Radio Romance — A live-on-air love story about healing a scripted heart
Introduction
The first time I heard Ji Soo-ho’s voice fill a midnight studio, I felt like I’d slipped into someone else’s diary. Have you ever had a song or a late-night show pull you back to the person you used to be? Radio Romance does that, not with fireworks, but with the soft hum of a booth light and the rasp of a mic warming up. I found myself leaning closer each episode, not to chase scandal, but to catch breaths—the small gulps of courage a person takes before telling the truth. It’s a drama about what live radio can do for a scripted life, and what one stubborn writer can do for a lonely star who thinks words only matter if they’re printed. By the final broadcast, I wasn’t just listening; I was rooting for two people to believe that unplanned words can save you, because if you’ve ever risked speaking from the heart, you know why that matters.
Overview
Title: Radio Romance (라디오 로맨스)
Year: 2018
Genre: Romance, Workplace, Melodrama
Main Cast: Yoon Doo-joon (as Ji Soo-ho), Kim So-hyun (as Song Geu-rim), Yoon Park (as Lee Kang), Yura (as Jin Tae-ri)
Episodes: 16
Runtime: 60 minutes per episode
Streaming Platform: Not currently streaming on Netflix, Hulu, Disney+, or Viki in the United States (availability can change).
Overall Story
Song Geu-rim is the kind of radio writer who never gives up, even when her ideas are a little messy and her prose isn’t perfect. She grew up tethered to radio because it comforted her blind mother, and that intimacy—voices carrying emotion without faces—made her believe a show could be a lifeline. When her program is threatened with cancellation, her last shot is audacious: recruit Korea’s most controlled top star, Ji Soo-ho, as a live DJ. He’s famous for reading scripts flawlessly and for never letting the world see the messy in-between. From the start, their battle is less about contracts and more about philosophy—can someone who lives by a script survive the risks of live radio?
Ji Soo-ho is a study in polish: an actor who’s learned that perfection is protection. His mother, Nam Joo-ha, is the CEO of his agency; his father, Ji Yoon-seok, a revered actor whose shadow comes with its own storm clouds. He manages insomnia and old wounds under the watch of his manager Kim Jun-woo and his quietly observant psychiatrist friend, Jason. On paper, taking a DJ job is brand management; in truth, it’s terrifying. Live radio means pauses you can’t edit, silences that reveal, and confessions that find you when the “ON AIR” sign glows red. The first meetings between Geu-rim and Soo-ho are prickly: she needs his star power; he needs her to promise a wall of script pages no one will dare deviate from.
PD Lee Kang—brilliant, provocative, and laser-focused on ratings—pushes both of them harder than they expect. He believes radio’s magic is the moment a guest says something unplanned, the exact moment a listener feels less alone. He’ll stage live remotes in noisy streets, swap the rundown seconds before airtime, and dare a top star to breathe without cue cards. Geu-rim, who dreams of graduating from assistant to main writer, finds in Lee Kang both a mentor and a maddening force who won’t let her settle for safe. The triangle that forms isn’t just romantic; it’s creative—a tug-of-war over what radio should be: proofed and perfect, or raw and human.
As the show finds its rhythm, the past keeps edging into the present. Soo-ho recognizes Geu-rim from years ago, when a hospital corridor and a winter scarf briefly made them each other’s sanctuary. She doesn’t remember him clearly, but she recognizes a feeling—like tuning into a frequency you’ve heard before. Their broadcasts begin to carry that history: playlists that sound like childhood, closing comments that read like letters, and ad-libs that push Soo-ho out of his safe zone. The listeners respond; when a celebrity sounds human, people call in. And each time he shares a sliver of honesty—about sleepless nights, about not wanting to disappoint—Geu-rim writes more courage into the rundown.
Behind the studio glass, the industry turns. Actress Jin Tae-ri, once bright and now embattled, hovers near the show with her own agenda and her complicated past with Soo-ho. The press salivates over anything unscripted, and the agency’s PR machine spins faster, terrified that radio’s intimacy will undo years of curated image. Have you ever felt the tug between saying what’s real and saying what keeps the peace? That tension is Soo-ho’s nightly state. Nam Joo-ha watches the airchecks like a hawk, and every reveal on air reverberates at home, testing the brittle bonds in a family that understands visibility better than vulnerability.
