oddsare

I watched it raw on TVer.

I watched it raw on TVer.

Honestly same, the rewatch is the only cure 😭 I catch new little details every time too. The waiting between eps is brutal.

They’ve been together a whole year. No sex. Not even a kiss. And honestly, that’s exactly what makes the story so quietly fascinating. Instead of rushing them through all the usual BL milestones, episode 1 just settles into that “unordinary” space: the shared routines, the movie nights, all the feelings nobody’s saying out loud. With Ichiro’s insecurity bumping up against Kei’s inexperience, the lack of physical intimacy turns into a full‑on emotional pressure cooker. By drama standards, it sounds kind of outrageous (a year and nothing?), but on a human level it feels weirdly familiar, and the show leans right into that gap to ask a real question: who actually gets to decide what counts as a “normal” relationship?

Ep 4 really said “enough with the slow burn” and set Ju Tae-seon and Lee Chae-ha’s whole dynamic on fire 🔥

All that tension they’d been carrying? It finally snapped in the messiest, hottest way. The drunk collision, both of them clearly done pretending they didn’t want this. And then the way Ju’s whole attitude shifts the second Chae-ha breaks? The protectiveness just poured out. I was genuinely not okay.

And then he drops “From now on, don’t trust anyone except me” like it’s casual advice?? Sir. That is not advice. That is a full-on claim.

These two went from circling each other with knives out to straight-up crashing into one another. Shared pain, power games, and way too much heat all exploding in one episode.

I need episode 5 yesterday.

Ep 2 worked for me.

The goofy sound effects are gone, and yes, we still get the “oops we fell and now we’re staring” trope, but this time it felt fine. Once I expected a historical BL that still uses classic BL moments, it clicked better.

A few days after the finale, and I still can’t shake it. I need to write something about the political parallels in this show. They are just too obvious to ignore.

The plot of the last episode is honestly pretty simple. But the way it goes after Thai politics is razor sharp. If you have been keeping up with what has been happening in Thailand, this episode hits hard.

When the prime minister in the show announces a crackdown on anti government protests, my mind immediately went to the 2021 protests in Bangkok during the pandemic. Riot police were deployed. Crowds were dispersed with tear gas, water cannons, and rubber bullets. The whole playbook.

It was intense. There were even monks out there, joining the protests and standing up to the police. I remember Thai actors I follow, like Tay Tawan, reposting footage on their Instagram stories at the time.

Those protests ultimately contributed to the fall of the military backed government, the one that came to power through a coup. In the 2023 general election, that government was decisively defeated, and the Move Forward Party won by a landslide.

But here is the twist. Just like Niran calls out the prime minister in the show, reality did not play out so cleanly. Parties with fewer votes formed alliances out of shared interests. In the end, they dissolved Move Forward. Its leader, Pita Limjaroenrat, was not just blocked from becoming prime minister. He was also banned from politics for ten years.

The 2023 election was a moment. Practically every celebrity showed up to vote and posted about it. I still remember Gemini and Fourth flying back to Thailand right after an event in Taiwan just to cast their votes. There was even an actor who got dragged on X because their car broke down on the way and they missed it.

A lot of younger actors were rooting for the orange party, some openly and some more quietly. They wanted parliamentary reform. And that overwhelming vote share came largely from young voters.

When Pita was blocked from becoming prime minister because of the military aligned Senate, people were furious. So furious that even Our Skyy2 slipped in a jab about it in the My School President segment. That is how quickly it made its way into pop culture. You could feel how fed up everyone was.

More recently, ahead of the Bangkok gubernatorial election, GMMTV released announcements about which artists would not be able to vote, likely to get ahead of backlash online.

So when the prime minister in the show lamented stepping down after just two years and said he never got to accomplish what he wanted, my first reaction was simple. Two years. That is a solid run for a Thai prime minister.

Since 2023, they have not lasted long at all. The 38th prime minister, Srettha Thavisin, served 358 days. The 39th, Paetongtarn, lasted one year and thirteen days. The current prime minister, Anutin, took office in September 2025 and has not even reached a full year.

