“Single in Seoul”—A city-lit romance about choosing solitude until love quietly chooses you
Introduction
I didn’t expect a movie about being alone to make me feel so seen—and so not alone. From the first frames of Single in Seoul, I felt the hush of winter air, the clink of coffee cups, and the ache of two people who’ve learned to protect themselves a little too well. Have you ever told yourself you were happier solo, only to be disarmed by someone who understands the exact shape of your quiet? That’s what this film is like: a slow, warming conversation with someone you were sure you’d never let in. Released in theaters on November 29, 2023, it’s directed by Park Beom-soo and stars Lee Dong-wook and Im Soo-jung, and it wears its realism—hesitation, banter, missed signals—like a favorite coat. You watch for the romance, but you stay because it feels like your own life, only softened by the glow of a bookshop window.
Overview
Title: Single in Seoul(싱글 인 서울)
Year: 2023.
Genre: Romance, Romantic Comedy.
Main Cast: Lee Dong-wook, Im Soo-jung, Esom, Jang Hyun-sung, Kim Ji-young, Lee Mi-do, Lee Sang-yi.
Runtime: 103 minutes.
Streaming Platform: Not currently on Netflix, Hulu, Disney+, Viki, or Kocowa in the U.S. (checked November 24, 2025).
Director: Park Beom-soo.
Overall Story
Park Yeong-ho is a celebrated essay instructor and influencer whose brand is built on doing everything alone—walking alone, eating alone, even healing alone. He is charming and articulate on camera, but in the quiet after a live stream he keeps his feelings shelved like books he never opens. Joo Hyun-jin, meanwhile, is a capable publishing editor who seems allergic to silence, filling her days with authors, deadlines, and the hum of an office that never quite sleeps. She believes connection is the point of life, yet her own dating life keeps stalling in the space between intention and courage. When Hyun-jin is tasked with developing a three-volume essay project about single life, she’s pushed to recruit Yeong-ho as the marquee author. Their first meeting crackles with professional politeness and private skepticism, a duel of worldviews played with smiles that don’t reach the eyes.
As their collaboration begins, Hyun-jin’s editorial notes land like gentle provocations: What if being alone is only a habit? What if your audience hears the bravado and misses the fear? Yeong-ho counters in drafts that are razor-clean and emotionally guarded, and in replies that insist solitude is not a wound to be healed. The work brings them into each other’s orbits—coffee shops, book-lined conference rooms, cramped taxis after long nights proofing pages. Slowly, the conversation shifts from copy edits to confession. Have you ever felt this way—terrified that saying what you want will make it disappear? Each page they shape together nudges an invisible door: from withholding to curiosity, from posture to honesty.
The city around them becomes a mirror. Seoul’s rhythm is fast—escalators, subway platforms, endless notifications—and yet the film lingers on the soft in-between: steamed windows, late buses, the relief of a familiar café corner. Hyun-jin’s instinct is to fill silence with plans; Yeong-ho’s is to let silence do the talking. It’s a gorgeous cultural snapshot of a place where one-person households are common and convenience stores glow like lighthouses on every block, but expectations—about careers, marriage, timing—still weigh heavy. The publishing floor is its own microcosm: junior editors who dream of hardcovers, sales teams who speak in preorders and print-runs, authors who need both hand-holding and freedom. Professional stakes rise: this series must sell, and their partnership must look seamless even when their hearts feel anything but.
When an early chapter leaks online and the comments slice into Yeong-ho’s public persona, he doubles down on the “single by choice” posture. Hyun-jin, caught between protecting her author and protecting the book, overcorrects with edits that are too safe. They retreat to their corners, nursing small betrayals that neither one will name. The film is honest about pride: how it masquerades as principles, how it keeps us from asking for what we actually need. A brief reunion with an old acquaintance tilts Yeong-ho back toward the past he’s been rewriting to survive, while a friend’s engagement throws Hyun-jin into the kind of self-audit you do at 2 a.m., phone face down, ceiling unhelpfully blank.
Deadlines have a way of forcing feelings to speak. A pre-release reading event asks Yeong-ho to read a vulnerable passage he hasn’t written yet, and Hyun-jin—voice steady, hands shaking—suggests that maybe the book isn’t about defending singlehood at all but describing it honestly. She opens the door to a different draft, one where solitude isn’t a fortress but a room with windows. In the days that follow, they write and rewrite, cutting slogans and keeping sentences that tremble with truth. The film lets us sit with them in the tiny victories—an honest paragraph, a shared laugh, a look that says I see you even when my words don’t.
