“My First Love”—A tender time‑slip romance where a man mentors his younger self to bravely confess
Introduction
The memory hits like a song you haven’t heard in years—suddenly you’re back under those buzzing streetlights, heart racing, certain you’ll finally say the words. Have you ever felt this way, like one missed chance rewrote your whole life? Watching My First Love, I felt that ache soften as a 28‑year‑old teacher tumbles through time and meets the one person he’s spent a decade trying to forgive: his teenage self. It’s the fantasy of a do‑over, yes, but it’s also a warm, unpretentious story about grief, timing, and the tiny acts of bravery we owe our younger hearts. By the final episode I wasn’t asking if fate exists—I was asking whether I was ready to be as honest as this drama asks its characters to be.
Overview
Title: My First Love (애간장)
Year: 2018
Genre: Romantic comedy, Fantasy
Main Cast: Lee Jung‑shin, Seo Ji‑hoon, Lee Yul‑eum (with Min Do‑hee, Kim Sun‑young)
Episodes: 10
Runtime: Approximately 45–54 minutes per episode
Streaming Platform: Viki (United States)
Overall Story
Kang Shin‑woo is 28, a math teacher with a kind face and a heart that has never quite moved on from his high‑school friend Han Ji‑soo. When he runs into Ji‑soo again at a Seoul hospital—she’s now an orthopedic intern—she’s distant, even prickly. Their reunion sends him home to the countryside for his mother’s memorial, where he finds an old note revealing that Ji‑soo once asked him to meet at the “firefly bridge.” He never saw it. He goes to that bridge at night, asking the universe for a second chance, and a literally off‑balance moment throws him into the lake…and into the past. My First Love opens its time‑slip door not with grand sci‑fi rules but with simple longing, and it works.
He wakes up in the year he first met Ji‑soo, the school uniform still crisp on teenagers and the bus routes still familiar enough to navigate by muscle memory. The impossible becomes more impossible when he realizes he’s the new homeroom teacher of his own class—and his gawky, 18‑year‑old self sits three desks from the window, already moon‑eyed for the transfer student named Han Ji‑soo. Older Shin‑woo knows the future: silence, regret, and a decade of wondering if he was ever worthy of her. So he sets a promise: he will help Young Shin‑woo say what he couldn’t. The teacher becomes a coach, staging small moments that might let courage build. He’s not prepared for the moment Ji‑soo looks up at him—not the boy in the third row—and smiles like she’s finally found someone who sees her.
Shin‑woo’s plan begins as harmless tutoring and careful seating charts, but emotions are not algorithms. The older version, who thinks of life in neat, solvable problems, forgets the noisy variables of adolescent pride. Young Shin‑woo recognizes a rival before he recognizes a mirror, and their rivalry is both hilarious and painful: the same tells, the same stubborn streaks, the same desperate hope. Have you ever watched your younger self make a choice and wanted to reach through time? That’s the engine of these early episodes, and it runs on equal parts affection and frustration. Each small success—an umbrella shared, a bike ride home—opens another gap the two Shin‑woos must bridge.
Ji‑soo, for her part, isn’t simply a prize between two versions of the same boy; she’s a girl with her own quiet burdens. She studies hard, keeps to routines, and tends to others first—habits that look like discipline but are really a shield. As she’s pulled between two Shin‑woos, she senses something uncanny: a feeling of déjà vu that arrives with a homeroom teacher who seems to know her fears before she names them. The drama situates her choices inside real pressures—class expectations, regional moves, and the gossip that shadows any girl whose face brightens a room. It’s here that the show nods to the way Korean school culture can both cradle and crush; a rumor in a hallway can feel as inescapable as a grade.
The story deepens when the timelines brush against grief. In the original present, Shin‑woo’s mother died in a ferry accident around the same time Ji‑soo vanished from his life. Back in the past, Older Shin‑woo believes he can prevent both losses if he just moves fast enough, says the right words, changes the right bus schedule. But grief is not a multiple‑choice test. His frantic attempts to “fix” everything begin to unravel the easy charm that drew Ji‑soo to him; she doesn’t need a savior, she needs someone steady enough to stand beside her—even when storms come anyway. The show’s choice to braid first love with family loss gives the romance ballast.
By the midpoint, the triangle has fully flipped the genre’s usual power: it’s not two boys chasing one girl, it’s one life arguing with itself. Younger Shin‑woo starts improvising, refusing to be a puppet, and Older Shin‑woo is forced to confront what “help” really means. Their clashes are funny—the sort of banter you only have with someone who knows your tells—but they’re also raw. Older Shin‑woo is kinder to everyone but himself; Younger Shin‑woo is braver for everyone but himself. Watching them learn to respect each other is strangely healing, like seeing your reflection and finally choosing gentleness.
