Our Beloved Summer, The K-Drama That Feels Like Real Life (2021–2022)
If you ask Koreans which romance drama from the early 2020s feels closest to “real” young adulthood, many of us will quietly answer: Our Beloved Summer. This 2021–2022 SBS/Netflix drama starring Choi Woo‑shik and Kim Da‑mi did not start with explosive ratings or flashy marketing. Yet, step by step, it became that word‑of‑mouth hit everyone recommended to their closest friends, not just as “another K‑drama,” but as something achingly familiar.
Our Beloved Summer matters because it captures a very specific Korean time and mood: the generation that grew up with school documentary cameras, pressure to get into good universities, unstable creative careers, and relationships that drift apart not because of dramatic betrayal, but because life quietly pulls people in different directions. When Koreans watch Choi Ung and Kook Yeon‑su bicker in a hot classroom, or sit awkwardly across from each other years later, we see our own high‑school memories, our first love we unfollowed on Instagram but never truly erased.
Set against the gentle rhythms of seasons, the drama uses summer not as a cliché backdrop, but as an emotional cycle: the lazy heat of teenage days, the suffocating warmth of unresolved feelings, and the bittersweet brightness of second chances. Koreans often joke that Our Beloved Summer is “the drama you regret watching at 1 a.m. because suddenly you’re texting your ex,” but underneath the jokes is a recognition that the show understands the way we process love, pride, and regret in our 20s and 30s.
From a Korean perspective, Our Beloved Summer is also interesting because it blends the aesthetics of indie film, the pacing of slice‑of‑life webtoons, and the emotional directness of modern Korean romance. It’s not trying to be a global blockbuster; it’s trying to be honest. And that honesty is exactly why the keyword “Our Beloved Summer” keeps resurfacing in Korean online communities, on TikTok edits, and in OST playlists long after the final episode aired in January 2022.
Snapshot Of Our Beloved Summer: What Makes It Stand Out
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Documentary‑within‑a‑drama structure
Our Beloved Summer is built around a high‑school documentary that goes unexpectedly viral, then gets a reboot ten years later. This device lets the drama show how people present themselves on camera versus who they really are, a contrast Koreans feel deeply in our hyper‑social‑media society. -
Painfully realistic ex‑lovers
Choi Ung and Kook Yeon‑su are not idealized drama leads. They’re petty, stubborn, and often bad at communicating—exactly how many Korean couples describe their real breakups. Their reunion feels less like fantasy and more like emotional archaeology. -
Quiet but strong ratings growth
In Korea, the drama started with single‑digit viewership on SBS but steadily climbed as word‑of‑mouth spread. On Netflix, it entered Top 10 lists in multiple countries, proving that its low‑key, realistic tone could still travel globally. -
OST that became its own phenomenon
The Our Beloved Summer OST, especially V (BTS)’s Christmas Tree and 10cm’s Drawer, dominated Korean streaming charts. Many Koreans first discovered the drama through the OST, then stayed for the story. -
Visually like a Korean indie film
The use of warm color grading, handheld camera moments, and everyday Seoul locations (small alleys, local cafes, art studios) gives Our Beloved Summer a cinematic, yet familiar look. To Korean viewers, it feels like our own neighborhoods, not polished drama sets. -
Nuanced portrayal of careers and class
Yeon‑su’s poverty, Ung’s unexpected success as an artist, and Ji‑ung’s burnout as a PD reflect real Korean anxieties about inequality, creative careers, and emotional labor at work. -
A rare second‑chance romance that doesn’t cheat the pain
The drama doesn’t rush reconciliation. It forces both leads to confront why they broke up, and that honesty is why Koreans still quote its lines in relationship advice posts.
How Our Beloved Summer Reflects Modern Korea: Context, History, And New Trends
From a Korean lens, Our Beloved Summer is almost like a time capsule of the late 2010s and early 2020s. It aired on SBS from December 6, 2021, to January 25, 2022, and was simultaneously released globally on Netflix. But its story actually begins earlier, with the popularity of school documentaries and webtoon‑style storytelling in Korea.
