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There is beauty in choosing to love, again and again, even when it leaves scars
Love in the Big City is not just a series; it is a state of mind. One of those rare encounters between a work and its audience in which fiction stops being a shelter and becomes a mirror. Released in 2024, the KBL, even though this label is not enough to fully contain it, presents itself as a queer coming-of-age drama that understands, from its very first minute, that loving in a big city is not romantic by nature. It is exhausting, contradictory, sometimes cruel. And yet, deeply human.
Set in Seoul, the series follows the journey of Ko Yeong, a young gay man who moves through life as if walking on exposed wires: driven by desire, fear, impulsiveness, and a loneliness that never fully goes away. He drifts through bars, clubs, other people’s beds, and conversations that make no promises about tomorrow. At first glance, he may seem like just another bohemian protagonist. But Love in the Big City quickly reveals that this constant movement is, in fact, a desperate attempt to avoid standing still with himself for too long.
The series’ greatest strength lies in its radical honesty. Here, love does not appear as salvation, nor as a final destination. It appears as experience, sometimes bright, sometimes devastating. Each relationship Ko Yeong lives through works as a distinct chapter in his emotional growth: the love that comes too early, the one that hurts in silence, the one that promises healing but also carries weight, the one that could have been, and the one that simply cannot last. There are no easy villains, nor absolute heroes. There are people, with very clear limits.
Nam Yoon-su delivers one of the most impressive performances in recent Korean audiovisual works. His Ko Yeong is contradictory without being inconsistent, selfish without ever losing his humanity. He loves poorly because he has not learned how to love himself, and the series never tries to soften this fact. On the contrary, it observes, with care and seriousness, how family trauma, social rejection, repeated losses, and living with HIV shape his view of affection, belonging, and the future. Nothing is treated as shock for its own sake; everything is absorbed as a natural part of life.
The direction, divided into blocks that follow different phases and relationships, reinforces this feeling of existential chapters. Each arc has its own rhythm and emotional tone, as if the series respects the idea that no one loves in the same way throughout life. The concise format of only eight episodes is used with precise intelligence: there is no rush, but there is also no waste. Every silence matters. Every scene stays long enough to hurt.
Visually, Love in the Big City carries a melancholic beauty. The cinematography turns Seoul into more than just a setting: the city pulses, watches, oppresses, and embraces at the same time. Neon-lit clubs contrast with silent rooms, empty streets speak to suffocating interiors. There is something almost lyrical in the way the camera follows Ko Yeong, as if it were always one step behind, respecting his intimacy while never leaving him.
Another fundamental pillar of the series is friendship. Mi Ae, his best friend and roommate, represents something many queer narratives try to show but rarely achieve: the strength of chosen family without caricature. Their relationship is built on everyday affection, small loyalties, mistakes, and constancy. When Ko Yeong’s romantic world falls apart again and again, it is within this friendship that the series finds its emotional ground.
This sense of belonging expands through his wider group of friends, who form a loose but vital network of support. They are not idealized or endlessly patient, and conflicts, misunderstandings, and emotional distance are part of their dynamic. Still, these relationships offer Ko Yeong moments of relief, laughter, and recognition, reminding him that intimacy does not exist only in romantic form. Together, they create a space where love is expressed through presence rather than permanence, and where being seen, even imperfectly, becomes a way to survive the city.
Love in the Big City also stands out for its precise social commentary. Without didactic speeches, it addresses structural homophobia, religion, feminism, abortion, prejudice against people living with HIV, and mental health as inseparable parts of the queer experience in a conservative context. Nothing is resolved easily. Some wounds remain open. And this is a gesture of respect: the series understands that not every pain needs to be explained, much less healed within the limits of a narrative.
Perhaps that is why its impact lasts for so long. It is not a work made for comfort, nor for light consumption. It is the kind that leaves the viewer slightly unsettled at the end, like someone who has just left an important conversation and still does not know what to do with everything they felt. The open ending is not a lack of answers, but coherence: life goes on, even when we wish it would pause to give us meaning.
Throughout its runtime, Love in the Big City reaffirms something simple and devastating: growing up means learning that love does not always save, but it always transforms. That loneliness is not the absence of people, but often the absence of acceptance. And that, amid loss, mistakes, and imperfect new beginnings, there is still beauty in moving forward, even without guarantees.