In between, acting prime ministers served for two days or sixty six days. So yes, two years would actually be impressive.

The most ironic moment came when Trump imposed tariffs and sent a letter to Thailand’s prime minister. At that exact time, the person in office was Suriya, who was only serving briefly as an interim leader.

Since 2023, Thai politics has essentially been defined by constant leadership changes. The core issue is that no party can secure a majority, which leads to coalition governments held together by negotiation and compromise. Even Anutin’s administration is the result of careful political maneuvering.

Some international observers have pointed out that this constant turnover, combined with conflicting party interests, makes consistent policymaking nearly impossible. Policies get revised, stalled, or abandoned altogether. The result is a political and economic system that feels stuck.

And honestly, that is exactly why the writers built the prime minister’s character the way they did in the finale.

Just finished episode 8, and wow, okay, here’s what stuck with me the most:

1. The skit those 11th graders put on? So creative. Genuinely impressed.

2. That moment where Augar “gently sets Ko001 straight” completely got me. Turns out Augar actually had a crush on Ko001 back in middle school, and then the feelings faded pretty fast. The whole conversation is so wholesome, because honestly? There’s nothing shameful about having liked someone. Some crushes are just a spur-of-the-moment spark, and actually spending time around the person tells you everything you need to know. And you know how they say the bystander sees clearest? As Ko001’s best friend, Augar can tell that even though Ko001 is hopelessly slow on the uptake when it comes to romance, it’s totally obvious that Ko001 and Ko002 are into each other.

3. And that inner monologue when Ko002 invites Ko001 over to his room to play video games? Oh my gosh, our boy got brave. Look at him go.

So it turns out the “Fusamoto” station in episode 2 isn’t actually made up for the series. They took a real rural station and just put up a custom sign for the show. Everything matches: the blue wall, the wooden beams, the little round light above the sign, the four dark chairs lined up underneath, even the exact “Fusamoto / momo / Nishihata / Saniku Gakuin University / Kugahara” sign. It’s clearly the same building.

So if you ever want to, you can actually go see it in real life.

https://maps.app.goo.gl/WF4R1UvM4cYPUV8t7?g_st=ic

A lot of the shots in episode 2 are really pretty too, very much in that Japanese art-house film style. The color grading is nicely done as well, none of that awful jaundiced yellow tint you sometimes get.

Lmao he really is a leg guy, you’re not imagining it. The way they frame Phatsa’s calves and then have Nakhun basically sniffing him like that feels very “p’ Sorn lives rent‑free in our heads” energy. I also like that they’re using it to show how intense the pheromones / scent control is between alpha and omega, it feels closer to a lot of omegaverse books than the earlier Thai takes. And if they keep leaning into the omegaverse logic, I’m fully expecting some very intentional thigh closeups in future episodes too.

Yes, exactly this. The fantasy thriller stuff is great but let’s be real, the relationship is why we’re all here. And honestly same, I did not expect GMMTV to give us this much in something that isn’t even labeled a romance. They’ve done bromances before but none of them hit like HSF and Wu. It really is just the SkyNani magic, there’s no other explanation.

The whole leaving us to find the crumbs thing kills me too, especially because they make it so easy. They hand over the cutest moments like it’s nothing and then we’re the ones losing it for weeks.

And yeah, the chemistry has genuinely ruined me a little. I’d be happy to just stay high on it forever. Keep them working together in different genres and I will gladly never recover. 🤍

Okay, so the very first thing episode one does is a close-up on Phatsa’s calves and heels, and my mind immediately jumped to that scene in My Stubborn where Sorn lifts Jun’s legs up in the air. And then, we cut to Nakhun’s imagination sequence where he’s basically sniffing Phatsa’s calf like a man possessed. OMG. He’s totally a leg guy. The leg thing is real.

Of course there’s a part two, you absolute legend. 😭 Be safe out there tomorrow though, for real, get back to the hotel in one piece. Love you. 🤍

BESTIE you SURVIVED?? Barely, by the sound of it. 💀 Screaming the hall down on behalf of all of us, including me, stuck at home refreshing for updates like a madwoman. One blonde let loose at an Asian premiere is a genuine public safety event and I am SO proud. Go get your drinks, then DM me and spill literally everything.

