“Soulmate”—A tender, time-spanning friendship that turns first love and first loss into a haunting keepsake
Introduction
Have you ever kept a friend’s note tucked in a wallet long after the ink faded, because the person felt like a compass when you were lost? That’s how Soulmate lands: not as a plot twist machine, but as a diary you forgot you were writing together. I went in expecting a gentle coming‑of‑age; I came out remembering the exact summers, songs, and fights that once taught me what loyalty really costs. As the film follows two girls from middle school to adulthood, it treats friendship like an inheritance you protect even when love, jealousy, and geography chip at it. It’s the rare story that lets small decisions bloom into life‑defining turns, and the performances keep every beat achingly human. Directed by Min Yong‑geun and released in 2023, it’s a modern Korean gem that lingers like salt in the air.
Overview
Title: Soulmate (소울메이트)
Year: 2023
Genre: Drama, Romance, Coming‑of‑Age
Main Cast: Kim Da‑mi, Jeon So‑nee, Byeon Woo‑seok
Runtime: 124 minutes
Streaming Platform: Disney+
Director: Min Yong‑geun
Overall Story
The story begins on Jeju Island in the late 1990s, when transfer student Ahn Mi‑so arrives from Seoul with a bravado that’s equal parts armor and invitation. She meets Go Ha‑eun, quiet and observant, who sketches more than she speaks. Their friendship clicks fast: bike rides beside stone walls, shared headphones, secret codes for boring classes. Mi‑so’s energy dares Ha‑eun to take up more emotional space; Ha‑eun’s steadiness teaches Mi‑so to sit still long enough to be known. Even early on, you feel the film’s thesis: that the people who unmask us become mirrors we can’t replace. The island setting wraps them in sea wind and possibility, a place where growing up feels both wide open and safely small.
High school tests their symmetry. Ha‑eun falls for classmate Ham Jin‑woo, a nice boy with careful eyes, and he naturally orbits their duo. But Jin‑woo is drawn to Mi‑so’s gravity, and the triangle forms without anyone agreeing to its shape. The movie is delicate here: no villains, just three good kids pinned between desire and decency. Mi‑so swears she won’t betray her friend and tries to disappear into after‑school jobs; Ha‑eun plays down her doubts and draws more furiously, as if lines can hold what words can’t. Their laughter is still real, but now it arrives with an aftertaste. What does loyalty look like when honesty might break it?
Graduation fractures their map. Mi‑so bolts for Seoul, chasing a life loud enough to drown out what she won’t confess. She moves through sketchy rooms and odd jobs, inventing herself by trying on versions she can afford. Ha‑eun anchors in Jeju—family obligations, her art, and a “good path” that feels both warm and tight. They keep messaging, then calling, then meeting less and missing more. Soulmate shows the way adulthood quietly edits friendships: not with big speeches, but with postponed visits and unread texts. The girls who once finished each other’s sentences start finishing them differently, and that difference hurts.
Jin‑woo and Ha‑eun, together now, plan a wedding that looks right on paper and blurry in Ha‑eun’s chest. The film doesn’t sensationalize her doubt; it lets indecision breathe—the dress fitting, the guest list, the way a future can feel like someone else’s handwriting. On the day that should define her next chapter, Ha‑eun chooses flight over ceremony. It’s not a triumphal sprint; it’s a human swerve away from a life she can’t inhabit. She is late with another truth too—pregnancy—turning her escape into both exile and beginning. This is where the story threads longing, joy, and fear into the same rope.
Time jumps, and postcards begin. Ha‑eun crisscrosses the world, mailing Mi‑so slices of sky and street markets—proof of motion, proof of thought. The cards read like a traveling apology: I’m gone but not away from you. Mi‑so tapes them to a wall, each stamp a heartbeat that keeps their friendship alive while destiny drafts new contracts. She dates, tries to love lightly, and learns that freedom has a bill. The movie nudges a modern reality here: we buy travel insurance to shield itineraries, but the heart still flies standby. Those cards, lined up in their kitchen light, become a long‑distance home.