The heart of the drama lands in quiet midnights: Geu-rim coaching callers through grief, Soo-ho swallowing the urge to reach for the “script” and instead describing what the studio smells like, what the city sounds like at 1 a.m. Jason recognizes the shift first as a therapist would—honesty is replacing sedation. If you’ve ever tried online therapy, you’ll recognize the small victories: a word named, a memory faced, a night slept without chemical help. Each broadcast becomes exposure therapy for a public figure who has spent years hiding in plain sight, and Geu-rim becomes the person who believes he can do it live.
Midseason, the story deepens when a hospital emergency brings buried memories into focus for Geu-rim, and the phrase “first love” finally has a face. Soo-ho’s confession isn’t slick; it’s halting and sincere, the way real admissions are. Lee Kang, who values truth even when it hurts the show’s safety, lets the moment breathe on air. The revelation knits together their earlier near-misses—the scarf, the elevator glance, the radio line she once read that he never forgot. This is where the romance stops being just chemistry and becomes a reckoning: loving someone means trusting them with the chapters you’d rather skip.
The series also peels back Soo-ho’s darkest pages. As a boy, starved for affection and crushed by adult scandals he couldn’t control, he reached for pills and numbness; a hospital friendship with a boy named Ji-woo briefly gave him a reason to stay. Guilt—over identities borrowed and goodbyes never said—settled in like a permanent winter. Radio becomes the place he practices warmth, a few degrees at a time. When Geu-rim hears the whole story, she doesn’t offer platitudes; she offers presence, the very thing radio taught her as a child in a house that needed listening more than looking. Have you ever needed someone to sit with a truth you weren’t proud of? That’s the intimacy this drama believes in.
Pressure mounts as tabloids circle and sponsors bristle. The team faces hacked schedules, paparazzi rumors, and edits taken out of context—moments that make any celebrity consider a stronger VPN service and a thicker wall between public and private. PD Lee Kang makes the riskiest choice: double down on live authenticity instead of running pre-recorded safety nets. It’s messy, but it works, because the listeners aren’t in love with perfect; they’re in love with the feeling that someone is talking to them and not at them. As the triangle untangles, it’s respect that remains—Lee Kang respects Geu-rim’s voice, and Soo-ho learns to respect his own.
The show heads out for field recordings and charity segments, and the road throws curveballs—weather delays, missed ferries, the kind of hiccups that would make anyone glad they bought travel insurance for real life. In those detours, Geu-rim and Soo-ho practice being a couple outside the booth: grocery runs, late-night script edits, quiet bus rides where they share earphones and futures. Jin Tae-ri faces her reckoning and chooses accountability, reminding us that reinvention is a journey and not a headline. The family knots around Soo-ho loosen, not because problems vanish, but because boundaries hold. By now, the studio doesn’t feel like a stage; it feels like home.
In the final stretch, the broadcast becomes confession and benediction. Soo-ho reads from nothing at all, describing the night sky over Seoul and the exact second he decided to live unscripted. Geu-rim’s closing line is a love letter to radio itself: a promise to keep the mic open for anyone brave enough to call. The team takes a bow you can hear but not see—one of radio’s sweetest tricks. And when the “ON AIR” sign dims, you’re left with a quiet you don’t rush to fill, the kind that lets a person decide what to say next. That’s why this drama lingers: it reminds you that truth told out loud can change a life, and sometimes it starts with a single listener.
Highlight Moments
Episode 1 Geu-rim’s job is on the line, so she chases Soo-ho to a film set and even volunteers for a risky underwater stand-in gig just to secure a meeting; the elevator stare and a fleeting memory hint that this is more than a business proposal. The scene sets the show’s thesis: desperation plus sincerity can move immovable stars. It’s also the first time we see Soo-ho’s armor crack as he watches her choose effort over ego. The last shot—a wistful gaze that feels like recognition—plants the “first love” mystery that will drive the early episodes.
