“When I Was the Most Beautiful”—A love triangle that grows into a heartbreaking lesson on mercy, memory, and moving on
Introduction
The first time I watched Oh Ye‑ji walk into that sunlit classroom, I felt the soft tremor of a life about to change—hers and mine. Have you ever met someone on an ordinary day and known, deep down, that nothing would be ordinary again? This is the charge that runs through When I Was the Most Beautiful, a romance melodrama that starts as a hush and grows into a storm. I found myself aching for three people at once: a young man who mistakes devotion for destiny, an older brother who races toward love like a finish line, and a woman who keeps trying to build a home out of clay and courage. Late at night, I kept pausing to breathe—because isn’t the hardest part of love the way it makes us kinder to others and cruel to ourselves? By the end, I wasn’t just watching a triangle; I was watching three hearts learn the cost of becoming whole.
Overview
Title: When I Was the Most Beautiful (내가 가장 예뻤을때).
Year: 2020.
Genre: Romance, Melodrama.
Main Cast: Im Soo‑hyang, Ji Soo, Ha Seok‑jin, Hwang Seung‑eon.
Episodes: 16 (original broadcast packaged as 32 half‑hour parts).
Runtime: Approximately 65–70 minutes per episode (network packaging split into ~35‑minute parts).
Streaming Platform: Viki
Overall Story
Oh Ye‑ji arrives in the countryside with a suitcase, a sketchbook, and the kind of optimism that looks fragile until you see how it survives. She’s an art teacher who dreams of becoming a ceramic artist, the sort of person who believes that shaping clay is a way of shaping a life. On her first day, she’s noticed by Seo Hwan, a sensitive student whose first love blooms like a bruise—tender, painful, and impossible to hide. Hwan shows Ye‑ji the warmth of his family’s world: a father’s woodshop, a mother’s cool distance, a home where dinner is a ritual even when words are scarce. Then Hwan takes Ye‑ji to the family workshop to confess what he can barely say aloud, and there she meets Seo Jin, his older brother—a race car driver with gravity in his gaze. Two brothers, one visitor, and a crack running through the kitchen table before anyone admits it’s there.
The teacher–student boundary becomes the drama’s first quiet battlefield. Have you ever been young enough to think pain is proof of love? Hwan’s feelings are earnest, protective, and raw; Ye‑ji keeps drawing the line, then erasing it with kindness that confuses them both. Jin, meanwhile, moves with adult certainty: he calls Ye‑ji back when she tries to leave, folds spontaneity into dates, and offers adventure she’s never allowed herself. When he murmurs, “Let’s have another first experience,” he isn’t just flirting—he’s promising a life made of moments that feel like beginnings. For Ye‑ji, who has lived with scarcity and the ache of an unreliable family, that promise feels like oxygen.
The Seo family turns into a mirror maze where love and obligation collide. Their mother, Yeon‑ja, guards status as fiercely as she guards her sons, reading Ye‑ji’s poverty as a flaw and Hwan’s infatuation as a threat. Their father looks for the cleanest path but keeps finding the messiness of human hearts. In that house, dinner is a negotiation and silence a kind of power. Ye‑ji stands in the doorway, wanting to belong without becoming someone else. She accepts Jin’s pursuit not because it hurts Hwan—though it does—but because it sounds like safety at last. When she chooses Jin, the brothers’ bond frays into rivalry that neither of them knows how to mend.
Marriage turns romance into responsibility. Jin’s racing world hums with sponsorships, jealous exes, and men who measure loyalty in money; Carrie Jung, the ex‑girlfriend who still knows his secrets, hovers at the edge like a storm that hasn’t broken yet. Ye‑ji keeps working clay, building a small studio life, and trying to earn her mother‑in‑law’s respect teaspoon by teaspoon. She also learns the quiet hell of medical waivers and health insurance paperwork that make any emergency feel like a courtroom. Have you ever stared at a form at 2 a.m. and wished love could sign it for you? The show makes the admin of adulthood part of the emotional weather, and you feel every cold front moving in.
