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A story about trust, shedding masks, and accepting that beauty and success don’t heal old wounds
Adapted from a webtoon and set in a university film program, Blueming follows Cha Si-won and Hyeong Da-un, two young men who, at first glance, seem to fit perfectly into ideals of beauty and success, while carrying deep fractures beneath that polished image. Rather than leaning on major plot twists, Blueming favors the everyday, silences, and small moments of awkwardness, building a romance that grows less from spectacle and more from the mutual recognition of vulnerability.
Si-won is a protagonist marked by insecurity. Once an overweight child, bullied in his youth and emotionally shaped by a complicated family relationship, he learned early on that being flawless was a way to survive. Da-un, by contrast, appears to have everything effortlessly: beauty, talent, an almost untouchable aura. The series, however, is careful to dismantle this impression. What gradually emerges is a young man just as lonely, raised at an emotional distance from his parents and accustomed to hiding emptiness behind a gentle smile. Blueming is less interested in who they seem to be and more in what they try to conceal, and it is there that it finds its strength.
The romance between the two avoids the genre’s most obvious formulas. There are no grand declarations, nor a chain of artificial conflicts. Affection is built through discomfort, misunderstandings, lingering glances, and the slow development of trust. For some, this restraint may feel cold or underwhelming; for others, it is precisely what lends the relationship its sense of truth. Blueming embraces the idea that intimacy is not born from excess, but from allowing oneself to be imperfect in front of another, and it sustains this choice with consistency.
Visually, the series is a small triumph. Hwang Da-seul’s direction turns Blueming into something close to an indie film, with natural lighting, delicate framing, expressive use of shadows, and a warm color palette that mirrors the characters’ emotional states. There is clear pleasure in playing with cinematic language, which feels especially fitting given that we are following film students, and visual metaphors such as the recurring notion of “the time between dog and wolf” enrich the narrative without tipping into pretension. Even with budget limitations, the result is elegant and memorable.
The performances follow the same line of subtlety. Kang Eun-bin delivers a Si-won who shifts between defensive arrogance and almost childlike vulnerability, while Jo Hyuk-joon crafts a quiet Da-un, at times perhaps too enigmatic. Here lies one of the series’ most frequent criticisms: it demands an attentive, almost active viewer. Not everything is explained, and not every motivation is made explicit. For some, this deepens realism; for others, it creates emotional gaps that make full connection more difficult, especially in Da-un’s case, whose story could have been further developed.
Another point that divides opinions is how the series approaches sexuality. Blueming chooses to treat it as a non-issue: there are no social acceptance conflicts or major external struggles. For many, this normalization feels liberating, a breath of fresh air within narratives often defined by queer suffering. For others, it comes across as overly idealized, almost erasing issues that are still very real. The choice works within the show’s intimate framework, but it leaves the sense that an additional layer might have further enriched the drama.
In the end, Blueming is less about romance and more about growing up. It is a story about learning to trust, shedding masks, and accepting that beauty and success do not heal old wounds. It is not a series made for everyone; those seeking constant intensity or explicit conflict may find it muted, even forgettable. But for viewers willing to settle into its calm, observant, almost contemplative rhythm, Blueming blooms into a sensitive portrait of youth’s quiet pains. A work that does not shout, does not rush, and perhaps for that very reason, remains.
Si-won is a protagonist marked by insecurity. Once an overweight child, bullied in his youth and emotionally shaped by a complicated family relationship, he learned early on that being flawless was a way to survive. Da-un, by contrast, appears to have everything effortlessly: beauty, talent, an almost untouchable aura. The series, however, is careful to dismantle this impression. What gradually emerges is a young man just as lonely, raised at an emotional distance from his parents and accustomed to hiding emptiness behind a gentle smile. Blueming is less interested in who they seem to be and more in what they try to conceal, and it is there that it finds its strength.
The romance between the two avoids the genre’s most obvious formulas. There are no grand declarations, nor a chain of artificial conflicts. Affection is built through discomfort, misunderstandings, lingering glances, and the slow development of trust. For some, this restraint may feel cold or underwhelming; for others, it is precisely what lends the relationship its sense of truth. Blueming embraces the idea that intimacy is not born from excess, but from allowing oneself to be imperfect in front of another, and it sustains this choice with consistency.
Visually, the series is a small triumph. Hwang Da-seul’s direction turns Blueming into something close to an indie film, with natural lighting, delicate framing, expressive use of shadows, and a warm color palette that mirrors the characters’ emotional states. There is clear pleasure in playing with cinematic language, which feels especially fitting given that we are following film students, and visual metaphors such as the recurring notion of “the time between dog and wolf” enrich the narrative without tipping into pretension. Even with budget limitations, the result is elegant and memorable.
The performances follow the same line of subtlety. Kang Eun-bin delivers a Si-won who shifts between defensive arrogance and almost childlike vulnerability, while Jo Hyuk-joon crafts a quiet Da-un, at times perhaps too enigmatic. Here lies one of the series’ most frequent criticisms: it demands an attentive, almost active viewer. Not everything is explained, and not every motivation is made explicit. For some, this deepens realism; for others, it creates emotional gaps that make full connection more difficult, especially in Da-un’s case, whose story could have been further developed.
Another point that divides opinions is how the series approaches sexuality. Blueming chooses to treat it as a non-issue: there are no social acceptance conflicts or major external struggles. For many, this normalization feels liberating, a breath of fresh air within narratives often defined by queer suffering. For others, it comes across as overly idealized, almost erasing issues that are still very real. The choice works within the show’s intimate framework, but it leaves the sense that an additional layer might have further enriched the drama.
In the end, Blueming is less about romance and more about growing up. It is a story about learning to trust, shedding masks, and accepting that beauty and success do not heal old wounds. It is not a series made for everyone; those seeking constant intensity or explicit conflict may find it muted, even forgettable. But for viewers willing to settle into its calm, observant, almost contemplative rhythm, Blueming blooms into a sensitive portrait of youth’s quiet pains. A work that does not shout, does not rush, and perhaps for that very reason, remains.
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