Episode 3 The first live show derails when a caller freezes and the clock refuses to slow down. PD Lee Kang cuts the music bed and gives Soo-ho a silent nod—no script, just instincts. Geu-rim scribbles prompts he doesn’t use; instead, he breathes and talks about the neon outside the window. The broadcast survives not by perfection but by presence, and the ratings bump says listeners felt it. It’s the moment Lee Kang’s gamble proves right, and the trio becomes a team.
Episode 6 After a snow-dusted night, Geu-rim hugs Soo-ho and repeats a line about hidden sadness that she once heard on the radio; it cuts through his practiced smile like a key in an old lock. The hug is brief but tectonic—permission to feel without performance. Soo-ho doesn’t answer with a flashy confession; he shows up the next day more awake, just a little more willing to risk silence. The show’s chemistry shifts from professional friction to something tender, and the microphones catch it.
Episode 8 A hospital dash forces Geu-rim to connect scattered memories of her childhood “first love.” With Lee Kang and Soo-ho waiting in fluorescent uncertainty, the revelation lands: the boy who once protected her heart may be closer than she realized. The episode is all about recognition—the way a name suddenly fits a face you’ve been carrying for years. It reshapes their banter on air and turns future broadcasts into a shared scrapbook.
Episode 12 Headlines and old scandals crash into the studio, testing the fragile peace between Soo-ho and his powerful mother. Sponsors lean, managers hover, and the safest move would be to pre-record everything. Instead, the team chooses live radio and addresses what they can without feeding the tabloid machine. It’s a nuanced, grown-up crisis: choosing honesty without self-immolation. You feel the cost, especially for a son who has learned that perfection is the only way to be loved.
Episode 14 Flashbacks reveal the deepest wound—Soo-ho’s teen years, a hospital bed, and a friendship with Ji-woo that made life feel survivable. The guilt he carries isn’t melodrama; it’s the kind that lives in the pauses between words, the kind radio amplifies. When Geu-rim hears everything, she doesn’t try to fix him; she listens, and the act of listening becomes love. The episode reframes their entire romance as healing, not rescue, which makes their next on-air choices braver.
Episode 16 The finale turns the booth into a promise. Soo-ho speaks without a script, counting down the seconds until a future they’ll write together; Geu-rim closes the show with a line that thanks every listener who ever stayed up to be less alone. No balloon drop, no spectacle—just two voices trusting each other in front of everyone. It’s intimate and big at the same time, exactly what radio does best. The “OFF AIR” light clicks, and you feel the exhale across the city.
Memorable Lines
"You might have been someone’s first love." – Song Geu-rim, Episode 1 Spoken during an early broadcast, it frames the entire mystery of who remembers whom and why. The line also clues us into the show’s habit of turning radio monologues into emotional breadcrumbs. For Soo-ho, it’s a trigger; for Geu-rim, it’s a thesis about unseen connections. It foreshadows the hospital-linked past that becomes their emotional spine.
"Just because you’re not crying doesn’t mean you aren’t sad." – Song Geu-rim, Episode 6 She repeats a comfort she once heard on radio, offering Soo-ho a way to name feelings without shame. It marks a pivot in their dynamic: she stops pitching him as a talent and starts standing with him as a person. The moment also nudges him toward healthier coping, the kind you’d recognize from online therapy check-ins. It’s radio as care, and it lands.
"Tell me the truth, not the script." – Lee Kang, around the early live shows This captures PD Lee Kang’s philosophy and the risk he takes on a top star’s brand. It’s a dare, but also an invitation to trust the audience with imperfection. His approach pushes Geu-rim to write for the heart instead of the headline. It’s why their program starts feeling like a safe room for callers and hosts alike.
"I don’t know how to live without a script." – Ji Soo-ho, early episodes In one breath, he names his prison and his protection. The sentence explains his insomnia, his PR obedience, and his fear of anything live. When he starts to loosen his grip on that belief, every broadcast becomes a small act of courage. The romance, then, isn’t about saving him—it’s about helping him practice unscripted living.