Then catastrophe: Jin disappears. There’s a crash, there are unanswered calls, and a family goes from noise to numbness. In towns like theirs, grief is public—neighbors lower their voices, and even the air in the market seems to slow. Years pass; people say “widow” too easily and “hope” with caution. Ye‑ji keeps making pottery because the wheel turns whether your heart wants to or not, and Hwan leaves for the United States to become the kind of man who can protect what he loves rather than simply want it. When the story jumps ahead, it isn’t a trick; it’s the way real pain stretches time.
Jeju Island becomes a memory book. Ye‑ji runs there the way we all run to clean places when life feels dirty, tracing the shoreline of her happier days with Jin. Hwan—older now, steel beneath the softness—flies back from abroad because worry outruns pride. On that wind‑swept island, they meet again not as teacher and student but as two people who survived the same storm from different rooms. Their hug is long enough to account for years of absence and short enough to say the clock is still cruel. If you’ve ever wondered whether comfort can be honest, this scene answers yes and also that it can be dangerous. The show lets the embrace be both balm and boundary.
The confession comes next, fierce and trembling. Hwan finally says the thing he’s always said with gestures: I missed you so much I couldn’t hold back. Ye‑ji hears what she already knows—his love is as steady as it is impossible. In another life, at another time, first love might have become everyday love. Here, the triangle sharpens: his admission is a truth and a wound. What do you do with a love that’s too late and still somehow right? The series refuses easy answers and gives us the ache instead.
And then, the shock that tilts the season: Jin is alive. Seven years after his disappearance, Ye‑ji stands outside a door and speaks the simplest sentence a spouse can say: “Are you inside? It’s me, Ye Ji. Your wife is here.” The door opens to reveal a man in a wheelchair, a former racer looking at a life that no longer moves at his command. It isn’t just the paralysis that devastates him—it’s shame, secrecy, and the pride that kept him silent. The reunion detonates across the family; love returns with a limp and demands to be accounted for. No one is ready for how forgiveness changes the math.
Carrie steps out of the shadows as more than an ex; she’s the keeper of the lost years. She helped Jin hide, helped him recover, and now wants the reward of possession—“I came to take him with me,” she declares, in front of everyone. The house becomes a courtroom, and Ye‑ji is asked to testify about vows, loyalty, and what counts as betrayal when grief made everyone a stranger. Jin, torn between gratitude and resentment, finds that healing his body is easier than mending the trust he broke. The brothers are left to decide whether love for the same woman must mean hatred for each other. It’s a study in how adults make choices that teenagers would never imagine.
By the late episodes, cruelty gives way to clarity. Yeon‑ja, the mother, delivers an ultimatum that sounds like algebra—divorce Jin so the brothers can reconcile, or stay and send Hwan away—and the equation leaves no remainder for Ye‑ji’s heart. Rehabilitation schedules replace lap times; online therapy tabs sit open on laptops at midnight, because sometimes you need a stranger to say what family won’t. Everyone starts counting different costs: pride, guilt, travel insurance for flights that weren’t for vacations, the mortgage of a future that may never be shared. When Ye‑ji finally chooses herself, it isn’t selfishness; it’s the end of a long emergency. The show doesn’t punish her for it, and that mercy feels revolutionary.
The finale is all quiet decisions and gentle doors closing. Ye‑ji names the years honestly—“I regret getting married, but I was so desperate. I was sick and tired of being alone”—then steps into a life where solitude isn’t a sentence but a practice. Hwan and Jin, bruised by rivalry and refined by loss, begin to face each other as brothers again. The family loosens its grip on the future it tried to script. What remains are the ordinary rituals—meals, studio hours, rehab appointments—that make healing real. You leave their world believing that sometimes the bravest love is the one that lets go.