In the 2000s and 2010s, Korean TV often produced “school life” reality programs where one or two students became unexpected stars. Many of us grew up watching awkward teenagers being filmed in class, then later seeing them again on variety shows. Our Beloved Summer takes that real cultural memory and asks: what happens if two of those kids had a messy breakup and are forced to face each other again because of a documentary reboot?
The drama’s writer, Lee Na‑eun, and director, Kim Yoon‑jin, drew heavily from this documentary trend, but softened it with the aesthetics of webtoon‑based dramas that dominated the late 2010s. In Korea, many viewers compared its tone to youth dramas like At Eighteen and indie films such as Architecture 101. Yet, unlike many youth shows that focus on entrance exams or bullying, Our Beloved Summer focuses on emotional scars that follow people into adulthood.
You can see this Korean context in how local media covered the show. Outlets like SBS and Korea Economic Daily emphasized its “realistic romance” and “documentary style,” while global platforms like Netflix Newsroom framed it as a “healing romance.” Korean reviewers on Daum and Namu.wiki often mentioned how specific lines felt “too real,” like arguments they had actually lived through.
In terms of numbers, Our Beloved Summer averaged around 4–5% nationwide viewership on SBS, which is solid but not spectacular by traditional standards. However, its real power was in digital performance. On Netflix, it consistently appeared in the Top 10 TV shows in countries like Korea, the Philippines, Indonesia, and parts of Latin America during its run, and the OST racked up tens of millions of streams across platforms. According to Korean music charts, V’s Christmas Tree topped Bugs and Genie and ranked high on Melon in late December 2021 and January 2022, making it one of the most‑streamed drama OST tracks of that winter.
In the last 30–90 days, there has been a small but noticeable “Our Beloved Summer revival” in Korean and global fandom spaces. On TikTok and Instagram Reels, clips of the rain scene, the rooftop argument, and the final episode’s monologue have been trending again, often paired with captions like “the most realistic K‑drama breakup” or “if you’ve ever dated your opposite, watch this.” Korean communities on DC Inside and Theqoo periodically bring up the drama when discussing “non‑toxic romances” or “dramas that aged well after COVID.”
Another recent trend is the re‑evaluation of Choi Woo‑shik’s and Kim Da‑mi’s performances. After their subsequent projects (like Choi Woo‑shik’s variety appearances and Kim Da‑mi’s film roles), many Korean viewers revisit Our Beloved Summer to appreciate how their chemistry feels more like a long‑term couple than a typical K‑drama pairing. Discussions on DC Inside galleries often highlight small gestures—like how Yeon‑su unconsciously straightens Ung’s shirt, or how Ung’s eyes follow Yeon‑su in crowded scenes—as examples of “acting that feels like a documentary, not a script.”
From a broader cultural perspective, Our Beloved Summer arrived in the second pandemic winter in Korea, when many young people were reconsidering their careers, relationships, and priorities. The drama’s focus on burnout (Ji‑ung), quiet depression (Ung), and financial stress (Yeon‑su) resonated strongly. Even now, Korean essays and blog posts use screenshots from the drama when talking about “emotional fatigue in your 20s and 30s” or “why we ghost people we love.”
In short, the history and context around Our Beloved Summer show why this keyword has lasting power: it’s not just a romance; it’s a mirror of a specific Korean generation navigating love, work, and self‑worth under constant observation—by cameras, by social media, and by their own harsh inner critics.
Inside The Story Of Our Beloved Summer: Plot, Characters, And Emotional Architecture
Our Beloved Summer follows Choi Ung (Choi Woo‑shik), a seemingly aimless illustrator, and Kook Yeon‑su (Kim Da‑mi), a fiercely ambitious PR professional, who were once high‑school classmates forced to participate in a documentary. Ung was the lowest‑ranked student, Yeon‑su the top. Their bickering dynamic made the documentary unexpectedly popular. They eventually started dating, spent five intense years together, and then broke up so badly that they promised never to see each other again.
The drama opens ten years after high school. The old documentary suddenly goes viral again, and the production team, led by their former classmate and now PD Kim Ji‑ung (Kim Sung‑cheol), wants to film a follow‑up. Yeon‑su and Ung are dragged back in front of the camera, pretending to be fine while obviously still wounded. This documentary‑within‑the‑drama structure is crucial: it allows the story to jump between past and present, showing how their perspectives on the same moments differ.