"Let’s go live—no script, just us." – Ji Soo-ho, finale By the end, it’s not bravado; it’s peace. He’s choosing presence over perfection, Geu-rim over optics, and voice over silence. The declaration completes his arc from performance to personhood. It’s also a quiet vow to every listener who tuned in hoping to feel less alone.
Why It's Special
Radio Romance is the kind of comfort-watch that sneaks up on you with late‑night warmth and everyday courage. Set in a radio station where voices matter more than faces, it wraps a classic opposites‑attract love story around the intimate ritual of tuning in after dark. If you’re in the United States, you can stream it on KOCOWA (including the KOCOWA Amazon Channel) and OnDemandKorea, while Netflix carries it in select regions; availability can vary, so check your preferred platform before you press play. Have you ever felt that peculiar calm that only a midnight broadcast can give? This drama bottles that feeling and pours it straight into your living room.
Instead of racing through twists, Radio Romance takes a gentle, lived‑in approach. The show asks what it means to speak honestly when you’re used to hiding behind scripts—on air and in life. Its radio‑booth setting isn’t just a backdrop; it’s a confessional, a place where the characters unlearn performance and relearn sincerity. The result is a tonal blend that’s cozy without being saccharine, hopeful without ignoring hurt.
You’ll feel the push‑pull of two worlds: the glossy life of a top star who has every line written for him, and the scrappy reality of a show writer who survives on grit and empathy. Their chemistry builds not through grand gestures but through the small acts of showing up—arriving early for pre‑show checks, swapping song requests, sharing snacks between live segments. Have you ever fallen for someone because of the way they listen? That’s the romance here.
One of the series’ quiet pleasures is how it treats radio as a lifeline. Letters from listeners, dedications to strangers, the hush before a red “ON AIR” sign—each episode finds soul in tiny mechanics of broadcasting. When the leads read messages about insomnia, grief, or first love, the mic turns into a bridge between lonely rooms. It’s cathartic, like hearing your secret read aloud and realizing you’re not the only one.
Visually, Radio Romance leans into warm tungsten glows, glass reflections, and the intimate geometry of soundproof rooms. Direction choices linger on hands hovering over faders or a breath caught just before a confession, underscoring that silence can be as expressive as dialogue. Those tactile details keep the radio world tangible—and strangely romantic—throughout.
The writing favors emotional logic over plot pyrotechnics, and that’s part of its charm. Conflicts sprout from character wounds rather than contrived misunderstandings: fear of live broadcasts, the burden of a curated public image, and the ache of family expectations. When apologies arrive, they feel earned; when confessions land, they sound like late‑night dedications meant for one pair of ears.
Finally, Radio Romance is a hybrid—workplace dramedy, healing romance, and media satire—braiding soft humor with vulnerable conversations. It has that “one more episode” coziness, especially for viewers who love the behind‑the‑scenes hum of production teams chasing airtime. Have you ever rooted for a small crew simply trying to make something honest? This drama is your frequency.
Popularity & Reception
When it aired in early 2018, Radio Romance posted modest domestic TV ratings and even weathered schedule shuffles during the PyeongChang Winter Olympics—yet it found a second life with international viewers who preferred its slow‑bloom intimacy over bigger, splashier romances. That gap between local numbers and global affection is part of its story, and the series seems perfectly content to be a comfort favorite rather than a blockbuster.
Reviews from overseas fans often highlight the show’s mellow pacing and the healing vibe of its night‑radio framing. Community discussions call it “soft,” “steady,” and “therapeutic,” drawing praise for the way it lets characters exhale. Even viewers who don’t usually seek workplace dramas mention that the behind‑the‑mic setting made them curious about real radio production.
Of course, reactions were mixed—some critics wished for faster stakes or bigger narrative jolts. Kim So‑hyun herself later reflected on taking this as her first project after becoming an adult, acknowledging disappointments in ratings while cherishing a warm set and the friendships it gave her. That candidness from the lead mirrors the show’s spirit: honest about imperfections, resolute about heart.
