A soft blog about randomness, memory, and morning moods.
There’s a very specific kind of feeling that’s hard to explain. That rush you get when you discover something new, and it completely takes over your world. It starts quietly—maybe with a single image, a casual recommendation, or just boredom. But then it pulls you in. Deeper and deeper. Until your brain can’t stop thinking about it, your heart feels full just from being immersed in it, and every free moment is devoted to this new thing you never saw coming.
For me, that spark came in 2022, somewhere in the middle of the pandemic. Life had slowed down, the outside world was uncertain, and I had more time than I knew what to do with. That’s when I stumbled upon a manhwa called Your Throne. I didn’t even start it for the story, really—it was just the aesthetics. The art was so stunning, Medea’s design so powerful and elegant, that I clicked on it without much thought.
But from the first few panels, I was hooked.
There was something electric about it. The way it blended sharp, layered characters with intricate political drama. The slow burn tension. The way you could feel the emotion in the expressions, in the color palettes. I couldn’t stop. And before I knew it, I had entered the world of manhwas—headfirst, heart first.
After that, the obsession snowballed. I devoured Who Made Me a Princess, falling for the soft sadness wrapped in pastel tones and beautiful art. Then came The Villainess Turns the Hourglass, which gave me one of the most satisfying revenge arcs I’ve ever seen. The tower manhwas followed—SSS-Class Suicide Hunter blew my mind with its concept and emotional depth. And then there was Omniscient Reader’s Viewpoint, which still holds a special place in my heart for its sheer scale, its layered storytelling, and the way it handled friendship, sacrifice, and fate.
But there’s one scene I’ll never forget—from Death is the Only Ending for the Villainess. It’s the quiet, devastating conversation between Penelope and Reynold, when she finally explains why she took the Duke’s hand. Her voice isn’t angry. It isn’t even sad. It’s calm, quiet, tired. She tells him the truth: that in that moment, when everyone else abandoned her or treated her like a threat, the Duke was the only one who reached out. He gave her a choice. A hand to hold. A way to live.
And we forget sometimes, with all her sharp decisions and careful words—but she’s just a kid. A child trapped in a twisted game, forced to survive on her own. Expected to be clever, poised, unbreakable. But in that moment, we see her for who she really is: a lonely, scared girl who just wants to live.
The scene is set under a sky filled with fireworks—bright, colorful, bursting above them like a dream. But instead of celebration, the lights feel distant. Like a backdrop to something much more fragile. The art slows everything down. Penelope’s expression is drawn so gently—tired, raw, a little distant. Reynold doesn’t interrupt. He listens. And for a second, it feels like something real is breaking through.
And then… that game window pops up.
Cold. Robotic. A brutal reminder that she’s still not free. That her choices, her pain, even her honesty—are all happening inside a system. That no matter how human she is in that moment, the world still sees her as just a character in a game. That scene wrecked me. Because just when we finally see her soul, the game reminds us she’s still playing.
That was the spark. The kind that keeps you up at night, re-reading favorite scenes. The kind that makes you want to draw, write, imagine. The kind that turns something digital into something deeply emotional and personal.
But… things change.
Now, two years later, I still read manhwas. I still follow new releases, check updates, explore newer titles. But that first thrill? That breathless, heart-in-your-throat kind of love? It’s not there anymore. What once felt like fire now feels like warm embers—still glowing, still comforting, but no longer wild.
And what’s strange is how hard it is to explain that to people now.
When someone asks, “Oh, you like manhwas?” I usually just brush it off—say something like, “Yeah, Korean webcomics, you know, a lot of reincarnation, really pretty art, kind of a pandemic phase thing.” And they nod and move on, and that’s that. I reduce it to a passing hobby, something light and silly. Because how do I explain that it once saved me a little? That it felt like something I belonged to when the world felt so far away? That it wasn’t just escapism—it was something I lived through?
It feels weird now, almost embarrassing, to hold onto that intensity. Like trying to explain your first love to someone who’s never been in love. So I don’t. I let them think it was a casual interest. I carry the deeper meaning quietly, tucked away.
And that’s been the hardest part—knowing something once meant the world, but not being able to share the weight of that meaning anymore.
Sometimes I try to chase that old spark—re-reading old favorites, waiting for a new series to hit me the same way. Sometimes it comes in flashes. A really good twist. A perfectly drawn panel. A heartbreaking monologue. But more often, it’s just… part of my routine now. Something I enjoy, but don’t obsess over. A quiet love instead of a loud one.
I think that’s okay.
Not everything is meant to stay burning forever. Some loves mellow out, stretch their limbs, and settle into your life like an old friend. And even if the thrill of the beginning is gone, it doesn’t make the journey any less meaningful.
The spark may have faded, but the love remains. And honestly, that’s kind of beautiful.
It was a beautiful journey—one I’ll always be happy for.