From a Korean viewer’s perspective, the high‑school scenes are painfully accurate: the heat in the classroom, the obsession with rankings, the way teachers treat top students as “assets” and bottom students as “problems.” Yeon‑su’s pride in her grades is not just personal; it’s her survival strategy as a girl from a poor background. Many Koreans recognized her as the “jaebeol‑like poor student”: someone who acts cold and arrogant because she has nothing else but grades to protect her future.
Ung, meanwhile, embodies a type of Korean youth that has become more visible in recent years: the seemingly directionless young person who is actually deeply sensitive and observant. His talent for illustration is discovered almost by accident, and his success as the mysterious artist “Ko‑o” reflects a shift in Korean society, where non‑traditional careers in art and content creation are both romanticized and misunderstood. Koreans watching Ung’s parents run a small restaurant, quietly supporting him, will recognize thousands of real families who measure success not in status, but in whether their child can live without regret.
The supporting characters deepen this emotional architecture. Ji‑ung, the documentary PD, is the classic “third lead” in K‑drama terms, but written with unusual compassion. He’s in love with Yeon‑su, but his real battle is with loneliness and burnout. His scenes about filming other people’s lives while neglecting his own resonate strongly in Korea’s overworked content industry. NJ (Roh Jeong‑eui), the top idol who develops a crush on Ung, could have been a cliché, but Our Beloved Summer portrays her as a lonely young woman trying to figure out what she actually likes, beyond the persona built for her.
Plot‑wise, Our Beloved Summer is deliberately slow. There are no chaebol conspiracies, no life‑threatening illnesses, no last‑minute airport chases. Instead, the drama focuses on small, emotionally loaded moments: Ung waiting in the rain, Yeon‑su standing outside his house, Ji‑ung watching them through the camera lens. For Korean viewers used to high‑concept plots, this slowness felt refreshing, almost like watching an independent film stretched into a series.
The emotional core of the plot is the question: why did Yeon‑su and Ung really break up? At first, it seems like Yeon‑su simply grew tired of their relationship. Later, we learn she was crushed by financial pressure, her grandmother’s health, and her own belief that love is a luxury she can’t afford. This is a deeply Korean conflict: the idea that dating, marriage, and happiness are secondary to survival, especially for those from less privileged backgrounds. Ung, hurt and confused, internalizes the breakup as rejection, leading to years of quiet depression masked as laziness.
When they finally confront their past, Our Beloved Summer avoids easy answers. The drama doesn’t pretend love solves class differences or mental health issues. Instead, it shows two people choosing to be honest, apologize, and try again, fully aware of each other’s flaws. This is why the ending, where they film a new documentary as a couple, feels earned: it’s not a fairy‑tale “happily ever after,” but a decision to keep showing up, even when the cameras are off.
For global viewers, the plot might seem simple, but from a Korean perspective, it’s layered with unspoken cultural rules about pride, family duty, and emotional restraint. That subtlety is what makes Our Beloved Summer linger in memory long after you finish the final episode.
What Only Koreans Notice In Our Beloved Summer: Nuances, Codes, And Behind-The-Scenes Layers
Watching Our Beloved Summer as a Korean feels different from watching it with subtitles. There are small details, linguistic choices, and cultural codes that global fans often sense emotionally but may not fully decode.
First, the way Yeon‑su speaks is very specific. She uses polite but blunt language, often dropping honorific softness even with seniors when she’s stressed. In Korea, this signals someone who has had to fight for everything. Her speech pattern is not “rude” in a cartoonish way; it’s the survival tone of a young woman who grew up without a safety net. When she snaps at colleagues or clients, Korean viewers hear years of suppressed anxiety behind it.
Ung’s speech, by contrast, is unusually gentle and slightly childish for his age. He uses casual banmal with Yeon‑su that is soft, almost hesitant. This contrast in their language reflects a very Korean couple dynamic: the emotionally guarded, practical partner and the seemingly immature but deeply loyal one. Many Korean couples online joked, “I’m the Yeon‑su in my relationship” or “I finally understand my Ung‑type boyfriend.”