When Ha‑eun returns near her due date, the friends fall back into their old choreography—banter, cooking, borrowed sweaters—but with adult stakes. Mi‑so becomes caretaker, coach, and coconspirator, arranging a soft landing where there is no perfect answer about Jin‑woo. The delivery comes too soon and too cruel: Ha‑eun dies giving birth. Soulmate refuses melodrama; grief arrives like a low tide that never recedes. Mi‑so names the baby Ha‑eun, a vow disguised as a detail, and folds motherhood around her own unfinished youth. She chooses to carry both the child and the secret.
In Seoul’s art circles, a different secret grows. Ha‑eun’s paintings—portraits that understand Mi‑so to the bone—are unfinished, and Mi‑so completes one as if tracing a map only she can read. A gallery show follows. The curators praise the gaze in the work, the way it sees the subject with love but without mercy. Mi‑so keeps Ha‑eun’s death from the room, from Jin‑woo, from everyone who didn’t earn it. Not all truths belong to the public record; some only live safely inside the relationship that made them. The film honors that boundary.
Jin‑woo reenters like a memory that hasn’t faded. He visits the exhibit, pauses too long at a portrait that looks like Mi‑so and not at all like her—because it looks like who she can only be in Ha‑eun’s eyes. The two share a coffee that tastes like nearlys and what‑ifs. They circle the topic of the child, the past, the way the three of them once broke and tried not to. Jin‑woo senses a door closed he can’t name; Mi‑so keeps the key, not to punish him, but to protect a promise. The moment lands softly and hurts anyway.
Motherhood steadies Mi‑so. She becomes fluent in schedules, stray socks, and sudden fear; she also learns the relief of asking for help. The film sketches modern care with uncommon tenderness—how friends, neighbors, and even “mental health counseling” can scaffold someone who has to be strong while still learning to be okay. I found myself thinking about online therapy and how it helps people hold both grief and gratitude, especially when the world doesn’t have a name for the family you’ve built. The baby’s laugh turns the apartment’s air warmer; the postcards become bedtime stories.
The finale doesn’t chase a grand reveal. Instead, it sits with Mi‑so by the sea, a toddler tugging at her sleeve, and lets the sun argue for tomorrow. She has curated a life where Ha‑eun’s love is still present tense—in the canvas, the child, the choices to be kind. When she finally decides what to do with the truth about the past, the choice feels less like confession and more like stewardship. Soulmate ends on the understanding that some bonds do not vanish; they change address. It’s not tragedy or triumph; it’s the fragile and resilient middle where most of us live.
Highlight Scenes / Unforgettable Moments
The first meeting in a windstorm: Mi‑so’s transfer day arrives with a gust that rattles classroom windows, and Ha‑eun wordlessly offers her a spare hair tie. The gesture is so small you could miss it, yet the camera lingers as if recognizing a hinge. Their eyes agree on a private language—jokes no one else hears, glances that translate fear into dare. You can feel the island forming a cocoon around them. This is where the idea of “forever” starts, as simple and dangerous as a shared notebook.
Art room at dusk: Ha‑eun sketches Mi‑so as sunlight thins to amber, and Mi‑so tries to hold a pose without fidgeting. The drawing is both likeness and prophecy: a portrait of who Mi‑so is when someone finally sees her without performance. Their banter reveals gentle envy in both directions—Mi‑so wants Ha‑eun’s steadiness; Ha‑eun wants Mi‑so’s fearless tilt. The bell rings, but they don’t leave until the light goes. The film seeds the idea that art, here, is a love letter written in graphite.