Highlight Moments
Episode 1 Ye‑ji’s move‑in day turns strangers into a story. She enters Hwan’s classroom with chalk on her wrists and worry in her eyes, and he notices both. A shared walk home past the family workshop becomes the first thread between them. Jin, returning late, catches Ye‑ji’s calm the way a fast car catches light—and the triangle draws its first subtle line. Dinner at the Seo home feels like an audition Ye‑ji didn’t know she was giving, and every glance from Yeon‑ja lands like a grade. The episode promises a love that will test how much “home” can hold.
Episode 3 “Let’s have another first experience.” With that, Jin pulls Ye‑ji into the kind of spontaneous romance that makes caution look like cowardice. Their moonlit dive is reckless, joyous, and the exact opposite of the careful life Ye‑ji has lived. It’s a seduction of freedom as much as of love, and you understand why she chooses him. Hwan watches from a distance, learning that sometimes the person who teaches you about courage isn’t the one who will choose you. The thrill is real—and so is the fallout.
Episode 6 Time jump, tidal hug. After years of absence and rumors of death, Ye‑ji flees to Jeju, a place that remembers her happier days even if she would rather forget. Hwan returns from the U.S., crossing an ocean to keep her from drowning in memories. When they finally meet, their embrace is a wordless ledger balancing worry, loyalty, and all the things they never said. It’s comfort with consequences; the hug heals something and complicates everything. The drama treats the moment with tenderness, not triumph.
Episode 7 Hwan’s confession breaks the stalemate. He admits he “missed her so much” and can’t hold back anymore—an admission years in the making. Ye‑ji listens like someone who has rehearsed every possible answer and still doesn’t have the right one. The aftermath turns their shared house into a map of avoided rooms and careful footsteps. It’s the episode where first love stops whispering and starts asking for terms. The ask is simple; the cost is not.
Episode 9 The knock, the plea, the chair. Ye‑ji stands at Jin’s door after seven lost years and says, “Are you inside? It’s me, Ye Ji. Your wife is here.” The door opens and the wheelchair reframes every past argument about absence, pride, and pain. Jin’s silence reads as shame, and Ye‑ji’s tears read as relief mixed with fury. The family has to relearn what help looks like when independence is no longer possible. It’s the season’s most breath‑stealing reveal.
Episode 11 Carrie walks into the living room and into the fight. She announces she’s here to take Jin back, and the room goes colder than any hospital corridor. Her presence drags the hidden years into daylight, forcing Jin to account for the gratitude he owes and the commitments he broke. Ye‑ji learns the difference between losing a person to death and losing him to decisions. The triangle becomes a square, and every corner is sharp.
Episode 15 The ultimatum. Yeon‑ja forces a choice that can’t be made cleanly: divorce Jin to mend the brothers, or keep your marriage and banish Hwan. Jin clings; Hwan prepares to leave; Ye‑ji realizes that staying will cost her more than loneliness ever did. Rehab schedules, boardroom threats, and family politics all collide until something has to give. What gives is the illusion that love must always equal sacrifice. The pieces on the table finally stop moving.
Momorable Lines
“Are you inside? It’s me, Ye Ji. Your wife is here.” – Oh Ye‑ji, Episode 9 Said through a closed door after seven years of silence, the line is a key turning in a lock. It captures the stubborn hope of a spouse who kept the vow even when the marriage disappeared. Seeing Jin in the wheelchair reframes her grief from abandonment to survival. The moment deepens the drama’s central question: what does commitment look like after catastrophe?
“Let’s have another first experience.” – Seo Jin, early episodes This is Jin’s thesis on love: make memory the engine, not the souvenir. The line seduces Ye‑ji toward a life larger than scarcity and fear. It also reveals Jin’s flaw—chasing beginnings so fast he forgets to maintain what he builds. Later, when speed betrays him, those words sound like both a promise and an apology.
“I missed you so much… I couldn’t hold back anymore.” – Seo Hwan, Episode 7 The confession lands after years of restraint and continents of distance. It changes nothing and everything at once, because timing is the fourth person in their triangle. Hwan’s vulnerability matures him more than any degree; desire steps aside for dignity, even as his heart refuses to obey. You feel the bittersweet relief of finally naming a truth that can’t be lived.