The depiction of poverty is also coded in ways Koreans immediately recognize. Yeon‑su’s house is not a dramatic slum; it’s an old, slightly cramped home with outdated wallpaper and simple furniture. The way she turns off lights obsessively, double‑checks bills, and refuses small luxuries is exactly how many Korean students from low‑income families behave. The drama never makes her poverty “pretty,” and that realism earned a lot of respect domestically.
Another nuance is the portrayal of work culture. Ji‑ung’s exhaustion as a PD—sleeping in the editing room, eating convenience store food, constantly being on call—is standard in Korean broadcasting. When he says lines about “filming other people’s lives while mine is empty,” Korean viewers hear the voices of countless overworked staff behind our entertainment industry. It’s a quiet critique that people inside the industry especially appreciated.
There are also insider references in the way NJ is written. Her idol schedules, fan interactions, and the pressure to maintain a perfect image while privately feeling lonely mirror real stories we see in Korean entertainment news. When she visits Ung’s house and just sits there, enjoying the silence, Koreans understand this as a fantasy of “escaping the idol cage,” something many idols have hinted at in interviews.
From a behind‑the‑scenes perspective, Koreans were particularly fascinated by the reunion of Choi Woo‑shik and Kim Da‑mi, who previously worked together on the film The Witch: Part 1. The Subversion. Their completely different dynamic in that dark action movie made their soft, awkward chemistry in Our Beloved Summer even more striking. Korean interviews on SBS and Naver showed how comfortable they were off‑screen, which many fans believe contributed to the naturalistic acting.
The OST’s integration is another culturally specific pleasure. Songs like Christmas Tree and Drawer play in scenes that Koreans immediately associate with seasonal moods: the loneliness of year‑end, the nostalgia of graduation season, the melancholy of humid summer nights. In Korea, these tracks quickly joined “year‑end playlist” and “summer night study playlist” compilations on YouTube, tying the drama emotionally to specific times of year.
Even the food and locations carry meaning. The small restaurant run by Ung’s parents resembles countless family eateries across Korea, often run by couples who sacrificed their own dreams for their children’s education. The way Ung’s parents dote on Yeon‑su, feeding her and worrying about her, reflects a very Korean pattern where parents sometimes love their child’s partner as much as, or even more than, their own child, especially when they see that person is struggling.
Finally, the documentary format itself hits differently for Koreans. Many of us have had school events or classroom projects filmed, then re‑watched years later with embarrassment. The idea that an old, awkward school video could suddenly go viral is both funny and terrifying. Our Beloved Summer turns that specific fear into a narrative engine, and Korean viewers feel the secondhand cringe on a personal level.
All these nuances—speech levels, set design, work culture, idol references, family behavior—add up to an experience that, for Koreans, feels less like watching fiction and more like quietly spying on people we might actually know.
Our Beloved Summer’s Place In K-Drama Romance: Comparisons, Impact, And Global Reach
To understand the impact of Our Beloved Summer, it helps to see where it sits among other Korean romance dramas of its era. From a Korean viewpoint, it belongs to a small but influential group of “quiet realistic romances” that contrast sharply with high‑concept hits.
Here’s a simplified comparison from a Korean audience perspective:
| Work / Aspect | Tone & Style | How Our Beloved Summer Differs |
|---|---|---|
| Crash Landing on You | High‑concept, cross‑border, dramatic | Our Beloved Summer is small‑scale, set entirely in everyday Korea, focused on emotional realism rather than political or dramatic stakes. |
| Hometown Cha‑Cha‑Cha | Healing, village‑based, ensemble cast | Our Beloved Summer is more introspective and urban, with sharper focus on internal conflicts and class issues, less on community healing. |
| Nevertheless | Moody campus romance, heavy on physical attraction | Our Beloved Summer portrays a longer timeline relationship, including post‑breakup adulthood, and leans more on emotional growth than on toxic attraction. |
| Reply 1988 | Nostalgic, family‑centered, ensemble youth | Our Beloved Summer shares the slice‑of‑life feel but is more narrowly centered on one couple and their immediate circle, with a modern, post‑SNS sensibility. |
In Korea, viewers often describe Our Beloved Summer as “the romance drama you recommend to someone who says they’re tired of clichés.” It doesn’t rely on chaebol families, childhood fates, or life‑threatening illnesses. Instead, its impact lies in how it normalized a quieter kind of storytelling on a major broadcast channel like SBS.