Of course there’s a fight. It arrives not as melodrama but as accumulation—the late replies, the assumption that the other should read minds, the way we weaponize our own wounds. Hyun-jin says something too sharp about performative detachment; Yeong-ho says something too cold about romantic naïveté. They part with the worst kind of silence: the kind that feels final. Work suffers, and so does the city; it looks harsher without the warmth of someone’s gaze turning landmarks into memories. Even the fluorescent spill of a convenience store feels unforgiving when you’re replaying what you should have said.
What pulls them back isn’t a grand gesture so much as an act of craft. Yeong-ho delivers a new chapter that finally talks about the first love he’s been editing out of himself, admitting how a distorted memory taught him that distance was safer than desire. Hyun-jin meets that risk with one of her own—an edit that leaves his vulnerable sentences intact, plus a note in the margin that simply says, “Thank you.” In a profession built on changing words, the restraint to leave them alone is its own confession. Have you ever realized someone was choosing you in the way they handled your truth?
The book launch reflects a city of contradictions: people who came for tips on single living but stay to hear about the tenderness it still requires. Yeong-ho reads the passage he once refused to write, and the room shifts—less an audience, more a chorus of private recognitions. Hyun-jin watches, proud and protective, learning that love sometimes looks like stepping back so someone can step forward. Outside, they walk without the pressure to define the moment. Their shoulders relax into something new: not a renunciation of being single, but an acceptance that two strong lives can stand side by side.
In the final movement, the film resists neatness in favor of hope. Contracts end; the book belongs to readers now. But the last pages they share are not in print—they’re in small, ordinary choices: a text first thing in the morning, two cups instead of one, making time in calendars that were once built as fortresses. It’s the romance of adults who have earned their gentleness. And it’s the Seoul of right now: a city where independence is not the enemy of intimacy, just the terrain where it can grow.
Highlight Scenes / Unforgettable Moments
The First Editorial Meeting: Their opening sit-down is all cool professionalism—polite coffee orders, guarded smiles, and the unspoken dare of two philosophies colliding. Yeong-ho pitches a manifesto about the perfection of singlehood; Hyun-jin counters with the messy, human essay she wants to publish. Each line lands like a move on a chessboard, but the camera stays close to their eyes, where the real conversation happens. You can feel them test each other’s boundaries, and you sense why they might one day protect them. It’s not fireworks; it’s flint striking flint.
Notes in the Margin: After a tense round of revisions, Hyun-jin leaves a handwritten note on Yeong-ho’s pages: “Where does it hurt to say this?” It’s such an editor thing to ask—tender and surgical at once. The scene reframes editing as intimacy, a way of touching without touching. Yeong-ho reads, looks away, then reads again; his posture changes, like a window cracked for air. When connection arrives through craft, it sneaks past defenses that romance couldn’t breach directly.
The Quiet Ride Home: Following a work dinner, they share a cab through streets pulsing with neon. No declarations, just streetlights painting their faces as the driver’s radio murmurs. Hyun-jin almost says something; Yeong-ho almost answers. The scene trusts small sounds—the seatbelt click, a soft sigh, a phone turned face down. If you’ve ever stored a memory from a night where “nothing happened,” you’ll recognize how all the color lived here.
The Leak: An early excerpt hits social media stripped of context, and the backlash is swift and performative. Yeong-ho is hurt but hides it in snark; Hyun-jin wants to fix it and overreaches. The film nails the modern grind of public image—drafting statements, bargaining with algorithms, staring at comment counts like heart monitors. It’s not just a plot device; it’s a mirror to anyone whose work is measured in clicks and preorders. Watching them miscommunicate here is painful precisely because they’re both trying to protect the other without saying so.
The Reading That Matters: At a pre-launch event, Yeong-ho freezes at a paragraph that asks him to stop writing around his past. The camera waits; Hyun-jin doesn’t rush in to rescue him. Then he reads. The room stills, and a new current runs between them—respect that tastes like relief. You realize this isn’t a movie about a writer and an editor; it’s about two adults making a safe place for truth to land. The applause after feels less like praise and more like witness.
After the Party: Post–book launch, they step into the cold air where the crowd noise falls away. Their conversation is unadorned: no metaphors, no speeches, just two people acknowledging the ways they’ve changed each other. It’s the anti–grand gesture, and that’s why it’s unforgettable. The city hums, indifferent and beautiful, as they decide to try—slowly, kindly. The camera doesn’t demand a kiss; it believes that choosing tomorrow can be the most romantic thing of all.
