Review In Your Heart (2022) BY RicardoBarros
When I first stumbled upon In Your Heart, I had no real expectations. I was casually exploring short BL dramas, a genre I tend to gravitate towards when I want something light, emotionally charged, yet digestible in one or two sittings. At a glance, the title felt like something out of a Taiwanese production, which gave me a flicker of hope. However, to my surprise, it turned out to be a Chinese BL drama—a rare gem in a landscape where LGBTQ+ narratives are often suppressed or filtered through layers of metaphor and ambiguity due to censorship.
The premise is relatively straightforward, even familiar: childhood friends growing up under fractured family circumstances, trying to navigate the mess of emotions that accompany adolescence. Cheng Yi and Ling Zi Ming form the emotional core of the series, their connection one of deep familiarity and unspoken longing. They’re the kind of characters whose bond transcends dialogue; it’s written in glances, silences, and hesitation. But as puberty and the complexity of feelings take root, so does the distance between them. That part of the story felt authentic—raw, even. Anyone who’s gone through emotional confusion during youth, especially within the confines of a same-gender bond, will likely recognize something of themselves in their tension.
However, what begins as promisingly intimate devolves into something far less fulfilling by the end. Much has been said about the ending, and I can’t disagree with the general consensus: it’s disappointing. But in the context of Chinese BL media, it’s sadly predictable. Whether due to government restrictions or studio hesitations, the narrative arc is cut short just when it should crescendo. The emotional climax never arrives; instead, it plateaus, and eventually collapses under the weight of its own restraint.
I gave it a second watch recently, hoping maybe my initial reaction had been too harsh, that perhaps I’d overlooked something—subtext, nuance, a subtle message buried in the silence. But instead of finding hidden gems, I only felt mounting frustration. The characters that once intrigued me now felt one-dimensional, their development hindered by the script’s unwillingness to push boundaries or explore their emotions in depth. Ling Zi Ming, in particular, had so much potential for inner conflict, but the series never truly let us inside his head. The same goes for the secondary characters Lu Xiang Lin and Yue Yu Zhi, who felt underused, reduced to plot devices rather than individuals with agency.
Visually, the series isn’t terrible. The cinematography has moments of softness that mirror the vulnerability of youth, and the music—while sparse—is appropriately melancholic. But that’s not enough. A show needs emotional payoff. And this one, sadly, offers very little in that regard.
What makes it more frustrating is that the source material—Li Yun Ming’s novel—has more emotional weight and arguably gives the characters fuller arcs. This adaptation, however, seems reluctant to embrace the heart of that story. It skirts around intimacy, hints at deeper connection, but always pulls back before it can leave an impression. It leaves the audience hungry, not for more episodes, but for a version of the story that dares to be braver.
I don’t typically regret watching dramas, even flawed ones. But In Your Heart left me with an aftertaste of “what could have been.” If you’re curious, sure—give it a watch. It's short, and parts of it may resonate. But don't go in expecting resolution or emotional catharsis. Watch it, appreciate its rare attempt at telling a queer story within a censored market, and then move on. Just don’t make the same mistake I did by returning to it for a second round. Some stories are better left as fleeting memories, not emotional investments.
The premise is relatively straightforward, even familiar: childhood friends growing up under fractured family circumstances, trying to navigate the mess of emotions that accompany adolescence. Cheng Yi and Ling Zi Ming form the emotional core of the series, their connection one of deep familiarity and unspoken longing. They’re the kind of characters whose bond transcends dialogue; it’s written in glances, silences, and hesitation. But as puberty and the complexity of feelings take root, so does the distance between them. That part of the story felt authentic—raw, even. Anyone who’s gone through emotional confusion during youth, especially within the confines of a same-gender bond, will likely recognize something of themselves in their tension.
However, what begins as promisingly intimate devolves into something far less fulfilling by the end. Much has been said about the ending, and I can’t disagree with the general consensus: it’s disappointing. But in the context of Chinese BL media, it’s sadly predictable. Whether due to government restrictions or studio hesitations, the narrative arc is cut short just when it should crescendo. The emotional climax never arrives; instead, it plateaus, and eventually collapses under the weight of its own restraint.
I gave it a second watch recently, hoping maybe my initial reaction had been too harsh, that perhaps I’d overlooked something—subtext, nuance, a subtle message buried in the silence. But instead of finding hidden gems, I only felt mounting frustration. The characters that once intrigued me now felt one-dimensional, their development hindered by the script’s unwillingness to push boundaries or explore their emotions in depth. Ling Zi Ming, in particular, had so much potential for inner conflict, but the series never truly let us inside his head. The same goes for the secondary characters Lu Xiang Lin and Yue Yu Zhi, who felt underused, reduced to plot devices rather than individuals with agency.
Visually, the series isn’t terrible. The cinematography has moments of softness that mirror the vulnerability of youth, and the music—while sparse—is appropriately melancholic. But that’s not enough. A show needs emotional payoff. And this one, sadly, offers very little in that regard.
What makes it more frustrating is that the source material—Li Yun Ming’s novel—has more emotional weight and arguably gives the characters fuller arcs. This adaptation, however, seems reluctant to embrace the heart of that story. It skirts around intimacy, hints at deeper connection, but always pulls back before it can leave an impression. It leaves the audience hungry, not for more episodes, but for a version of the story that dares to be braver.
I don’t typically regret watching dramas, even flawed ones. But In Your Heart left me with an aftertaste of “what could have been.” If you’re curious, sure—give it a watch. It's short, and parts of it may resonate. But don't go in expecting resolution or emotional catharsis. Watch it, appreciate its rare attempt at telling a queer story within a censored market, and then move on. Just don’t make the same mistake I did by returning to it for a second round. Some stories are better left as fleeting memories, not emotional investments.
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RicardoBarros
In Your Heart (2022)
在你心之所向的地方
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10.0
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5.0
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