The almost‑confession on a rooftop: After a school festival, Jin‑woo’s kindness collides with Mi‑so’s charm, and the sky listens for a truth no one wants to name. Mi‑so swallows her feelings like a dare; Ha‑eun pretends not to notice, then notices everything. The camera keeps distance, as if respecting a boundary the kids don’t yet know how to guard. It’s agonizingly ordinary, which is exactly why it stings. Some heartbreaks don’t make headlines; they just change the weather inside a friendship.
The runaway bride: Ha‑eun’s wedding morning is meticulous—hairpins aligned, dress steamed, makeup immaculate—and then a single breath unravels the plan. She flees not with cinematic speed but with the realism of second thoughts made physical. The choice is messy and honest, and the film lets us sit in that discomfort. When she later reveals her pregnancy, the decision grows new branches of consequence. This is not an endorsement of chaos; it’s a portrait of a woman refusing to betray herself.
Postcards on the wall: Mi‑so’s apartment becomes a cartography of devotion—stamps and scrawls from cities she hasn’t seen except through Ha‑eun’s delight. The montage is pure cinema: ink stains on thumbs, a finger tracing routes from one continent to another, a kettle whistling while memory boils. You realize these cards are how they keep choosing each other, long after proximity fails. When bad news finally arrives, the wall becomes a memorial you can touch.
The gallery hush: Mi‑so unveils the completed portrait that Ha‑eun began, and the room goes quiet in that reverent way only truth can command. Curators talk about brushwork; Mi‑so hears the subtext: someone loved this subject enough to learn her angles by heart. Jin‑woo drifts toward the canvas, caught in recognition he can’t articulate. The absence in the room is loud, but Mi‑so keeps the secret with a tenderness that feels like loyalty more than lie. It’s one of those cinematic scenes where silence is the most fluent dialogue.
Memorable Lines
“Let’s promise—no matter what, we find each other again.” – Mi‑so, sealing a childish vow that adulthood will keep testing The line lands early and becomes the movie’s metronome, ticking under choices that pull them apart. It’s sweet at first, almost naive, and then grows teeth when love and distance intervene. By the end, it reads not as a sentimental oath but as a discipline they practice in letters, looks, and forgiveness. The echo of that promise makes the final scenes feel earned.
“You see the parts of me I pretend not to be.” – Ha‑eun, admitting why the portrait matters more than any selfie This isn’t about romance; it’s about recognition—the kind we crave and fear at once. The admission alters their dynamic, turning everyday gestures into declarations. It also foreshadows why finishing the painting is both an artistic act and an act of care. The line reframes jealousy as a symptom of intimacy.
“If I tell the truth, I lose something. If I don’t, I lose something else.” – Mi‑so, sitting with the cost of every possible future The film respects how adulthood often offers only trade‑offs. Mi‑so isn’t being evasive; she’s being responsible for a history that isn’t hers alone to reveal. The dilemma deepens our empathy for all three leads. It’s a moment that makes you think about boundaries as love’s scaffolding.
“Some homes are people, not places.” – Ha‑eun, writing on a postcard that doubles as a thesis The sentiment makes her traveling feel less like escape and more like searching. It explains why their friendship keeps feeling local, even when oceans intervene. You understand why Mi‑so tapes the card at eye level, where she’ll see it doing dishes or dancing with a toddler. The film turns the line into architecture for the last act.
“I’m brave when you’re looking.” – Mi‑so, confessing the secret engine of her swagger Bravado has always been her costume; validation is the zipper. The moment is tender because it admits dependency without shame. It also lets Ha‑eun receive the compliment as responsibility, not burden. Their mutual shaping becomes the movie’s quiet superpower.
Why It's Special
Soulmate opens like a memory you can step into: two girls meet on windswept Jeju Island and promise to be together forever, only to discover that growing up can pull even the closest hearts apart. If you’re in the United States, you can currently rent or buy Soulmate on Apple TV, Amazon (Prime Video store), Google Play, and Fandango at Home; in some regions it’s also available on Disney+ and on Max depending on local rights. Have you ever felt this way—where a single friendship becomes the map of your youth? That’s the feeling this movie invites you to inhabit.