Memorable Lines
“I like being alone, but I want to date.” – Poster line that becomes the film’s quiet thesis It sounds flippant at first, like a social caption meant to farm likes, but it lands as a confession. The story keeps testing the balancing act between comfort and connection, asking whether desire has to threaten our hard-won independence. By the time Yeong-ho and Hyun-jin earn their intimacy, this sentence reads less like a contradiction and more like adulthood. It’s the permission slip many modern singles need.
“I’m the only perfect match for myself. Singlehood is the answer.” – Yeong-ho, staking out his brand before the book softens him Heard early, it feels like a slogan; later, like armor he can finally set down. The film shows how easy it is to confuse safety with truth, especially when an audience rewards your certainty. Watching him revise not just a chapter but a worldview becomes the emotional engine of the story. Hyun-jin’s steady editing is the catalyst that makes this line evolve.
“No one is completely alone.” – Hyun-jin, reframing solitude as something with doors and windows Her line isn’t judgmental; it’s invitational. It acknowledges that even the most independent life is woven through with favors, friendships, coworkers, readers. In context, it’s what allows Yeong-ho to admit who he’s been protecting himself from: not other people, but the possibility of loss. The book they make together proves that connection can be co-authored.
“Where does it hurt to say this?” – An editor’s note that doubles as a love language It’s the kind of question you ask when you care more about the person than the product. The line turns the film’s craft setting into its romance setting, equating good editing with good listening. It also marks the turning point where Hyun-jin risks being emotionally present instead of professionally perfect. From here, honesty stops being a threat and starts being a bridge.
“It’s not a manifesto. It’s a map.” – Yeong-ho, finally describing the book they’ve made The shift from certainty to navigation is the film’s gentlest triumph. Rather than arguing for or against single life, their project becomes a guide to living with integrity—alone, together, and the many states in between. The line honors readers who change their minds in the process of reading, and partners who give each other space to do the same. It’s the kind of conclusion you carry into your own relationships.
Why It's Special
Single in Seoul opens like a conversation you’ve been meaning to have with yourself. It’s a city‑bright romance about two people who swear they’re fine alone—until a work project forces them to share pages, coffee, and eventually the same silence. If you’ve ever walked home thinking solitude is your superpower and your soft spot, this movie feels like a hand on your shoulder. Quick note for viewers: as of November 2025 in the United States, you can rent or buy Single in Seoul on Apple TV; it’s streaming on Netflix in South Korea and isn’t currently on Netflix in the U.S. region.
What makes the story instantly relatable is its book‑within‑a‑film premise. A bestselling “loner” influencer and an editor who dreads eating dinner by herself must co‑create an essay series about single life, using words to draw boundaries that slowly, endearingly, fall apart. Their banter is flirty but guarded, the kind that knows how to laugh at modern dating while still aching for a second chance at first love.
Director Park Beom‑soo treats Seoul as more than a backdrop. Cafés glow like confessionals, subways hum like second thoughts, and late‑night streets stretch long enough for a change of mind. The direction is restrained and observant; scenes often hold a beat longer than expected, letting us feel that breath—the half‑step where a person can choose to lean in or walk away.
The writing doesn’t swing for grand speeches; it trusts small admissions. Have you ever felt this way—certain you’re over an old scar, until a familiar scent, a song, or a stray comment reminds you the heart files nothing in the trash? Single in Seoul crafts those moments with a light touch and a realist’s humor, so the emotions land without melodrama.
Tone‑wise, it’s a warm contemporary rom‑com with a mellow indie pulse. The film is playful about “team single” pride yet gentle about loneliness, finding poignancy in quick smiles and awkward goodbyes. That emotional calibration—neither cynical nor sugary—lets the chemistry breathe.
Music deepens the mood without dictating it. The soundtrack blends soft pop and city‑night instrumentals, with cues that feel like late‑evening radio: tender, a little nostalgic, and never pushy. Notably, the OST rollout highlighted tracks tied to the film’s reflective vibe, including cuts that mirror the characters’ long‑exhale transitions from solitude to risk.
Finally, Single in Seoul feels special because it doesn’t punish independence or glorify isolation. It understands that being single can be a meaningful choice—and that intimacy is not a defeat of the self but a discovery. The result is a rom‑com that respects grown‑up boundaries while still believing in the thrill of someone surprising you across a page.