One measurable impact is in the OST market. Christmas Tree by V charted not only in Korea but also on global charts, bringing BTS’s massive fandom to the drama. On platforms like Melon and Spotify, OST playlists featuring Our Beloved Summer tracks saw sustained streams well beyond the drama’s broadcast period. In Korean streaming culture, this is significant: many dramas have a hit song, but fewer manage to have their entire OST treated as a cohesive “album experience” the way this one did.
Another impact is on the perception of Choi Woo‑shik and Kim Da‑mi as romance leads. Before this, Choi Woo‑shik was best known internationally for Parasite and Train to Busan, not as a romantic lead. In Korea, he was seen as a talented actor, but not necessarily the stereotypical “handsome male lead” type. Our Beloved Summer changed that narrative, showing that a more boy‑next‑door, vulnerable male lead could carry a romance. Similarly, Kim Da‑mi, known for Itaewon Class and The Witch, proved she could lead a softer, emotionally complex romance without losing her edge.
Internationally, the drama’s presence on Netflix gave it a long tail of discovery. In various markets, it quietly climbed into Top 10 lists weeks after premiere, often because of social media clips. On Twitter and TikTok, Korean fans noticed non‑Korean viewers quoting specific Korean lines, like Yeon‑su’s self‑deprecating jokes or Ung’s “let’s not fight today,” which suggests the emotional language crossed cultural barriers.
From an industry perspective, Korean producers and writers have referenced Our Beloved Summer in interviews when discussing “mid‑budget, character‑driven” projects. It’s become a proof‑of‑concept that a romance without huge plot twists can still perform well domestically and globally if the characters feel real. You can see echoes of its style in later works that lean into slice‑of‑life pacing and documentary‑like framing.
The drama also contributed to ongoing global conversations about K‑dramas moving beyond clichés. International reviews on platforms like Rotten Tomatoes and IMDb often mention its relatability and the absence of melodramatic tropes. Korean commentators sometimes joke that Our Beloved Summer is “the drama that makes foreigners realize Koreans break up for boring reasons too: money stress, pride, miscommunication.”
Ultimately, the impact of Our Beloved Summer is less about breaking records and more about shaping taste. It helped make space, both in Korea and abroad, for romances that trust small moments, flawed characters, and realistic timelines—and that influence is still visible in the kinds of projects viewers now ask for and producers are willing to green‑light.
Why Our Beloved Summer Resonates Deeply In Korean Society
Our Beloved Summer matters in Korean culture because it captures several social currents at once: economic anxiety, shifting relationship norms, the pressure of visibility, and the desire for “healing” without sugar‑coating reality.
First, the drama’s treatment of class is unusually honest for a romance. Yeon‑su’s fear that love is a luxury she can’t afford echoes a common sentiment among young Koreans facing housing costs, unstable jobs, and family obligations. In real‑life surveys, many Koreans in their 20s and 30s say they delay or avoid dating and marriage due to financial pressure. Our Beloved Summer doesn’t just mention this; it shows how it quietly poisons intimacy. When Yeon‑su chooses to break up instead of asking Ung for help, Korean viewers recognize the painful pride that often keeps people from leaning on others.
Second, the drama reflects changing attitudes toward careers. Ung’s path as a freelance artist, Ji‑ung’s burnout as a PD, and NJ’s idol fatigue all speak to a generation that doesn’t fully believe in the old promise of stable corporate jobs, yet finds the new creative economy emotionally exhausting. In Korea, where “N‑jobs” (multiple jobs) and content creation have become common, the drama’s portrayal of overwork and emotional emptiness struck a chord. Scenes of Ji‑ung filming late into the night, or Ung aimlessly sketching, are often used in Korean blogs discussing burnout and “emotional labor.”
Third, Our Beloved Summer contributes to the cultural conversation about emotional expression. Traditionally, Korean society has valued stoicism and endurance. Yet, in recent years, there has been a growing acceptance of therapy, mental health discussions, and “healing content.” The drama sits right at this intersection: its characters are not openly going to therapy, but they are learning to name their feelings, apologize, and ask for what they need. Lines like “I was lonely even when I was with you” or “I was scared you’d see how small my world is” are shared in Korean social media as examples of healthier emotional communication.