Wu is the exact reason I refuse to write “reviews” on MDL.

Because apparently I’m supposed to crush all of this down into a number. A single number. As if “10/10” could ever capture the very specific emotional chaos of watching SkyNani breathe in the same frame. It can’t. It tries its little heart out. It flops.

Let’s just say it: even a perfect score doesn’t begin to explain how a non-BL drama strolls in and serves more convincing chemistry than 99% of actual BLs. At this point the “non-BL” label isn’t genre classification, it’s straight-up denial.

And then there’s Wu itself.

Sure, you can watch it as a fantasy exorcism story. Demons, rituals, all the genre boxes checked. Feeling fancy? You can read it as political satire too, because that finale alone has enough subtext to keep analysis threads breathing for weeks.

But peel all that off and what’s left is honestly kind of embarrassing to ignore:

These two are soulmates.

Not in a cute “interpret it your own way” sort of way.

Not in a “they’re just really close, bro” sort of way.

Nope.

The narrative literally builds them as two halves of the same axis, orbiting, crashing, and basically defining each other’s entire existence.

So go ahead, watch Wu for the lore, or the symbolism, or the politics.

I watched it for the relationship.

And no rating system on Earth is built to handle that.

Deep In, 入戲 (rù xì).

The title is already an argument. Before a single scene plays, it tells you this is going to be a story about people who step so far into a role that they lose track of where the role ends and they begin.

入戲 looks simple on the surface. It means to enter the drama, that moment when an actor stops watching the story from the outside and finally lets himself walk into it. But this adaptation never lets the word stay technical. 入戲 becomes its way of describing people who cross lines they were never meant to cross, then stay on the far side long enough that “acting” no longer feels like an honest word for what they are doing.

The English title sharpens that. Deep In is not enter the drama and leave when the director calls cut. It is sinking, staying under, being held there. Deep in the role. Deep in the story. Deep in someone else’s world. There is something almost airless about the phrase, a buried promise that what you are watching is not just immersion but entanglement, the kind nobody walks away from clean.

The shape of the source novel is what makes that double title feel deliberate. There is the actor line on the outside and the doctor and patient line folded inside the film they are shooting. Zhen Xin and Zhang Zhun are supposed to be professionals. They share a space, study scripts, watch films together, rehearse intimacy because the job asks for it. On paper they are two actors entering a project. In the texture of the show, every step closer reads as another layer of 入戲. They are not only entering the drama they are paid to perform. They are entering each other, mostly without naming it, sometimes without admitting it even to themselves.

Zhen Xin’s name does a lot of quiet work here. 甄心 (Zhēn Xīn) sits right next to 真心 (zhēn xīn), true heart, close enough that you cannot unhear it. Early on he plays like a man standing above the situation. He has status, craft, a cool kind of clarity. He can afford to study Zhang Zhun from a distance, test him, weigh how much effort he is worth. Those first episodes slowly rewrite the name into a question. Will this man ever let his true heart surface, or is all of it controlled performance. By the end of the early run it is hard to keep calling it pretending. The attention he pays Zhang Zhun has stopped being about landing a better take. It has become something closer to actual care, actual investment. The title promised 入戲. His name confirms he has gone past the safe version of it.

Inside the film within the film, 入戲 gets considerably darker. Fang Zhi is a psychologist, and that role arrives with its own architecture of boundaries. He is supposed to hold a space that is structured and ethical and safe, especially for someone like Gao Zhun, whose history is full of trauma and violated consent. In that world the line between doctor and patient is not up for negotiation. So when Fang Zhi starts to forget it, the show refuses to frame it as a minor slip. It makes his choices the pressure point the whole story turns on.

