South Korea’s first lesbian dating reality show has a simple hook and a quietly radical implication: put women who love women at the center of a format that Korean TV has long used to sell romance as mainstream aspiration. That’s what Wavve did with ToGetHer (너의 연애)—often described as the country’s first reality series built around lesbian romantic relationships—a Wavve original that premiered April 25, 2025, and instantly became a cultural conversation as much as a streaming title.
ToGetHer arrives with the glossy familiarity of Korean dating-variety—shared living space, carefully staged “first impressions,” dates that shift from playful to intimate—but it changes the emotional grammar by letting attraction unfold between women without treating it as a twist or a punchline. In promotional materials, the show leans into sincerity rather than spectacle, and it’s framed in the language Koreans often use for heartfelt romance: 설렘 (seolleim, “fluttering excitement”) and 진짜 (jinjja, “real”) feelings. The producers (linked in Korean media to the team behind His Man (남의 연애), a male–male dating series) position ToGetHer as a natural next step in a broader queer reality experiment that streaming platforms can attempt more easily than broadcast networks.
Wavve itself matters here. As a domestic streaming platform competing in a crowded OTT market, it has used originals and niche fandoms to differentiate, including LGBTQ-themed reality programming. A few years before ToGetHer, Wavve launched Merry Queer (메리퀴어), a reality series centered on LGBTQ relationships and the everyday negotiations around visibility and family. Those earlier steps didn’t erase the risk; they clarified it. In South Korea, where public life can be intensely conformist and where social pressure is often managed through 눈치 (nunchi, reading the room), queer visibility still carries costs—at work, in family settings, and online. So a lesbian dating show doesn’t only deliver romance; it also asks viewers to watch women navigate the push-pull of 커밍아웃 (keoming-a-ut, “coming out”) culture, privacy, and the fear of being reduced to labels.
The show’s performance suggested curiosity beyond a tiny niche. After the premiere, Korean coverage noted that ToGetHer ranked within Wavve’s internal viewership charts (including a reported No. 14 shortly after its first episodes), and it was distributed beyond Korea through select overseas platforms—small details that signal Wavve’s intent to make the title travel. The viewing experience, for many fans, has also become part of the story: international audiences have closely tracked availability, subtitles, and region restrictions, a familiar pattern for Korean reality formats that find global micro-fandoms faster than they find wide licensing deals.
Culturally, ToGetHer lands at an awkward-but-revealing moment. Korean popular culture is globally influential, yet domestic television has historically been cautious about LGBTQ themes—especially in non-fiction formats where “real people” can be targeted afterward. That’s why the show’s emotional tone is significant. Instead of leaning on controversy, it emphasizes tenderness: letters, late-night conversations, the slow recognition that desire can be ordinary. Even the title’s bilingual play—ToGetHer as “together” with “her” highlighted—signals what Korean often leaves implicit: women’s romance as a complete narrative, not an add-on.
Will it run in 2026? A new Season is reportedly scheduled for April next year. What’s firmly visible right now is that Wavve is publicly framing 2026 as an expansion year for its “queer universe” (퀴어 유니버스) of reality shows—Korean reports about its 2026 variety lineup explicitly reference His Man and ToGetHer as part of that identity, alongside new queer-themed formats. That doesn’t automatically equal a confirmed ToGetHer season with a locked premiere date, but it does indicate the platform is not backing away from LGBTQ reality after the attention ToGetHer generated. In other words: even if the exact scheduling can shift, the space ToGetHer opened looks—by Wavve’s own positioning—like it’s staying open.
A fruit juice in one hand, the remote control in the other, feet up, phone finally on silent. Auntie is ready. Ready-ready. Ready for Season 2 of ToGetHer. Because yes, dear children, the first season was not just good. It was amazing. Quietly, gently, unexpectedly amazing.
I didn’t binge it the way I binge trashy straight dating shows, yelling at the screen and judging everyone’s red flags. No. This one I watched more slowly. With pauses. With sighs. With that familiar tightening in the chest that comes when you recognise something you were once told didn’t exist. Women falling for women on Korean television, not as a joke, not as a scandal, not as a tragic subplot, but as the main story. Imagine that.
What struck me most was not the drama—there was some, obviously, because lesbians are human and humans are messy—but the tenderness. The way attraction unfolded without macho posturing, without conquest games. The hesitations. The long looks. The careful wording. That very Korean mix of emotion and restraint, the dance of 눈치 (nunchi), reading the room, reading each other, reading yourself. I saw younger versions of women I’ve known across Asia, and older versions too—the ones who learned late, painfully late, that love doesn’t have to follow the script you were handed at birth.
And let’s be honest: in a country where so many women still live double lives, where coming out can cost you family, job, peace of mind, the very act of showing your face on a show like this is bravery. Not the loud, activist kind that gets you on panels, but the everyday courage of saying: this is who I am, this is how I love, take it or leave it. Auntie salutes that.
Season 1 also did something rare. It didn’t try to “explain” lesbians to a presumed straight audience. No educational lectures, no tragic backstories neatly packaged for sympathy points. Just women. Flawed, funny, guarded, hopeful. Desire without footnotes. Romance without apology. For once, we weren’t reduced to symbols or social issues—we were allowed to be boring, awkward, jealous, soft. Revolutionary, really.
So yes, I’m ready for Season 2. Curious to see who walks in, what connections spark, who messes things up, who surprises herself. I hope the producers keep the same tone: less spectacle, more truth. Less voyeurism, more respect. Don’t over-polish it, please. Let the silences breathe.
Now if you’ll excuse me, Auntie is topping up her juice. The remote is waiting. And for once, Korean reality TV feels like it remembered that love—real love—comes in more than one shape.