The documentary motif also speaks to our current “record everything” culture. Koreans live in one of the most wired societies in the world, with high social media usage and constant digital documentation. Our Beloved Summer questions what it means to be recorded: how we perform for cameras, how edited versions of ourselves live online forever, and how those recordings can both preserve and distort our memories. Many Korean viewers related to the discomfort of seeing their younger selves on screen—cringe, nostalgia, and regret mixed together.
The drama’s success also reflects a shift in what Korean audiences seek from romance. Instead of grand fantasy, there is growing appetite for stories that feel like “emotional companionship.” Our Beloved Summer offers that by acknowledging that even when you find the right person, timing, class, and personal wounds can still get in the way. Yet, it also offers hope: people can grow, revisit their choices, and choose each other again.
Finally, the show has become part of Korea’s “seasonal culture.” Just as certain films and dramas are rewatched every winter or every Chuseok, Our Beloved Summer is quietly becoming a “summer nostalgia” staple. Korean streaming platforms see bumps in its viewership during summer vacation and year‑end, when people are more reflective. OST tracks resurface on charts around Christmas and graduation season. The phrase “우리들의 그 해 여름” (our beloved summer) itself is now used in Korean essays and advertisements to evoke youthful nostalgia and second chances.
In this way, Our Beloved Summer is more than a drama; it’s a gentle cultural reference point for a generation of Koreans who are learning to look back at their own “beloved summers” with a mix of regret, gratitude, and newfound kindness toward themselves.
Questions Global Fans Ask About Our Beloved Summer
Why did Our Beloved Summer feel so realistic compared to other K-dramas?
From a Korean perspective, Our Beloved Summer feels realistic because it intentionally avoids the usual “drama logic” and follows something closer to everyday Korean relationship logic. The breakup between Yeon‑su and Ung doesn’t come from a dramatic betrayal or a villain; it grows slowly from money stress, unspoken insecurities, and pride—exactly the reasons many real Korean couples cite in anonymous online posts. The drama also respects time. Their five‑year relationship, the years apart, and the slow, awkward reunion mirror how long it actually takes people here to process first love and heartbreak. Even the fights are realistic: they’re repetitive, petty, and often about small triggers that hide bigger wounds, like Yeon‑su getting angry about Ung’s “laziness” when she’s really terrified of being left behind. The setting also adds realism: instead of luxurious penthouses, we see small restaurants, cramped offices, and ordinary Seoul streets. For Koreans, these are spaces we recognize from our own lives, not fantasy sets. Combined with naturalistic acting and the documentary framing, the drama feels less like a scripted romance and more like watching a couple we might actually know struggle, break, and cautiously try again.
What do Koreans think about Yeon-su’s decision to break up with Ung?
Korean reactions to Yeon‑su’s breakup decision are complex and often divided by personal experience. Some viewers, especially those from more stable backgrounds, initially criticized her for being “too proud” and “unfair” to Ung. They argued that she should have trusted him enough to share her financial struggles instead of unilaterally ending the relationship. However, many Koreans who grew up in poverty or with heavy family responsibilities strongly defended her. They pointed out that in Korea, it’s common for first‑generation college students or breadwinners to feel intense guilt about enjoying romance while their family is struggling. For them, Yeon‑su’s choice to sacrifice love to focus on survival felt painfully familiar. Korean forums are full of posts saying things like “I was Yeon‑su in my 20s” or “I also broke up with someone I loved because I couldn’t afford to date.” Over time, as the drama revealed more of her backstory, public opinion softened. Many Koreans came to see her not as a cold character, but as someone shaped by a system that teaches you to endure alone rather than ask for help—even from the person you love most.
How do Korean viewers interpret Ji-ung’s storyline and ending?