He does not simply fall in love. He lets his professional position bleed into something else, something laced with desire and control and a need to matter to this person in a way that has stopped being therapeutic. A space meant for repair becomes a place where old wounds and new attachments keep overlapping. That is its own kind of 入戲. The doctor enters the patient’s world too far, and instead of holding him at a careful distance, he starts living inside that vulnerability with him. The series does not file this neatly under romance, and it does not file it neatly under abuse either. It leaves you in a more uncomfortable middle, in the overlap, where care and overreach are running at the same time.

That discomfort is where the story turns quietly postmodern. The usual anchors start slipping. The doctor is not a stable figure of authority. The actor is not just a worker executing a script. The pairs that normally keep a narrative legible stop behaving like clean opposites and begin folding into one another: professional against personal, ethical against unethical, performance against reality. Fang Zhi is healer and transgressor at once. Zhen Xin is calculating star and someone who has plainly, genuinely started to care. The film inside the film is both fiction and mirror, and the mirror keeps rearranging the lives of the men holding it up.

Which is what makes Deep In such an exact English name. Everyone here is in too far. The actors are in too far with their roles and with each other. The doctor is in too far with his patient. The boundaries that are supposed to keep people safe come apart: between work and feeling, between ethics and desire, between the story and the life. 入戲 carries the ordinary meaning of stepping into a role. This adaptation reaches for the more unsettling half of it, the part that asks what happens when no one can quite remember the way back out.

Thanks 😊

Past tragedies and the weight of his own guilt have pushed Sun into a kind of dissociative state, leaving him emotionally blank. As Jay points out, he doesn’t cry, doesn’t push back, doesn’t even lash out; he just seems dulled.

Because he feels so little, even the idea that Jay could be Arthur, the man he has been searching for, doesn’t quite register as believable. He can’t bring himself to accept that things might finally be straightforward, or that he could be lucky for once. In his mind, his life has always been like that of a boxing sparring partner, there to quietly absorb one hit after another.

Episode 5, to me, really comes down to one sentence: a boy raised his whole life to walk toward God actually falls for someone, and the ground starts to tip.

One. From light to shadow: a love that grows in the corners

The beginning is genuinely bright.

The laundry scene kills me. They wring out a sheet together, hang it up, and suddenly there’s a white wall of fabric. They slip behind it and kiss; all we see is shadow. The shot is clean, still, secretly romantic. Love sprouts behind the sheet first, not under the sun.

Then come the notes and the music.
“I want to hear you sing every day.”
“Which note is your favorite?”
“You’re my most beautiful note.”

In the dorm they edge closer during the movie. In the music room they play the organ together. A sheep appears in the notebook, and a song called “Tan Kham Wa Rak.” He isn’t only singing for God anymore; he’s started singing for a person.

But the light gets shoved into shadow fast.

The waterfall trip that felt like freedom gets brushed off as “boring.” The rosary goes missing and turns up on Barth; Kongdech finds it, and suddenly it looks wrong. In the storage room Barth says he’s tired of hiding, a shadow flickers past the door, and they bolt. When someone comes in, they fold into the corner; he clutches the rosary, terror written all over his face.

Same campus, same closeness, but the air shifts from open to “ready to disappear at any moment.”

Two. Water and fire: pushing his head underwater, then burning the memories himself
Water keeps changing shape.

The waterfall is freedom, where the rules don’t quite reach. The laundry is everyday water, carrying his mother’s memory.

After the priest crosses his path in the hallway, he’s in a cold sweat. Then he goes to the big washroom and drives his head under the tap. It’s not washing anymore. It’s punishment: get a grip, you’re not supposed to feel this.

Later, lying in bed after evening study, he remembers Barth’s doodles and notes are still in that notebook, and panic hits. He runs to the office in the dark and digs out every slip of paper, every page.

He takes a lighter to the abandoned pool, the same one that used to be full of water: the place he and Barth once spent a night. Now the empty basin becomes a stage for fire, and he burns the paper one sheet at a time.

Water used to hold them up. Fire eats their words. He thinks burning it severs the cord; I think it tattoos him instead. No matter how he tries to deny it later, he’ll remember standing in that exact spot, trying to end things while the firelight swallowed every trace of “I love you.”