Popularity & Reception
When Single in Seoul opened in Korean theaters on November 29, 2023, it landed at the top of the local box office on day one and went on to post a multi‑million‑dollar run domestically. That performance spoke to an appetite for grounded romance after a year dominated by heavy genre fare.
Critical response at home praised the cast’s lived‑in performances—even when some reviewers found the plotting familiar. Early write‑ups noted how the actors’ timing and small emotional pivots elevate a “city singles” premise into something resonant and kind.
International fandom buzzed before release thanks to teaser posters and coverage in K‑entertainment outlets, spotlighting the opposites‑attract dynamic and the film’s “I like being alone, but I want to date” wink. That early excitement translated into global curiosity once trailers and clips circulated with English subtitles.
As the film rolled out beyond Korea, audiences found it on regional platforms and began logging ratings on aggregator sites. By late 2025, Rotten Tomatoes showed developing audience activity rather than a robust critic consensus—a sign of a title still making its way across markets and streaming catalogs.
Industry watchers also connected the movie’s sensibility to the pedigree behind it: producers associated with modern Korean romance hits, the kind that foreground memory, place, and the fragile courage of reaching out. That lineage helped position Single in Seoul as a comfort‑watch contender among contemporary rom‑coms.
Cast & Fun Facts
Lee Dong‑wook plays Yeong‑ho, the charismatic lecturer and influencer who swears by solitude. He brings an elegant stillness to scenes that could have tilted into snark; the performance reads as someone genuinely soothed by a quiet apartment yet disarmed by the editor who rearranges his books—and his rules. In the pauses between lines, he lets us hear the echo chamber of being alone too long.
In interviews around release, Lee spoke about how Yeong‑ho’s contradictions—self‑possessed but secretly sentimental—felt personally familiar. That alignment shows on screen: the confident public persona cracks not with grand gestures but with the tiniest flickers of doubt, and the character becomes impossible to dismiss as a stereotype of the “proud single.”
Im Soo‑jung is luminous as Hyeon‑jin, an editor who hates being alone and believes stories are meant to be shared. She plays competence without chilliness, turning publishing‑floor squabbles into flirtation classes in disguise. When Hyeon‑jin champions the book’s purpose, you sense a woman refusing to outsource her hope.
Im’s gift here is tonal agility. One minute she’s puncturing Yeong‑ho’s ego with a well‑timed glance; the next, she’s shouldering a memory like a heavy tote bag you pretend isn’t heavy. Her performance honors the everyday heroism of showing up—for work, for friends, for yourself—even when the heart is late to the meeting.
Esom slides in as a bestselling author orbiting the project, and she’s a stealth scene‑stealer. She threads mischief through sincerity, the kind of supporting presence that keeps the leads honest by mirroring what they’re not saying out loud. When she’s on screen, the air feels charged with a “tell me the truth” electricity.
Her character isn’t just color; she’s context. By embodying a writer who understands the market for longing, Esom helps the film ask if our ideas about love are edited to sell or written to heal. It’s a smart, unshowy turn that nudges the romance toward reflection rather than cliché.
Lee Sang‑yi adds warmth and witty counterbalance. He has a knack for being the friend who observes more than he speaks, and when he does speak, it lands. His scenes widen the film’s emotional map beyond the central flirtation, grounding the story in the everyday networks that keep city singles stitched together.
He also provides a quiet foil to the leads’ extremes. Where Yeong‑ho intellectualizes and Hyeon‑jin optimizes, Lee Sang‑yi’s presence suggests the simple grace of being present—of listening, of laughing, of letting a conversation wander until it finds the thing it needed to say.
Behind the camera, director Park Beom‑soo and screenwriter Lee Ji‑min shape a romance that respects both autonomy and attachment. Their collaboration favors lived texture over gimmick: walk‑and‑talks that never feel staged, edits that give space for a half‑smile to change a scene’s meaning, and dialogue that trusts subtext over punch lines.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you’ve ever insisted you’re happier solo but caught yourself hoping someone would ask how your day really went, Single in Seoul will feel like recognition. In the U.S., it’s easy to catch through mainstream streaming services via rental or purchase, and it’s the kind of gentle, city‑lit story worth putting on your Friday night list. And if this movie tempts you to plan a quick escape to Seoul, remember that a little travel insurance and smart use of credit card rewards can turn a daydream into a doable itinerary. Sometimes the bravest thing isn’t falling in love; it’s letting someone see how well you’ve learned to be alone—and why you might be ready for something more.
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