What makes Soulmate special is how simply it tells a complicated story. The film traces Mi-so and Ha-eun across fourteen years of letters, sketches, missed calls and unexpected reunions. Time slips by softly here; seasons change in the background as the relationship evolves from buoyant girlhood to brittle adulthood. The narrative feels less like plot machinery and more like the way friendships actually live inside us—bright, messy, and always unfinished.
Director Min Yong-keun keeps his camera curious but calm, letting glances and silences do the heavy lifting. He leans on natural light and long takes, drawing you into moments that feel stolen from real life. Night scenes play like whispered confessions; daytime scenes bask in Jeju’s sun, a visual metaphor for the warmth that keeps pulling these two souls back together. It’s patient filmmaking, confident that you’ll notice small shifts in posture or a breath caught in the throat.
Adapted from Derek Tsang’s Chinese film of the same name, Soulmate isn’t a copy—it’s a thoughtful re-interpretation. Min Yong-keun and co-writer Kang Hyun-joo keep the emotional spine intact while reframing key beats and introducing a late revelation that tilts the story’s meaning without turning it into a puzzle box. The result is a coming-of-age drama that honors its source but finds its own voice about longing, loyalty, and identity.
Acting is the movie’s heartbeat. The lead performances meet in a perfect duet: one character is a wildfire, the other a steady flame, and together they burn with a believable, lived-in intimacy. You can feel the history between them in the way they tease, withdraw, and rescue each other—sometimes in a single scene. Have you ever watched a friend become your mirror, showing you the parts you’re afraid to claim? That’s the emotional magic happening here.
Tonally, Soulmate balances tenderness with ache. It’s romantic in the broad sense—romantic about youth, about art, and about the idea that someone out there knows your truest self. Yet it refuses melodrama for melodrama’s sake. Instead, the film builds toward a quiet, devastating catharsis that lingers like salt air on skin. Viewers often come away teary-eyed but strangely hopeful, as if they’ve been granted permission to grieve the versions of themselves they left behind.
The movie’s textures deepen through motifs of drawing and portraiture—one friend sketches the other across years, turning memory into art. That choice isn’t just pretty; it’s thematic. A portrait is both truth and interpretation, and Soulmate keeps asking what we choose to reveal about each other and why. In an age of fast friendships and faster goodbyes, the film’s gentle storytelling feels like a letter we forgot to send, finally opened.
Finally, Jeju itself becomes a character. The island’s breezes, forest trails, and seaside roads give the story an elemental quality—the sense that some connections are older than we are, and braver too. When the film leaves those skies for city life, the contrast is purposeful: we’re meant to feel the weight of distance, and the way ordinary days can hide extraordinary love.
Popularity & Reception
Soulmate arrived in Korean theaters on March 15, 2023, then quietly spread beyond its home shores, including a limited U.S. release on March 24, 2023. Festival programmers quickly took notice; it screened in Busan’s Korean Cinema Today – Panorama strand and later traveled to the London Korean Film Festival, where its painterly storytelling and female-centered gaze resonated strongly with audiences.
Early reviews from Korean outlets praised the film’s devotion to female friendship and the intimate, restrained direction. The Korea Times highlighted how Kim Da-mi and Jeon So-nee anchor the story with performances that argue friendship can be stronger than romance, a reading echoed by many viewers who found the film’s emotional honesty refreshing.
In English-language spaces, response has been warm and conversation-sparking. On Rotten Tomatoes, audience reactions emphasize the movie’s ability to make people cry “in the best way,” while critics have noted the film’s daring final stretch—HanCinema’s review, for instance, wrestles with the unsettling implications of the ending, a testament to how the film invites debate rather than tying everything in a bow.
Awards chatter also followed. Jeon So-nee received special recognition from the Golden Cinematography Awards, and Byeon Woo-seok earned a Best New Actor nomination at the prestigious Grand Bell Awards—honors that underscore how performances drive this film’s staying power.