In Korea, Ji‑ung is often described as the “quiet tragedy” of Our Beloved Summer. While international viewers sometimes focus mainly on the love triangle aspect, Korean audiences pay close attention to his depiction as a lonely, overworked PD. His life—successful on the surface but emotionally empty—mirrors the reality of many young professionals in Korea’s media and content industries. When Ji‑ung films Ung and Yeon‑su, Koreans see not just unrequited love, but also the emotional distance created by always being behind the camera, never the subject. His complicated relationship with his mother, who appears and disappears, adds another layer; many Koreans recognize the pain of fragmented families, a topic often downplayed in traditional dramas. As for his ending, where he begins to open up and tentatively build his own life, Korean viewers generally see it as “realistic healing.” He doesn’t get the girl, he doesn’t have a dramatic career change, but he starts to acknowledge his loneliness and accept care from others. On Korean forums, people often say they want “a spin‑off where Ji‑ung finds someone who looks at him the way he looks at his camera,” which shows how deeply his quiet suffering resonated.
Why did the Our Beloved Summer OST become so popular in Korea?
The Our Beloved Summer OST hit especially hard in Korea because it perfectly matched the emotional seasons of Korean life. V’s Christmas Tree was released right before Christmas 2021, a time when Koreans are both festive and reflective. Its gentle melancholy fit the year‑end mood, and BTS’s huge domestic fandom amplified its reach, pushing it to the top of Korean charts like Bugs and Genie. But beyond star power, the overall OST captured the drama’s soft, bittersweet tone. Songs like 10cm’s Drawer and Sam Kim’s Summer Rain sound like tracks you’d hear in a small Hongdae café on a rainy afternoon—instantly familiar to Korean ears. Many Koreans started using these songs as background music for their own vlogs, study streams, and breakup/nostalgia playlists on YouTube and streaming platforms. Because the drama itself is about looking back at youth through a camera, the OST naturally became a soundtrack for people’s real memories. Even now, when these songs play in Korean cafés or convenience stores, people often comment, “This reminds me of that summer with Ung and Yeon‑su,” showing how tightly the music and story are woven into our everyday soundscape.
Is Our Beloved Summer considered a “healing drama” in Korea?
In Korea, Our Beloved Summer is often called a “healing drama,” but with an important nuance: it’s healing not because it avoids pain, but because it acknowledges ordinary pain without exaggeration. Traditional “healing content” here can sometimes feel overly soft or idealized—beautiful scenery, gentle people, simple problems. Our Beloved Summer, however, shows real‑world issues like class gaps, burnout, and emotional avoidance. Korean viewers find it healing precisely because it doesn’t pretend these problems are easily solved. Instead, the drama offers small, believable forms of comfort: Ung’s parents quietly feeding Yeon‑su, friends showing up with food, characters finally saying “I was wrong” without dramatic music. The pacing also contributes to its healing label. Episodes often end not with cliffhangers but with reflective moments, like someone walking home alone or staring at old footage. For Koreans exhausted by fast‑paced, high‑stakes dramas and real‑life stress, this slower rhythm feels like a chance to breathe. So yes, it’s considered healing—but in a grounded, “I feel seen” way rather than a fantasy escape. That balance is why many Koreans rewatch it when they feel emotionally overwhelmed.
How do Koreans feel about the ending of Our Beloved Summer?
Most Korean viewers consider the ending of Our Beloved Summer to be “just right”—neither overly dramatic nor disappointingly vague. The decision to have Ung and Yeon‑su film a new documentary as a couple, this time on their own terms, resonates strongly with Korean audiences who value the idea of “re‑writing your narrative.” Instead of a flashy proposal or wedding scene, we see them working together, negotiating their future, and gently teasing each other. This aligns with a growing preference in Korea for endings that show sustainable relationships rather than one‑time grand gestures. Some viewers initially wished for more explicit closure for side characters like Ji‑ung and NJ, but many also appreciated that the drama resisted the urge to tie every thread neatly. Life in Korea, especially for people in their late 20s and early 30s, rarely offers perfect closure; the ending reflects that uncertainty while still offering hope. On Korean community boards, people often describe the finale as “the kind of ending that makes you want to call someone and say, ‘Let’s try again, but differently this time,’” which captures its emotional impact in everyday terms.
Related Links Collection
SBS Official Site (Korean)
Netflix Newsroom – Our Beloved Summer
Daum Drama Page – Our Beloved Summer (Korean)
Namu.wiki – Our Beloved Summer Entry (Korean)
DC Inside – Our Beloved Summer Discussion Galleries (Korean)