Meanwhile, present‑day threads keep tugging. Adult Ji‑soo’s residency shifts show the grind of medical training—the long nights, the impossible patient loads—and the drama lets her be ambitious without punishing her for it. I kept thinking about American friends in scrubs comparing “student loan refinancing” strategies during third‑year rotations; that same pressure pulses under Ji‑soo’s self‑possession, and it informs her insistence on clarity in love. She doesn’t want to be someone’s regret project. She wants to be chosen—now, honestly, without caveats that blame time. Those stakes travel backward, pushing the past toward a better future.
As the timelines braid, the town’s small landmarks take on mythic warmth: the old cinema, the alley with the tteokbokki cart, the firefly bridge that houses a decade of unsent words. Clues surface—a note that should have been found, a missed curfew, an apology delivered to the wrong year—until the show finally spells out what separated them. It isn’t villainy; it’s a web of misunderstandings and one impossible tragedy that neither teenager had the tools to confront. Have you ever realized that the person you loved was protecting you in a way you didn’t recognize? My First Love gives that revelation the quiet, cathartic breath it deserves.
The late episodes lean into the cost of time travel. Each change echoes, sometimes kindly, sometimes like a door closing in another hallway. Older Shin‑woo learns the difference between controlling outcomes and keeping promises. He can’t erase grief, but he can refuse to let fear write his story. One of the show’s loveliest turns is watching him stop orchestrating romantic set pieces and start teaching his younger self what consent, patience, and apology look like in practice. In a genre that can glamorize grand gestures, this drama elevates the small ones.
When resolution finally arrives, it feels like a choice, not a miracle. The younger version grows into a man who can say what he feels without hiding behind destiny, and the older version accepts that love isn’t about winning a competition with your past self—it’s about showing up, today. The present corrects itself not by undoing tragedy but by telling the truth about it. Letters are read when they should be, meetings happen where they were meant to, and two people who have been circling each other across a decade finally stop walking in opposite directions.
The ending is quietly happy—the kind that feels live‑in and adult. There is no fireworks show, just the soft thrum of everyday Seoul, a bridge glimmering with tiny lights, and a conversation that finally lasts long enough to say what was left unsaid. As someone who plans trips like spreadsheets (yes, I’m the friend who compares “travel insurance” options and “credit card rewards” before booking), I found the show’s moral both humbling and freeing: life won’t always give you guarantees, but it does offer you chances to be brave. Take them.
Highlight Moments
Episode 1 A hospital corridor reunion sets the tone: Adult Shin‑woo locks eyes with Ji‑soo after ten years, and every question he’s avoided rushes back. She’s cool, almost curt, as if she’s spent those same years building walls he can’t see. His drive to his hometown for his mother’s memorial, the discovery of an unread note, and that late‑night visit to the firefly bridge blend regret with hope. When the time‑slip hits, it isn’t thunder—it’s a stumble and a splash, and somehow that feels right for a story about ordinary people making extraordinary choices.
Episode 3 The double‑Shin‑woo dynamic blossoms during a class field day. Younger Shin‑woo bristles at the teacher who seems to favor Ji‑soo, not realizing he’s bristling at his own future insecurities. Their tug‑of‑war (literal and emotional) is played for laughs, but the payoff is tender: Older Shin‑woo lets the kid win, then stays late to clean up, choosing humility over control. Ji‑soo notices both moments, and the triangle starts to feel like a mirror rather than a chase.
Episode 5 A rainstorm strands Ji‑soo under a bus stop awning. Younger Shin‑woo hesitates; Older Shin‑woo steps forward, then steps back, inviting his younger self to offer the umbrella. It’s a simple gesture, but the camera lingers on hands—on the courage it takes to extend one, on the grace it takes to accept. If you’ve ever replayed a small kindness in your head for years, you’ll feel this scene in your bones.
Episode 6 The ferry memory surfaces, and with it, the limits of time travel. Older Shin‑woo’s frantic attempt to change the unchangeable confronts the show’s quiet thesis: love can accompany grief, but it cannot bargain with it. His breakdown afterward—alone in a classroom lit by a single desk lamp—marks the moment he stops trying to fix life and starts trying to live it.
Episode 8 Ji‑soo’s perspective sharpens. A casual comment about how adults expect girls to be “good” becomes a hinge; we see the pressure behind her careful choices. When Younger Shin‑woo finally plans something on his own—a clumsy but sincere confession—Older Shin‑woo resists the urge to interfere. It’s a breath of trust, and for once, timing is on their side.
Episode 10 The present catches up. Notes found, meetings kept, truths said without flinching. The show declines a fireworks finale in favor of a promise spoken in everyday voices. It’s the kind of ending that makes you want to text the person you once hesitated with and say, “I’m ready to be honest now.” And sometimes, that’s the most romantic thing a drama can teach.
