3
This review may contain spoilers
"To us, Loving Me Is Loving You."
It’s rare that a drama doesn't just leave you feeling emotionally drained—it makes you feel alive in a way you weren’t prepared for. Way Back Love takes you through a whirlwind of love, grief, and healing, in a way that doesn’t just tug at your heartstrings but completely unravels and rebuilds them. A narrative so finely woven, it doesn’t just tell a story—it reminds you that even in the hardest moments of life, there’s something to be said about remembering and moving forward, even when you don’t have all the answers.
The first episode sets the tone so well: the high school timeline is all golden light, youthful chaos, and bubbling energy, while the adult timeline is cloaked in gray-blue, muted like emotions long buried. Kim Ram U, the quiet, top-of-the-class student, and Jung Hui Wan, the lively, mischievous girl with too much energy, meet in school and change names—a harmless prank that ends up transforming their lives. The way Ram U goes from frustrated to accepting this new name is unexpectedly charming and symbolic. It's not just about a name; it becomes a metaphor for stepping into each other’s shoes, burdens, and fates.
The supporting characters are a joy too: Hui Wan’s best friend Tae Gyeong and Ram U’s best friend Hong Seok add so much flavor to the high school timeline. Their chemistry hints at a possible love line, but more than that, their friendship feels real.
The adult timeline introduces loneliness and pain—Hui Wan is now distant, living a life she doesn’t want, weighed down by guilt. Then comes Ram U, knocking at her door, saying, “Long time no see,” as though nothing has changed. But everything has.
Especially the moment she says, "But you died four years ago," and the scene cuts to her alone, the room empty.
What makes this drama so better is its blend of genres. It’s youth, romance, fantasy, melodrama—seamlessly interwoven. One moment you're laughing at Hui Wan’s chaotic plans to stop Jisoo from confessing, and the next, you're hit with the overwhelming grief of her adult self, still mourning Ram U. Even the flashbacks, like their playful four-person trip, shine with joy before slipping into tragedy. There’s a constant balance of light and shadow, and the transitions are seamless.
Ram U being a grim reaper brings fantasy to the forefront, but not in an overpowering way. He tells Hui Wan she has a week to live and asks her to do ten things from his bucket list—funny, wild, sweet things that he never got to do. Skydiving, manga dates, breaking into school... all tinged with bittersweetness. And as they complete each task, the clock ticks down. There's always this quiet knowledge that they’re racing toward goodbye.
What truly breaks the heart is when reality starts seeping in. He’s not in photos. No one else can see him. And when the guilt hits her full force—thinking she caused his death—it’s devastating.
The fire, the name change, the stargazing trip—all small choices that led to something irreversible. "Just call my name and I'll die," she says. And he, with tears in his eyes, finally confesses: "I liked you and still like you."
It’s not just about Hui Wan and Ram U. It's about everyone around them. The friendship between Hui Wan and Tae Gyeong is genuine, filled with jealousy, love, and unspoken understanding. Ram U’s mother and Hui Wan’s father, once just neighbors, come to share their grief, offering healing without needing words. And Hong Seok—important to Ram U—is given space to process, to break, to grow. The conversation between Hui Wan and Hong Seok is one of the show’s most powerful: two people sharing guilt over the same person, realizing no one really had it easy.
Ram U’s family story adds another layer. A child born from an affair, a mother trying to shield her son from shame, a wife paying child support for a boy she never met—it’s messy, painful, human. And after losing him, Ram U’s mother is left with nothing but memories. When he visits her as a grim reaper and she can’t see him, it’s almost unbearable. But then, she doesn’t need to see to feel. That hug between her and Hui Wan? It broke me.
And still, the show doesn't let you drown in grief. The four-person travel plan, the reunion with old friends, the heartfelt attempts at moving on—they breathe life into the show. The scene where Hui Wan hides while Ram U speaks aloud in the school is hilarious. Her friends pushing her to reconnect, the senior girl trying hard to befriend her—it all paints a realistic picture of healing. Especially when we learn that senior girl can see Ram U, because she, too, had once stood on the edge.
That moment when Hui Wan’s death is written as suicide—it chills. But then we see the family preparing for her last day, her father learning saxophone, her sister making memories. And her words near the end:
"I don't want to change anything, because it all happened between us. As long as I remember, the truth doesn't change. I will remember you. I will live. Because loving me is loving you."
They never even became a couple. They never had the official "together" moment. But they had love. Real, raw, painful love that shaped them forever. He goes. The colors return. Life moves on. There’s an empty space now, but it’s one she learns to carry, not erase.
Way Back Love doesn’t romanticize death. It doesn’t erase pain or glorify sorrow. It acknowledges grief and says, “Yes, this happened. But so did love.” The acting is phenomenal, the soundtrack weaves seamlessly into emotion, and the writing respects the audience’s intelligence and heart.
