What Comes After Love (2024)

가깝고도 먼 (Close, Yet Distant)

The scene that lingers most vividly after watching 사랑 후에 오는 것들 (What Comes After Love)—the one that returns like a half-remembered dream—is of cherry blossoms drifting like snow over a quiet lake in a Tokyo park. It’s where Hong jogs each morning, her solitary rhythm echoing beneath the soft flutter of petals. That park, steeped in memory, becomes a quiet stage for reflection, regret, and the slow, uncertain work of healing.

The drama, based on a collaborative novel by Korean writer Gong Ji-young and Japanese author Hitonari Tsuji, follows two former lovers—Hong (played by Lee Se-young), a Korean editor, and Jungo (played by Kentaro Sakaguchi), a Japanese novelist—who meet again in Seoul years after a painful parting in Japan. As they navigate what remains after love has changed—or perhaps faded—the series gently explores identity, silence, and the fragile ties that endure across time and borders.

The relationship between Korea and Japan has long been marked by both proximity and distance—two nations separated by a narrow sea, yet shaped by a century of shared history and unresolved memory. Wounds from the colonial era lie just beneath the surface, quiet but ever-present, even amid cultural exchange and modern familiarity. What Comes After Love unfolds within this delicate space, tracing a romance not across grand gestures but in small, human moments. The drama resists dramatizing cultural difference and instead listens for it—in pauses, in misread gestures, in the spaces between two languages.

봄, 벚꽃, 그리고 예쁘다 (episode 1 scene)

At the heart of this story is a rare literary collaboration: the original novel was written in two distinct voices, with Gong Ji-young writing from the Korean woman’s perspective and Hitonari Tsuji from the Japanese man’s. More than a narrative device, it becomes a form of narrative diplomacy—a deliberate act of mutual storytelling, where each writer brings emotional truth from within their own cultural lens.

While the drama doesn’t divide the narration so explicitly, it honors that duality through rhythm and framing. Scenes move fluidly between countries, between languages, and between emotions. The viewer is often asked to sit with what’s left unsaid—to feel the weight of a look, the hesitation in a response, the quietness that can only exist between people who once loved each other deeply. This shifting perspective—between Hong’s wary reserve and Jungo’s quiet longing—reveals how differently love can be carried, shaped not just by personality, but by language, memory, and cultural distance.

Threaded through this quiet love story is the presence of a third voice—neither Hong’s nor Jungo’s, but that of the Korean poet 윤동주 (Yun Dong-ju). His poetry collection appears early in the drama, then passed between the two characters, anchoring them in something deeper than shared history or failed romance. The drama never explicitly recounts Yun’s life or death—his imprisonment, likely torture, and untimely passing in a Japanese prison during the colonial period. But it gestures gently toward the loneliness and quiet resistance he carried, and that subtle weight lingers between scenes. 

For Hong, who lives in Japan as a foreigner, Yun’s verses become a mirror: gentle, melancholic, and full of restrained yearning. His poems speak not only to political sorrow, but to the ache of dislocation—the feeling of being adrift in a language not quite your own, in a country that will never fully be home. His poetry, like the drama itself, is soft-spoken but weighty, carrying solitude without bitterness. When Poetry Speaks... Until He Truly Listens

Despite the persistent loneliness that often accompanies life abroad, Hong finds a kind of gentle inclusion at the ramen restaurant where she works part-time in Tokyo. Her Japanese is competent but imperfect—fluent enough to communicate, yet not quite native. Still, that never becomes a barrier. The shop owner warmly invites both Hong and Jungo to his wedding, treating them not as outsiders, but as something like family.

There is none of the distance or unspoken tension that some Koreans might fear or expect—no coldness, no subtle exclusion. Instead, her co-workers treat her like one of their own. They share small jokes and meet her presence with quiet warmth. These understated acts of kindness gather around her like steam rising from a bowl of ramen—gentle, enveloping, and unexpectedly comforting.

Ramen, Romance, and a Little Teasing

Between Ramen and Ramyeon

The Japanese ramen Hong serves and the Korean 라면 (ramyeon) many of us grew up with may look alike at first glance: both are bowls of noodles in broth, both promise comfort. But their flavors, preparation, and emotional textures unfold differently. Korean ramyeon is instant, bold, and fiery—a five-minute burst of heat and satisfaction. The ramen in the Tokyo shop, on the other hand, is slow-cooked and layered, often built around a pork-based broth like tonkotsu, its richness deepened by time.

If you’re anything like me, you might find your favorite lies somewhere in between—not the convenience of instant ramyeon, nor the deep heaviness of pork-based ramen, but a lighter, brinier bowl like 해물라면 (haemul ramyeon), or seafood ramyeon. Spicy, aromatic, and full of ocean flavor, it’s perfect for the days when you crave something that feels both soothing and vibrant.

Click here for a simple haemul ramyeon recipe video.

As with the drama itself, this bowl reflects the blend of contrast and harmony—fiery and delicate, bold and comforting. And in many ways, What Comes After Love leaves us with the same taste: a lingering warmth wrapped in quiet longing. It’s not a story about dramatic resolutions, but about the slow work of speaking honestly, listening deeply, and finding a way—however imperfect—to meet one another in the middle. Sometimes, 화해 (hwahae), or reconciliation, begins not with answers but with the courage to share a table and start the conversation again.

🥢 Bite-sized Korean: Expressions from What Comes After Love

1. 잠수(를) 타다 – To go off the radar / ghost someone

Literal meaning: “to dive”

In the drama, Hong works at a publishing house in Seoul. One of the writers suddenly stops answering calls and emails. Her coworkers say the writer “went 잠수,” a common Korean expression meaning someone has disappeared without notice—just like diving underwater and vanishing from view.

Sample Sentences:

• 요즘 그 작가님 연락이 안 돼요. 또 잠수 탔어요. That writer hasn’t been answering lately. I think they ghosted us again.

• 그 친구는 힘들면 잠수 타는 버릇이 있어. That friend tends to disappear whenever things get tough. 

2. 바지사장 – Figurehead boss / nominal CEO

Literal meaning: “pants CEO”

The official head of the publishing company is Hong’s father, but he admits that Hong runs the business. A “바지사장” is someone who holds the title of CEO but has no real power—like wearing the pants but not making the decisions.

Sample Sentences:

• 우리 가게 사장님은 바지사장이래. Our shop’s boss is just a figurehead.

• 저 분은 그냥 바지사장이고 진짜 결정은 이사님이 다 해. That person is just the norminal CEO; the real decisions are made by the director.
  

3. 폭풍 공감(하다) – To totally relate / strongly empathize

Literal meaning: “a storm of empathy”

This expression is used when someone deeply connects with another person’s feelings—especially during emotional or honest conversations. In the drama, characters often respond this way to each other’s confessions of regret or longing. It conveys the feeling of being suddenly swept up in strong empathy, like a wave.

Sample Sentences:

• 그 장면에서 나 진짜 폭풍 공감했잖아. I seriously related to that scene so much.

• 어제 내 친구 이야기를 듣고 폭풍 공감했다. I totally empathized with what my friend said yesterday.