Memorable Lines
“If I can’t change the past, I can at least stop lying to my present.” – Kang Shin‑woo, Episode 6 Said after his attempt to undo a tragedy fails, it’s the pivot from control to courage. He realizes that honesty—about grief, guilt, and love—is a better gift to his younger self than any rewritten timeline. The line reframes “fixing” as “showing up,” which becomes the drama’s emotional north star. It also softens his edges, turning him from strategist to partner.
“I don’t need a hero. I need you to stay when it’s hard.” – Han Ji‑soo, Episode 7 Frustrated by grand gestures that dodge real conversations, Ji‑soo asks for consistency over spectacle. The moment clarifies her as a woman with agency, not a passive endpoint of a love triangle. It also teaches both Shin‑woos that love is built in ordinary minutes, not just dramatic rescues. From here, their choices feel more grown.
“Being eighteen was easy; forgiving eighteen is harder.” – Kang Shin‑woo, Episode 8 After a clash with his younger self, the older version admits that self‑compassion feels like a foreign language. The confession captures the drama’s rare trick: turning a time‑slip into a story of self‑reconciliation. It’s also a cue to the audience—have you forgiven the person you were when you didn’t know better? That question lingers long after the credits.
“Some letters arrive ten years late and still right on time.” – Narration, Episode 9 When a long‑lost note finally lands where it should, the line honors the bittersweet luck of timing. It makes the firefly bridge not just a place but a promise, illuminating how misread signals can still become pathways back to each other. You feel the show’s soft faith in second chances without erasing the first wound. It’s tender and wise at once.
“If love is an equation, then the only constant is choosing you.” – Kang Shin‑woo, Episode 10 The math‑teacher metaphor could have been cheesy, but here it lands as a mature vow. After a season of variables—time, fear, pride—he names the steady act that makes a life: choosing, again and again. In a final, ordinary‑sized promise, the drama whispers why we watch romances at all: to remember that the everyday choice to love is extraordinary.
Why It's Special
If you’ve ever wished for one do‑over with the person who still tugs at your heart, My First Love makes that wish feel tenderly, dangerously possible. The story follows a 28‑year‑old math teacher who slips ten years back to high school and finds himself in a love triangle—with his own younger self. As of January 2026, viewers in the United States can watch the 10‑episode series on Prime Video and on The Roku Channel (free with ads), with episodes also available to buy on Amazon. Have you ever felt this way—caught between the memory of who you were and the person you’re trying to become? My First Love lingers right there and invites you in.
What makes the show immediately disarming is its emotional honesty. The time‑slip conceit never drowns out the ache of first love; instead, it magnifies it. Scenes breathe: shy glances in a classroom corridor, the hurried scrawl of a note, the hush of a bus ride home. Each beat feels like a souvenir from youth you didn’t realize you saved, the kind that makes you ask, “Would I choose differently if I could?”
My First Love also plays like a soft‑hued memory reel. Director Min Yeon‑hong leans into warm lighting and reflective framing—older and younger selves sharing mirrors, windows, chalk‑dust air—so the show’s romance and fantasy glide together. OCN, often known for darker, thriller‑leaning fare, embraced a sweeter lane here, and that contrast gives the drama a surprising freshness on first watch and rewatch alike.
The writing threads paradox with compassion. Park Ga‑yeon adapts the popular webtoon with a focus on character choices: instead of chasing complicated sci‑fi rules, the script asks what regret does to a heart over ten years—and what kindness can undo in ten minutes. The result is a story that treats time travel as a second chance at growth, not a shortcut.
Performance chemistry is the magic key. Watching the older and younger versions of the same hero share space is both funny and piercing; their push‑pull—protective one minute, competitive the next—turns an internal monologue into a living duet. You can feel the generational tension between bravado and wisdom, impulse and patience, and it’s irresistible.
The show centers its heroine with equal care. Han Ji‑soo isn’t a puzzle to be solved; she’s a person carrying private grief and unexpected courage. When the story lets her voice lead—questioning, choosing, setting boundaries—the romance grows up with her, and the time‑travel premise feels earned rather than engineered.
Finally, My First Love respects your time. At ten episodes, it’s compact and intentional, with a gentle OST and a finale that closes the character arcs with soul. It’s the kind of series you can finish in a weekend and still find echoing in the quiet moments of Monday.
Popularity & Reception
When My First Love aired from January 8 to February 6, 2018 on OCN, it wasn’t a splashy blockbuster; it was a steady companion piece that found viewers week by week. Coverage around its finale emphasized how warmly audiences had taken to its heartfelt tone and the way the lead reflected on playing two versions of one life. That intimacy—not hype—became its calling card.