“I’m here to take him with me.” – Carrie Jung, Episode 11 A line that turns family dinner into a custody hearing. It exposes how care can curdle into control and how debt—emotional and financial—binds even after love ends. For Ye‑ji, it’s the moment jealousy gives way to clarity about what she wants for herself. For Jin, it’s the beginning of accountability.
“I regret getting married, but I was so desperate. I was sick and tired of being alone.” – Oh Ye‑ji, near the finale It’s brutal honesty, the kind that frees more than it wounds. The line reframes the entire series as a story about loneliness—how it drives us into arms we’re not ready to hold and homes we’re not prepared to keep. Ye‑ji’s admission isn’t self‑loathing; it’s a diagnosis that makes treatment possible. And it’s why this drama is worth your time: because sometimes watching someone choose healing will help you choose your own.
Why It's Special
When I Was the Most Beautiful opens like a summertime daydream and then quietly tightens its grip, telling the story of an art teacher whose life becomes entangled with two brothers—one soft as moonlight, the other blazing like the sun. If you’ve ever fallen for someone at the wrong moment, you’ll feel the slow tug of this melodrama from the first episode. For those ready to hit play, you can stream it in the United States on KOCOWA through Prime Video Channels and on OnDemandKorea, while Viki carries the title in many regions worldwide.
What makes the series stand apart is how it treats longing as a living character. The camera lingers on clay-covered hands and wind-swept fields, giving the love triangle the texture of memory—soft edges, sharp consequences. Have you ever felt this way, where a single glance across a workshop changes the temperature of an entire room?
The direction favors stillness over spectacle. Scenes often breathe longer than you expect, letting silence do the speaking. When a door finally opens after years of absence, the pause before words land becomes a small earthquake. That patience invites you to lean in, to hear the stories people tell with their eyes when their voices fail.
Writing-wise, the show is an old-school melodrama with modern bones. It threads the idea that love isn’t just about who makes your heart race, but who stands with you when life breaks the wheel. The script understands that hope and regret can coexist at the same kitchen table, and that forgiveness sometimes has to be learned twice.
The emotional tone is bittersweet, like a song you can’t stop playing even though it hurts. Yet there’s warmth—found family, quiet acts of care, and the dignity of choosing kindness when jealousy would be easier. Have you ever watched two people say goodbye without saying a word? This drama builds entire episodes on that ache.
Genre-wise, it blends romance and melodrama with a surprising dash of sports grit. The racing world isn’t just a backdrop; it mirrors characters who live at full throttle and then pay for every turn they take too fast. The pottery sequences, by contrast, are all patience and cure-time—love and craft both tested by heat.
And then there’s the way it looks and sounds. Sunlit frames, evening blues, and an OST that never overpowers the moment—just enough to echo what your heart already knows. By the time credits roll, you’re left sitting in the quiet, thinking about the choices you made when you felt most alive. For context on the creative leads behind this tone—director Oh Kyung-hoon and writer Jo Hyoun-kyoung steward the story with steady hands.
Popularity & Reception
When the finale aired on October 15, 2020, the series bowed out on its personal-best ratings in Korea, a sign that word-of-mouth had been working quietly all along. It didn’t chase blockbuster numbers; it earned them one heart at a time and finished stronger than it began, which is the melodrama equivalent of sticking a complex landing.
Beyond Korea, international viewers found a home for the show on fan-forward platforms. The Viki community, in particular, rallied around weekly episode threads, trading theories about whether first love should ever trump a promise made at the altar. That ongoing conversation helped the show linger long after its broadcast window.
Critics and bloggers recognized the series as a throwback done right—a pure melodrama in an era dominated by rom-coms and genre mashups. Think heavy emotions, yes, but handled with restraint. Episodes sparked debates about agency and timing: does love absolve you from the hurt you cause, or does it make you more responsible for it?