As the movie moved to digital platforms, new waves of viewers discovered it—especially after Byeon Woo-seok’s 2024 breakout in Lovely Runner sent global fans digging into his earlier work. Streams, rentals, and festival encore screenings helped Soulmate find its people: those who understand that a friendship story can feel as sweeping as any love epic.
Cast & Fun Facts
Kim Da-mi plays Mi-so with the wild grace of someone learning to outrun her own vulnerability. Watch how she weaponizes a laugh, then lets it collapse when no one’s looking; how a motorbike ride becomes both escape and confession. It’s a performance that refuses neat labels—the “free spirit” who still aches for home—and it anchors the film’s shifting time lines with a consistent, beating heart.
Off-screen, Kim Da-mi is no stranger to galvanizing roles, from a breakout turn in The Witch: Part 1. The Subversion to TV hits like Itaewon Class and Our Beloved Summer. That range shows here in the way she ages Mi-so across decades, embodying a girl who grows into a woman while carrying the same stubborn spark. If you loved her on Netflix’s Our Beloved Summer, Soulmate lets you see how she wields stillness as power.
Jeon So-nee gives Ha-eun the kind of interiority that rewards close watching. Her still-life calm hides a tangle of fear and devotion, and when she draws, you understand that art is how she speaks the feelings she can’t say aloud. Jeon makes every careful gesture matter, from the way she holds a pencil to how she looks at her friend when she thinks no one is paying attention.
Jeon comes from indie roots and has been steadily building a reputation through projects like Encounter, When My Love Blooms, and Our Blooming Youth. That background in character-first storytelling suits Soulmate perfectly; you can feel her commitment to nuance in scenes that might have tipped into cliché with a less precise actor. It’s the kind of work that wins juries and fans alike.
Byeon Woo-seok plays Jin-woo, the charming complication who wanders into a friendship and accidentally redraws its borders. He never plays the spoiler as a villain; instead, he’s heartbreakingly human—an earnest young man whose choices have consequences he doesn’t fully understand. The softness he brings to Jin-woo makes the story messier and more real.
For many international fans who discovered him later through Lovely Runner, Soulmate has become an essential early showcase. His performance here led to a Grand Bell Awards Best New Actor nomination, and the film has enjoyed renewed attention as his star rose—proof that gentle acting can echo long after the credits.
Nam Yoon-su appears as Ki-hoon, a supporting presence who adds texture to Mi-so’s adult life. His scenes offer a grounded counterpoint to the central friendship, reminding us how new relationships often brush up against old wounds. Even in brief screen time, he leaves a mark—one of those faces you remember when the story has moved on.
Before Soulmate, Nam Yoon-su had already made waves in Netflix’s gritty Extracurricular, and you can feel that experience in the quiet confidence he brings here. He’s adept at playing young men who are both tender and flawed, and that adds a welcome complexity to the film’s later chapters.
Director-writer Min Yong-keun (co-writing with Kang Hyun-joo) approached this remake with humility, interviewing women about their friendships and rethinking how intimacy and time shape identity. His direction favors close-ups that hold emotion without squeezing it, and his adaptation finds a distinctly Korean rhythm and visual language—especially in the way Jeju’s landscapes mirror the characters’ inner weather.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you’ve been waiting for a film that feels like opening an old diary you forgot you still loved, make time for Soulmate. Rent or buy it tonight on Apple TV, Amazon, Google Play, or Fandango at Home, dim the lights, and let its gentle ache wash over you. Planning a cozy movie night while browsing 4K TV deals or fine-tuning your home theater system? This is the kind of intimate drama that rewards great sound and an unhurried screen. And if you travel often and compare the best VPN for streaming to keep your subscriptions accessible, don’t forget to add Soulmate to your queue when it appears in your region—some stories simply feel better when shared.
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