Our Universe

The Gravity of Small Things

I wasn’t convinced we needed yet another drama about attractive twenty-somethings stumbling into accidental parenthood. Korean TV is practically running a production line of these right now: tragedy, toddler, forced cohabitation, wait for the thaw. So I went into *Our Universe*, directed by Lee Hyun-seok and Jung Yeo-jin, with my guard up. The setup sounds like something an algorithm would spit out: two in-laws who can’t stand each other—a prickly photographer and a permanently worn-out jobseeker—suddenly responsible for their 20-month-old orphaned nephew. And then, somewhere around episode three, the daily grind of it all—the bickering, the logistics, the raw nerves—started to win me over.



What keeps the sweetness from floating away is the show’s constant hum of economic anxiety. These are people who barely feel qualified to manage their own lives, never mind keep a tiny person safe. South China Morning Post's Pierce Conran called it a "bubbly but cloying mash-up of romance, cohabitation drama and family comedy," and, honestly, that’s not unfair. The series absolutely overplays the wide-eyed cuteness of baby Woo-joo (played by toddler Park Yu-ho, who, frankly, feels more natural than half the supporting cast). But when it stops mugging for “adorable,” it settles into something gentler and more believable.

Look at episode five, when Yoon-seong (Park Seo-ham)—the landlord and the inevitable second male lead—turns up at the apartment. The tension isn’t in big speeches. It’s blocking. Tae-hyung (Bae In-hyuk) instantly fusses over the baby and literally turns his back, like he can physically shut the guy out. And Bae sells it with tiny choices—watch the slight clench along his jaw. He’s spent years playing smooth, stoic rom-com types, but here he lets himself be petty, defensive, small. That roughness isn’t just a stock character trait; it reads like armor. He was left by his older brother at an orphanage, and the fear of being abandoned again is all over him.



Roh Jeong-eui meets him head-on, just from a different angle. After growing from child actor into the glossy lead of shows like *Hierarchy*, she drops the shine here. As Hyun-jin, she carries grief like a physical burden—shoulders rounded, movement heavy. She trudges. When she lies to herself about what they’re building, brushing it off as "just a co-parenting arrangement," her eyes look wrecked. Losing her older sister isn’t some convenient plot point; it hangs around her like weather.

Whether the pacing works probably comes down to how much old-school melodrama you can handle. The landlord love triangle feels like something taped on from a lazier era. Seven years of no contact and he’s still mooning over her? Come on. It pulls focus. The story that matters isn’t about who Hyun-jin chooses—it’s about two bruised people learning how to stop punishing themselves for what happened.



Only half of the twelve episodes are out, so there’s still time for it to wobble. For now, though, *Our Universe* is doing something more interesting than a standard romance. It’s about the stubborn, scary work of letting yourself need someone else. I keep thinking about the quiet stretches after Woo-joo finally falls asleep—when the apartment goes still and these two exhausted adults just sit there, staring across the room, realizing they might not be completely alone anymore.