In the end, the series does not promise happiness. It promises truth. And perhaps that is exactly why it stands so strongly as one of the great works of contemporary queer audiovisual storytelling. Because loving, in the big city or anywhere else, is rarely easy. But as long as stories are told with this level of care, courage, and sensitivity, there will still be love, even if it hurts.
Set in Seoul, the series follows the journey of Ko Yeong, a young gay man who moves through life as if walking on exposed wires: driven by desire, fear, impulsiveness, and a loneliness that never fully goes away. He drifts through bars, clubs, other people’s beds, and conversations that make no promises about tomorrow. At first glance, he may seem like just another bohemian protagonist. But Love in the Big City quickly reveals that this constant movement is, in fact, a desperate attempt to avoid standing still with himself for too long.
The series’ greatest strength lies in its radical honesty. Here, love does not appear as salvation, nor as a final destination. It appears as experience, sometimes bright, sometimes devastating. Each relationship Ko Yeong lives through works as a distinct chapter in his emotional growth: the love that comes too early, the one that hurts in silence, the one that promises healing but also carries weight, the one that could have been, and the one that simply cannot last. There are no easy villains, nor absolute heroes. There are people, with very clear limits.
Nam Yoon-su delivers one of the most impressive performances in recent Korean audiovisual works. His Ko Yeong is contradictory without being inconsistent, selfish without ever losing his humanity. He loves poorly because he has not learned how to love himself, and the series never tries to soften this fact. On the contrary, it observes, with care and seriousness, how family trauma, social rejection, repeated losses, and living with HIV shape his view of affection, belonging, and the future. Nothing is treated as shock for its own sake; everything is absorbed as a natural part of life.
The direction, divided into blocks that follow different phases and relationships, reinforces this feeling of existential chapters. Each arc has its own rhythm and emotional tone, as if the series respects the idea that no one loves in the same way throughout life. The concise format of only eight episodes is used with precise intelligence: there is no rush, but there is also no waste. Every silence matters. Every scene stays long enough to hurt.
Visually, Love in the Big City carries a melancholic beauty. The cinematography turns Seoul into more than just a setting: the city pulses, watches, oppresses, and embraces at the same time. Neon-lit clubs contrast with silent rooms, empty streets speak to suffocating interiors. There is something almost lyrical in the way the camera follows Ko Yeong, as if it were always one step behind, respecting his intimacy while never leaving him.
Another fundamental pillar of the series is friendship. Mi Ae, his best friend and roommate, represents something many queer narratives try to show but rarely achieve: the strength of chosen family without caricature. Their relationship is built on everyday affection, small loyalties, mistakes, and constancy. When Ko Yeong’s romantic world falls apart again and again, it is within this friendship that the series finds its emotional ground.
This sense of belonging expands through his wider group of friends, who form a loose but vital network of support. They are not idealized or endlessly patient, and conflicts, misunderstandings, and emotional distance are part of their dynamic. Still, these relationships offer Ko Yeong moments of relief, laughter, and recognition, reminding him that intimacy does not exist only in romantic form. Together, they create a space where love is expressed through presence rather than permanence, and where being seen, even imperfectly, becomes a way to survive the city.
Love in the Big City also stands out for its precise social commentary. Without didactic speeches, it addresses structural homophobia, religion, feminism, abortion, prejudice against people living with HIV, and mental health as inseparable parts of the queer experience in a conservative context. Nothing is resolved easily. Some wounds remain open. And this is a gesture of respect: the series understands that not every pain needs to be explained, much less healed within the limits of a narrative.
Perhaps that is why its impact lasts for so long. It is not a work made for comfort, nor for light consumption. It is the kind that leaves the viewer slightly unsettled at the end, like someone who has just left an important conversation and still does not know what to do with everything they felt. The open ending is not a lack of answers, but coherence: life goes on, even when we wish it would pause to give us meaning.
Throughout its runtime, Love in the Big City reaffirms something simple and devastating: growing up means learning that love does not always save, but it always transforms. That loneliness is not the absence of people, but often the absence of acceptance. And that, amid loss, mistakes, and imperfect new beginnings, there is still beauty in moving forward, even without guarantees.
In the end, the series does not promise happiness. It promises truth. And perhaps that is exactly why it stands so strongly as one of the great works of contemporary queer audiovisual storytelling. Because loving, in the big city or anywhere else, is rarely easy. But as long as stories are told with this level of care, courage, and sensitivity, there will still be love, even if it hurts.
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