Awards chatter wasn’t loud, but it was meaningful. Young actor Nam Da‑reum, who plays the male lead’s younger self, earned Best Child Actor at the 2018 KBS Drama Awards—a nod to the flashback thread that quietly anchors the present‑day romance. It’s a small but telling recognition for a drama built on memory, vulnerability, and restraint.
Years later, word of mouth and ongoing platform availability keep Radio Romance in recommendation circles, especially for viewers exploring Korean dramas beyond the headline hits. It’s the title that friends pass along with a soft smile and a “watch this when you need something kind.”
Cast & Fun Facts
Kim So‑hyun portrays Song Geu‑rim with a warm, clear‑eyed sincerity that fits a character who believes words can knit people back together. Her Geu‑rim isn’t the genius writer; she’s the persistent one, the kind who knows the sound of a listener’s loneliness and builds a rundown around it. When she leans toward the mic to read a letter, the performance turns intimate without ever feeling showy.
In her early adulthood when she took this role, Kim threads youthful openness through a workplace setting that could easily have felt too polished. She embraces the awkward pauses, the nervous laughter, the “I’ll try again tomorrow” energy that defines junior creatives. You end up rooting for her not because she’s perfect, but because she keeps showing up—pen ready, heart open.
Yoon Doo‑joon plays Ji Soo‑ho, a top actor whose life is so meticulously scripted that the chaos of live radio feels like freefall. Yoon’s stillness becomes its own language: a jaw set against exhaustion, a gaze softening in the dim booth light, a voice that warms as he stops performing and starts speaking. The transformation from star to storyteller is gradual, believable, and deeply satisfying.
Across the season, Yoon charts insomnia and anxiety with sensitivity, letting the romance bloom as a byproduct of healing rather than the cure itself. When Soo‑ho finally trusts the silence between songs, it feels like a private victory, and Yoon makes that inner thaw readable without melodrama.
Yoon Park brings texture to PD Lee Kang, the producer whose perfectionism hides a restless, almost chaotic tenderness for radio. He’s the kind of boss who can turn a rundown on its head in a heartbeat—and then quietly stock the break room with snacks because he knows his team is running on fumes. Yoon gives the role crackle and compassion in equal measure.
As a counterpoint to the leads, his dynamic with both Geu‑rim and Soo‑ho complicates the triangle without tipping into caricature. You sense a man who loves the medium so fiercely that he can’t help demanding the best from anyone who dares go live. It’s a performance that makes the station feel like a living, breathing place, not just a set.
Yura plays Jin Tae‑ri, an actress fighting to reboot her career after public missteps. Instead of a one‑note rival, Yura sketches a woman caught between survival instincts and the temptation to cut corners. Her screen presence has a cool, precise elegance; when Tae‑ri weaponizes silence, the room tilts toward her.
As the story peels back her defenses, Yura lets regret and self‑awareness flicker through, turning a potential stereotype into a person you can understand—even when you don’t agree with her. That nuance pays off a finale that chooses empathy over easy villainy.
For a sweet Easter egg, the show tips its hat to idol culture with a cameo by U‑Kwon as a DJ in the opening episode—a neat wink that radio is where musicians and stories cross paths. It’s a brief moment, but like many details here, it adds to the “station as community” feel.
Behind the glass, director Kim Shin‑il and writer Jeon Yu‑ri steer the series with a preference for human‑scale stakes: schedule changes, stubborn pride, and the hush before a confession. Their choices keep the spotlight on conversation, voice, and the fragile trust that live broadcasting demands. That consistency is why the show feels cohesive from the first “cue” to the last fadeout.
A curious broadcast‑era footnote: mid‑run episodes shifted to accommodate PyeongChang 2018 Winter Olympics coverage, leading to a couple of two‑episode nights—a reminder that even fictional radio has to dance with real‑world programming. The drama took the shuffle in stride, and fans followed along.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you’re browsing TV streaming services and considering a new streaming subscription for your next comfort drama, let Radio Romance be the one that keeps you company after midnight. Its heartbeat is small but steady, and its belief in the power of listening might be exactly what your day needs. Traveling soon and relying on a VPN for streaming? Check regional availability, settle in with a pair of good headphones, and let this little show speak to you like a letter read on air.
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