At year’s end, recognition arrived at the MBC Drama Awards, where the lead actress was honored for carrying a role that demanded both vulnerability and backbone. Awards don’t make a drama great, but they can spotlight a performance that pulls everything else into orbit, and that’s what happened here.
In the years since, new viewers keep discovering the show through streaming hubs and recommendation threads, proof that melodrama—when treated with sincerity—travels well. It’s the kind of title you recommend to a friend who says, “I want something that hurts a little, but heals more.”
Cast & Fun Facts
Im Soo-hyang plays Oh Ye-ji with a delicacy that never turns fragile. She builds Ye-ji from the ground up: a woman who learned early to survive, then stumbles into a love that asks her to be seen. Watch how her voice softens around the family she finds, and how her gaze tightens when happiness begins to feel like a debt she can’t repay. That emotional calibration is why her character’s smallest choices feel seismic.
Her performance was recognized at the 2020 MBC Drama Awards with a Top Excellence honor, a nod to how completely she anchors the show’s moral center. What’s striking is the way she balances light and shadow—laughing in the workshop one scene, bracing for loss in the next—without ever letting you see the acting seams.
Ji Soo gives Seo Hwan the open-hearted earnestness of a first love you never really outgrow. He’s the look-back character—the one who makes you wonder if life might have gone differently had the timing been kinder. His Hwan is not naïve; he’s principled, which can be even more dangerous when the heart is involved.
In interviews around the finale, Ji Soo talked about reading the story less as a taboo and more as a meditation on what it means to love someone who becomes off-limits by fate. You can see that in his stillness—phrases swallowed, apologies rehearsed, a thousand kindnesses offered in place of a kiss.
Ha Seok-jin storms in as Seo Jin, a rally driver who lives like he’s always one corner from the finish line. The early episodes sell him as a straight-shot romantic, but the series cleverly peels back layers of pride, fear, and unhealed wounds. He’s the “sun” to his brother’s “moon,” and the burn is glorious until you realize warmth and fire can feel the same—right up until they don’t.
What makes his turn unforgettable is the aftermath—how he wears consequence. The racing suit says speed; the eyes say cost. When a door opens and the man on the other side is no longer the one who left, Ha Seok-jin shows you a soul recalibrating in real time, a feat of acting that turns plot twist into character reckoning.
Hwang Seung-eon steps into Carrie Jung like a spark thrown into dry grass. At first glance, she’s glamour and appetite; look again and you’ll find a woman negotiating the terror of being unloved. The series refuses to flatten her into an antagonist, and Hwang seizes that space to draw a portrait of obsession that’s empathetic even when it’s unforgivable.
Her strongest moments are the quiet collisions—arrivals unannounced, exits that scorch, lines delivered with a smile that never reaches the eyes. Carrie is the kind of character who teaches you that longing can curdle when it goes unanswered too long, and Hwang lets us hear the crack just before it breaks.
Behind the camera, director Oh Kyung-hoon and writer Jo Hyoun-kyoung guide the show with an understanding that love stories are really stories about time—when it arrives, how it’s spent, and what it costs. Their collaboration gives the series its measured rhythm and lets the most explosive scenes detonate without ever feeling manipulative.
A small delight: the show’s worlds—racing circuits and pottery studios—aren’t window dressing. They’re metaphors you can touch. Clay needs pressure and fire to become something that lasts; engines need risk and control held in perfect tension. That’s the equation the characters keep trying to solve, and it’s why the drama’s images stay with you long after the credits fade.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you’re craving a love story that respects your heart as much as it challenges it, When I Was the Most Beautiful is worth every minute. Queue it up on your streaming subscription, and—if you often watch while traveling—your best VPN for streaming will keep the episodes close no matter where you are. Download a couple at home if you don’t have an unlimited data plan, then let the show remind you that timing is the most fragile promise we make to one another. Have you ever felt that pull between what you want and what you owe?
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