It doesn’t end with a happily-ever-after or a tragedy. It ends with life. And that’s what makes it unforgettable. A new beginning, written not in the absence of pain but in its remembrance.
The first episode sets the tone so well: the high school timeline is all golden light, youthful chaos, and bubbling energy, while the adult timeline is cloaked in gray-blue, muted like emotions long buried. Kim Ram U, the quiet, top-of-the-class student, and Jung Hui Wan, the lively, mischievous girl with too much energy, meet in school and change names—a harmless prank that ends up transforming their lives. The way Ram U goes from frustrated to accepting this new name is unexpectedly charming and symbolic. It's not just about a name; it becomes a metaphor for stepping into each other’s shoes, burdens, and fates.
The supporting characters are a joy too: Hui Wan’s best friend Tae Gyeong and Ram U’s best friend Hong Seok add so much flavor to the high school timeline. Their chemistry hints at a possible love line, but more than that, their friendship feels real.
The adult timeline introduces loneliness and pain—Hui Wan is now distant, living a life she doesn’t want, weighed down by guilt. Then comes Ram U, knocking at her door, saying, “Long time no see,” as though nothing has changed. But everything has.
Especially the moment she says, "But you died four years ago," and the scene cuts to her alone, the room empty.
What makes this drama so better is its blend of genres. It’s youth, romance, fantasy, melodrama—seamlessly interwoven. One moment you're laughing at Hui Wan’s chaotic plans to stop Jisoo from confessing, and the next, you're hit with the overwhelming grief of her adult self, still mourning Ram U. Even the flashbacks, like their playful four-person trip, shine with joy before slipping into tragedy. There’s a constant balance of light and shadow, and the transitions are seamless.
Ram U being a grim reaper brings fantasy to the forefront, but not in an overpowering way. He tells Hui Wan she has a week to live and asks her to do ten things from his bucket list—funny, wild, sweet things that he never got to do. Skydiving, manga dates, breaking into school... all tinged with bittersweetness. And as they complete each task, the clock ticks down. There's always this quiet knowledge that they’re racing toward goodbye.
What truly breaks the heart is when reality starts seeping in. He’s not in photos. No one else can see him. And when the guilt hits her full force—thinking she caused his death—it’s devastating.
The fire, the name change, the stargazing trip—all small choices that led to something irreversible. "Just call my name and I'll die," she says. And he, with tears in his eyes, finally confesses: "I liked you and still like you."
It’s not just about Hui Wan and Ram U. It's about everyone around them. The friendship between Hui Wan and Tae Gyeong is genuine, filled with jealousy, love, and unspoken understanding. Ram U’s mother and Hui Wan’s father, once just neighbors, come to share their grief, offering healing without needing words. And Hong Seok—important to Ram U—is given space to process, to break, to grow. The conversation between Hui Wan and Hong Seok is one of the show’s most powerful: two people sharing guilt over the same person, realizing no one really had it easy.
Ram U’s family story adds another layer. A child born from an affair, a mother trying to shield her son from shame, a wife paying child support for a boy she never met—it’s messy, painful, human. And after losing him, Ram U’s mother is left with nothing but memories. When he visits her as a grim reaper and she can’t see him, it’s almost unbearable. But then, she doesn’t need to see to feel. That hug between her and Hui Wan? It broke me.
And still, the show doesn't let you drown in grief. The four-person travel plan, the reunion with old friends, the heartfelt attempts at moving on—they breathe life into the show. The scene where Hui Wan hides while Ram U speaks aloud in the school is hilarious. Her friends pushing her to reconnect, the senior girl trying hard to befriend her—it all paints a realistic picture of healing. Especially when we learn that senior girl can see Ram U, because she, too, had once stood on the edge.
That moment when Hui Wan’s death is written as suicide—it chills. But then we see the family preparing for her last day, her father learning saxophone, her sister making memories. And her words near the end:
"I don't want to change anything, because it all happened between us. As long as I remember, the truth doesn't change. I will remember you. I will live. Because loving me is loving you."
They never even became a couple. They never had the official "together" moment. But they had love. Real, raw, painful love that shaped them forever. He goes. The colors return. Life moves on. There’s an empty space now, but it’s one she learns to carry, not erase.
Way Back Love doesn’t romanticize death. It doesn’t erase pain or glorify sorrow. It acknowledges grief and says, “Yes, this happened. But so did love.” The acting is phenomenal, the soundtrack weaves seamlessly into emotion, and the writing respects the audience’s intelligence and heart.
It doesn’t end with a happily-ever-after or a tragedy. It ends with life. And that’s what makes it unforgettable. A new beginning, written not in the absence of pain but in its remembrance.
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