Three. Rosary, notebook, notes: everyday tools of faith touched by love

Small ordinary objects keep getting tangled with love.

The rosary is supposed to be his line to faith, the one around his neck. It ends up on Barth. Kongdech picks it up and says, “For a second I didn’t know who to give it back to.” It’s funny and a little brutal: when one religious object fits on two people, you already know there’s something between them.

The notebook is for homework and theology, and now it’s holding a sheep, a melody, a folded note in the seam. The moment it’s about to be collected for the priest’s comments, the notebook turns into “an intimate file an authority might open.” No wonder he can’t lie still.

The notes start out tucked into his locker, the scripture, the notebook folds, little things like “sing every day” and “most beautiful note.” In the end he gathers them all, drags them to the bottom of the pool, and burns them together.

I love this choice. Love doesn’t only live in kisses and big speeches; it seeps into the rosary, the notebook, the paper, objects that were supposed to belong to faith and routine. He tries to hide the love, and instead he leaves fingerprints on everything.

Four. The gaze and the confession: scared of being seen, brave enough to say it

The whole episode wrestles with being seen.

The sheet-shadow kiss is staged for us, and feels like a hint: in God’s line of sight, love never really hides. Then there are the friends. The missing rosary. The collected notebook. The volunteer scene where he can no longer promise he’ll follow the religious path. When Joe hears “ordained or not, I’ll still come visit you,” his face is pure worry.

The hallway encounter with the priest is even harsher. Nothing explodes, but he’s drenched in sweat, his hand twisting his trousers into a knot. His body gives away the guilt and fear before any words do.

Under that pressure he steps into the confessional and finally says:

“Father, I’ve fallen in love with someone. Even though I know it’s wrong. I tried to stop myself and I couldn’t. I’m furious at myself because I can’t control this feeling. Father, I’m afraid. I’m afraid God will abandon me.”

He lays three things down at once: this is love; he’s been taught it’s wrong; and what terrifies him most is that God might not want him anymore.

The confession isn’t just asking to be forgiven. It’s the first time he lets himself say it inside his faith: I love someone, and it’s tearing me apart.

Five. A straight shot at the breakup: a boy’s question to God

The last conversation is the sharpest cut.

He’s trying to end it. Barth asks, “Have you really never loved me?” He says, “I love you. I love you so much. But what are we supposed to do?”

It’s cruel and honest. He isn’t leaving because he doesn’t love. He loves so much he can’t see any way for that love to survive in this world.

Then Barth says:

“If God teaches us to love, but won’t let us love each other, then what is God even for?”

That’s not calm theology. It’s someone throwing a straight question at the center of his pain. You told me to learn love. I’m loving. You say it can’t be. So what exactly were you teaching me?

I feel split when I hit that line. Part of me thinks he’s incredibly brave, dragging “God” right into the middle of their story. Part of me knows that in real life, people say this and get more silence, more blame, not comfort.

What stays with me: from hiding a love, to putting the whole world on trial for it

These are the Episode 5 details that move me most.

It’s not “two boys have a cute romance.” It’s two boys trying to love inside faith, school rules, and old wounds. For this love he hides, lies, shoves his head under cold water, burns every note in the place they once shared. In the confessional he says: I’ve fallen for someone, I think it’s wrong, I’m scared God doesn’t want me. At the edge of the breakup he says “I love you so much,” and Barth asks, “If that’s how it is, what is a God like that even for?”

What I love about Episode 5 is that it doesn’t keep these questions locked inside them. It says them out loud. It lets the camera sit with them. And when you take all these moments and write them down like this, you’re doing something powerful too: you take a love that spends the whole show hiding in corners, and you walk it out into the light, just long enough for it to be seen properly.

Episode 1 already throws in that “devil” metaphor, and by the time I got to the end, I felt like Jane Patrick is probably going to turn out to be a Fan Xiao–type character from To My Shore. If my hunch is right, we’re in for some full-on possessive love later on, with seriously angsty plot developments.

As a first episode, it totally sold me. I’m absolutely tuning in on time every week.