet, but perhaps this is the moment where it finally starts to unfold.

This is the kind of tension and emotional depth that drama audiences live for—the possibility that, within all the chaos, something real and tender might emerge.

I totally get why Jane might make you want to pull your hair out or even slap her silly. But honestly, people like her are all around us, and she’s as real as it gets.

Jane is a social media queen, using her platform to build her brand. She recruits handsome guys like God to appear on camera and grab viewers’ attention. She’s basically the poster child for self-media entrepreneurship.

But when she tries to convince Diew to be her product’s model, things don’t go as planned. Despite Diew’s clear “no,” Jane is relentless. She can’t understand why her usual charm isn’t working on him. No matter how much she hounds him, she ignores his discomfort. Jane’s so caught up in her own world that she thinks a little persistence will do the trick. In reality, she’s both naïve and self-centered, missing the fact that people are diverse.

Jane’s kind of clueless and self-important—honestly, there are plenty of young people like her running around.

On the flip side, Diew is portrayed as the introvert’s poster child, which resonates with many who share his reserved nature. But his problems go way beyond just being shy.

Being introverted doesn’t mean being scared, unable to communicate, or incapable of standing up for oneself. Diew’s hesitance seems rooted in deeper issues, not just past ridicule from his ex’s friends but maybe some unresolved trauma.

Maybe his family was so protective that he never learned to speak up for himself or defend his rights. That’s something we can only guess at.

Diew doesn’t need to change himself to fit his extroverted boyfriend or anyone else. What he needs is to grow and learn to stand up for himself when others cross the line.

Here’s hoping this BL gives Diew the space to evolve and lets us watch him become the person he’s meant to be.

Brian, the black spider, gave Diew such a fright that it set the plot in motion, ultimately landing Diew right in God’s arms. Who knew the first-ever BL arthropod wingman would be an eight-legged matchmaker?

Yesss ❤️💙💜💕

The moment where the two characters are sweeping leaves on campus is simply magical. I expected the usual cliché—one boy brushing sand from the other’s eye—but they turned it into something fresh and unexpected. Sheng Wang’s warm, coffee-colored eyes and Jian Tian’s sharp, skyward glance perfectly capture the sweet and bittersweet feeling of first love.

Liu Dongqin, even at 31, completely embodies the youthful spirit of Sheng Wang. His performance is so natural and genuine, you almost forget he’s not actually a teenager.

Benjamin Tsang’s portrayal of Jian Tian, with his cool and distant demeanor, could have easily come across as stiff or wooden. But Benjamin brings a soft depth to the character, making him anything but dull. In the fourth episode, his barely-there smile is a perfect example of how a little can say so much. And those moments at the end of each episode, where Jian Tian quietly watches over Sheng Wang, reveal a tender, protective side that adds even more warmth to his character.

This drama isn’t just well done; it’s a sweet and heartfelt portrayal of young love, brought to life by performances that feel incredibly real and deeply touching.

If Kohei and Taichi got together right away, how many real-life challenges would they face?

This BL series is the very definition of a slow burn. It takes its time, allowing the characters to grow naturally. There’s no rush, no explosive passion—just a steady build-up of emotions. Kohei is facing the possibility of losing his hearing completely, so he’s focused on his studies, preparing for his qualifications, and securing a future without regrets. Meanwhile, Taichi, the idealist, is wrestling with whether he should drop out of college. While their peers are off partying and wasting time, these two are already turning life’s lemons into something meaningful.

The company president sees something special in Taichi—his passion, his drive. He’s even considering offering him a full-time job. The president’s warm smile and the pudding he gives Taichi feel like a small, yet heartfelt, push to keep chasing his dreams. Not everyone is as lucky as Taichi to have that kind of support. But then, most of us don’t know the kind of loneliness Taichi deals with, relying only on his grandfather while balancing work and school.

Meeting Kohei kicks Taichi’s life into high gear. He starts thinking about how he can help Kohei, all while figuring out his own path. This isn’t something you see often in BL stories—Taichi isn’t just lost in love, forgetting to grow up. Instead, he’s discovering what he really wants to do.

Taichi is a dreamer with a big heart. When he sets his mind on something, he dives in headfirst, even if it doesn’t always turn out perfectly. He tries to take notes for Kohei in class, while also sharing the professor’s jokes, which ends up in a chaotic mess of scribbles. Kohei doesn’t mind, but Mia definitely does.