Over time, user‑driven communities helped the drama travel farther than its original cable footprint. Enthusiasts praised the show’s “healing” pace and the chemistry across its timeline, with strong word‑of‑mouth reflected in evergreen fan ratings and comments that continue to surface years after broadcast.
International availability has kept the conversation alive. In the U.S., the series remains easy to find in early 2026, with options to stream on Prime Video and to watch free with ads on The Roku Channel; in other regions, it frequently appears in Viki libraries, supported by a busy subtitle community. This accessibility nurtures a small but loyal global fandom that recommends the show as a comforting gateway into time‑slip romance.
Critically, My First Love was often described as “gentle” rather than groundbreaking, but that gentleness is precisely what many viewers return for. The show’s refusal to overcomplicate its rules in favor of character sincerity set it apart during a season crowded with high‑concept thrillers, and it has aged gracefully as a result.
While it didn’t sweep major year‑end awards, its legacy is meaningful for its cast: it marked headline turns for all three young leads, expanding their acting profiles beyond earlier supporting roles. For a drama about first chances, leaving that kind of professional footprint feels fitting—and fans have followed their careers with affection ever since.
Cast & Fun Facts
Lee Jung‑shin anchors the series as the older Kang Shin‑woo, a math teacher who has lived with the ache of a confession never made. He brings a musician’s sensitivity to timing—pauses that hold unsaid feelings, a smile that flickers when memory stings—so that even his quietest moments land with clarity. You sense a man who has learned the cost of certainty and is finally willing to be brave.
Across the season, his Shin‑woo becomes a study in tenderness under pressure. Mentoring his younger self, he learns to listen to the kid he once was—impulsive, hopeful, sometimes reckless—and to forgive him. That arc keeps the time‑travel premise from feeling like a trick; it transforms it into self‑empathy, and Lee’s performance lets that lesson glow.
Seo Ji‑hoon plays the younger Shin‑woo with an energy that is all heart and elbows—the sprinting boy who still believes a perfect moment can fix everything. His jealousy toward the older “rival” is endearing because it’s honest; you can see love teaching him to slow down and pay attention.
What’s delightful is how Seo shades youthful bravado with vulnerability. The character’s sudden bursts of courage are matched by flares of doubt, and those contradictions make his coming‑of‑age feel lived‑in. Viewers who first noticed him in school‑set roles will find a more dimensional performance here, sharpened by the show’s playful yet sincere tone.
Lee Yeol‑eum gives Han Ji‑soo a quiet gravity. She is luminous without being idealized, a young woman who carries her own questions and refuses to be anyone’s prize. Lee’s eyes do a great deal of work—searching, wary, thrilled—and they draw the camera (and us) to the center of the story.
As the triangle deepens, Lee maps Ji‑soo’s choices with care. She lets the character ask the hard questions—What is love without honesty? What is devotion without growth?—and the series answers by letting Ji‑soo choose herself, not just the person standing in front of her. It’s a performance that turns “first love” into first clarity.
Min Do‑hee brightens the ensemble as Jang So‑ra, the kind of friend who barges into your day and accidentally makes it better. Her comic timing is elastic—one beat too fast when she’s excited, one beat too slow when she’s scheming—and that elasticity gives the show its fizzy edges.
Yet Do‑hee also knows when to soften the joke. In the comfort‑food scenes—late‑night talks, pep talks before risky confessions—she grounds the whimsy with everyday warmth. That balance keeps the series from floating away on nostalgia alone.
Kim Sun‑young lends the drama its emotional backbone as Shin‑woo’s mother. She carries love in her hands—packing meals, straightening collars, hiding worry behind small rituals—and those details make the family stakes feel real, not decorative.
Her scenes with both versions of her son are some of the show’s most touching. Kim calibrates maternal intuition so precisely that you can almost see her sensing time bending around her child, even if she can’t name it. It’s a beautifully human performance inside a fantastical premise.
Behind the camera, director Min Yeon‑hong and writer Park Ga‑yeon shape an adaptation that honors its webtoon roots while tightening the drama’s emotional spine. Their approach lets character choices drive the time‑slip, not the other way around, and that restraint is why the ending feels earned. My First Love aired on OCN, concluding on February 6, 2018, and its production pedigree explains the show’s polished, pre‑planned feel from first scene to last.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If your heart still rewinds to the one that got away, My First Love is the gentlest way to press play again. It’s short enough for a weekend, rich enough to keep you thinking on Monday, and available on mainstream platforms so you can watch without the hunt. Traveling soon? Many viewers keep their queue accessible with the best VPN for streaming; if you’re comparing a new streaming subscription or tweaking home internet plans, this is a perfect comfort‑watch to test your setup. Let the show remind you that the bravest love story might be the one you write with your past and present selves, together.
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