Luckily, a more experienced colleague steps in and offers Taichi some valuable advice. The colleague explains that it’s not about giving immediate attention to those with hearing impairments but about helping them learn to be independent. This pragmatic approach is far from Taichi’s idealism, but it’s a lesson he takes to heart. Maybe it’s seeing this colleague’s dedication that makes Taichi consider taking a break from school to focus on work.

But ever the idealist, Taichi still thinks about continuing to take notes for Kohei, even after going full-time at the company. It’s a sweet thought, but not realistic. We all know time is limited, and something has to give. Sensing Taichi’s inner struggle, his wise grandfather gently points out that loneliness can cloud your judgment, making it hard to move forward. He urges Taichi not to let the fear of leaving Kohei, or the worry that Kohei might be lonely without him, hold him back from pursuing his own goals.

His grandfather’s words are full of wisdom and hit close to home. Whether it’s Kohei, Taichi, or any of us watching this BL story unfold, there’s a certain loneliness that comes with just being human. It can feel overwhelming at times. But if these two can face that loneliness and handle the temporary separations life might bring, their love will be something truly special. It won’t be like the fleeting romances of their college peers. It’ll be deeper, more meaningful, and something that stays with you long after the story ends.

So, here’s the deal with professors in Japan—they don’t typically give out complete lecture notes. It’s more of a “you’re on your own” situation, where they expect you to pay attention and take your own notes. But, hey, some of them are pretty cool and might give you some handouts or share slides online. It's definitely becoming more common, but don’t count on it.

Now, if you’re wondering how hearing-impaired students manage, there are actually some pretty solid options. First off, note-takers are a thing—just like you might’ve seen in those Japanese dramas. Yep, real people, usually fellow students or even pros, taking notes for you. Then, there’s real-time captioning at some universities, which is basically magic—turning what the professor says into text on a screen as they’re talking.

And with smartphones being so handy these days, a lot of students use speech-to-text apps to keep up. If sign language is more their speed, some universities even offer interpreters.

It’s not one-size-fits-all, though. What a student ends up using really depends on what they need, what the university can offer, and how tech-savvy everyone is. So, it’s kind of a mix between sticking to tradition and embracing new tools to make things work.

Yo is not dumb or playing dumb—he’s a maestro in the subtle art of emotional dodging. When Ing lays his feelings bare, Yo doesn’t just ignore it because he’s oblivious. No, Yo is fully tuned in, which makes his reaction all the more intriguing. He deliberately chooses to act as if nothing happened, not out of ignorance, but out of a deep, unspoken need to keep his carefully constructed world from unraveling.

Yo’s got this easy rhythm with Ing, a friendship that’s been smooth sailing for as long as he can remember. Toss a romantic confession into that mix, and it’s like throwing a wrench into a well-oiled machine. Yo’s instinct? Pretend the wrench never existed. He’s not just avoiding an uncomfortable conversation; he’s clinging to the control he has over his life, trying to keep everything neatly in place where he can manage it.

And this need for control doesn’t just stop with him and Ing. It spills over into his attempts to play matchmaker for Ai and Wan. On the surface, it might seem like Yo is just being a helpful friend, eager to see Ai happy. But dig a little deeper, and you’ll see that it’s more about Yo’s attempt to deflect from his own emotional mess. By focusing on pairing Ai with Wan, he conveniently distracts himself (and everyone else) from the turmoil brewing inside him regarding Ing’s confession.

Yo’s meddling in Ai’s love life is his way of maintaining a sense of order. If Ai is busy with Wan, then maybe, just maybe, Yo can keep things from spiraling out of control in his own emotional landscape. It’s a clever, albeit risky, strategy to keep the spotlight off his unresolved feelings. But, of course, this house of cards starts to wobble when Ai pushes back, frustrated by Yo’s interference. The more Yo tries to control, the more things slip through his fingers.

In the end, Yo’s actions aren’t just about avoiding discomfort—they’re about protecting the delicate balance of his world. He’s trying to keep everything in check, even if it means playing a high-stakes game with everyone’s feelings, including his own. Yo is navigating the messy waters of friendship and love, and while his methods might be flawed, they’re undeniably human. It’s a captivating dance of avoidance and control, revealing just how far we’ll go to avoid facing our own fears, even as they quietly unravel everything we’re trying to protect.