We Got Married was one of South Korea's most beloved yet peculiar television experiments—a reality show that blurred the line between fantasy and sincerity.
Airing on MBC from 2008 to 2017, the show paired up rising stars and well-known Korean celebrities, asking them to live as "married couples," completing domestic challenges and exploring what "love" might look like in a manufactured fairytale.
For nearly a decade, this televised illusion of marriage captivated millions of fans globally.
The show spanned four seasons and inspired numerous spin-offs, including We Got Married: Global Edition, which paired Korean idols with non-Korean celebrities.
The most notable of these was the collaboration with China—a cultural crossover that wasn't just about love, but diplomacy.
Behind the laughter, awkward hugs, and rehearsed sweetness, We Got Married served as something far more strategic.
It was soft power disguised as entertainment—a subtle but sharp tool that both governments used to strengthen trade, ease regulations, and build mutual goodwill.
To outsiders, it might seem absurd to think a "fake marriage show" could influence trade policy.
But to anyone who understood how the entertainment industry functioned in Asia, it made perfect sense.
In a world where image and emotion could sway public sentiment faster than any politician's speech, pop culture had become the new diplomacy.
A single K-drama or reality show could move products faster than any economic reform.
For example, when Princess Hours aired, the cosmetics and clothing featured in the drama sold out across Asia.
Korea's beauty and fashion exports boomed overnight—not because of corporate strategy, but because fans wanted to look like their idols.
So yes, entertainers might look like jesters to the elite, but in the right hands, those jesters could wield influence like diplomats.
And that's what Jihoon always understood—the industry might appear shallow, but its reach could cut deep.
Back to the night in Koreatown.
Taeyeon's cheerful announcement still lingered in the air.
"I'm getting married!" she had said with that playful twinkle in her eyes.
For a second, Jihoon's heart stopped—until she clarified it was for MBC's We Got Married.
Jihoon remembered the show vividly from his past life.
She had joined the first official season as an additional couple.
He even remembered her partner—comedian Jung Hyungdon.
The pairing didn't last long; controversy had erupted when news broke that Hyungdon was actually getting married in real life.
Their so called "marriage" on the show ended after just twelve episodes.
Still, those twelve episodes drew attention.
Their ratings hovered around 15–20%, a solid figure for a show that lived off manufactured emotion pencil by the scriptwriter of MBC.
Fans dubbed them as the "Beauty and the Beast" couple, and for a while, the pairing was all anyone could talk about.
Jihoon, having seen the industry's inner workings, knew that none of this so called "controversy" was accidental.
These so-called scandals—the sudden casting changes, the mysterious leaks—were part of a larger game.
They were marketing weapons disguised as chaos.
MBC and SM Entertainment likely orchestrated every beat to stir curiosity, increase ratings, and boost the public visibility of SNSD, who were still rookies at the time.
It was the kind of manipulation only insiders could appreciate: controversy as currency, publicity as power.
Every scandal laid golden eggs for the producers and agencies involved.
Still, knowing that didn't make the sting in Jihoon's chest any less real.
He knew We Got Married was "just work," yet when Taeyeon said it so casually, he felt a dull ache.
What he thought had cooled into indifference now burned again—softly, confusingly.
Was it jealousy? Maybe.
But Jihoon had lived two lives and had never experienced jealousy before.
It was a strange, uncharted emotion, one he couldn't label yet couldn't ignore.
He kicked the pavement with his shoe, his voice is flat and quiet. "Hm… so it's like that."
Taeyeon noticed instantly on Jihoon's sudden shift of mood.
Especially his sour tone, his restless foot—it was enough to make her giggle.
She hadn't expected him to react that way, but she wasn't about to waste the opportunity.
"Hihihi," she laughed, unable to hide her delight.
If she was honest, she had mentioned the show to see if his heart still beat the same way.
And judging by that tiny flicker of jealousy, it did.
She decided to push a little further.
"Yeah.. That's why our management thinks it's time to expand SNSD's influence," she said, pretending to speak casually but choosing her words carefully. "And as the leader of the group, they said I'm the most suitable member to join the program."
Jihoon nodded slowly. "Makes sense," he replied.
But she wasn't done. "It's just… I joined without knowing who my partner will be. It feels weird, you know? Like in the Joseon era when women married men they'd never met. That feeling—it's strange."
Jihoon turned to her, slightly puzzled. "Yeah, I can imagine," he said, but his tone was distant.
He clearly didn't understand what she was hinting at.
And maybe that was fair.
Jihoon was never good at reading romantic signals.
Across two lifetimes, love had always been a language he couldn't quite grasp.
In his first life, ambition had consumed him—his heart had no room for anyone or anything beyond his work.
Every beat pulsed for success: for the next film, the next award, the next headline.
And now, even after being reborn, those old habits refused to fade.
The rhythm was slower, yes—but the melody was still the same.
Success remained his drug.
The thrill of creating, winning, achieving—it was intoxicating.
And though he sometimes told himself to slow down, to enjoy this new chance at life, something inside him refused to let go.
After all, he wasn't just chasing dreams this time—he was running from the invisible chain of his chaebol bloodline, that suffocating legacy waiting to drag him back to the life he didn't want.
That's why he kept pushing forward.
Harder.
Faster.
Always chasing something—maybe freedom, maybe redemption.
So when Taeyeon gave him an opening, one so obvious that anyone else would've seen it for what it was, Jihoon didn't step through.
He just blinked, trying to process her words like they were lines from a script he hadn't read before.
Taeyeon frowned.
Her patience was wearing thin.
She had mustered all the courage her small frame could hold, nerves bundled tight in her chest.
She'd rehearsed her tone, her phrasing, even her casual expression.
But Jihoon's blank stare shattered all of it.
"Unbelievable," she muttered under her breath, tapping her foot against the pavement.
To her, Jihoon was brilliant—intimidatingly so.
A man who could write emotions into film with breathtaking precision.
Yet in real life, he was as dense as a granite wall when it came to feelings.
She let out a small sigh, puffing her cheeks like a frustrated child before blurting out, "What I'm trying to say is—can you apply for the program with me?"
The words came out louder than she intended, her voice a mix of frustration and embarrassment.
Jihoon blinked again, processing each syllable like it was a code.
Taeyeon quickly backtracked, her tone softening as her cheeks turned pink. "I mean—it's not like I want you to be my couple or anything!" she stammered, waving her hands defensively.
"It's just that—I'd feel more comfortable… you know, working with someone I already know."
She paused, fidgeting with her sleeves.
"I mean, it's weird, right? Joining a show about marriage and suddenly being paired with some random guy I've never even met! It's creepy!"
Her voice rose slightly, her confidence returning as embarrassment retreated. "At least if you're there, I won't feel awkward! So it's for work, you get it? Just work!!!!"
She nodded to herself, as if convincing both him and herself that this was all purely professional.
But Jihoon just stared at her for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly in amusement.
Somewhere between her flustered rambling and fiery tone, he finally found that familiar feeling that he once had.
Maybe that was the irony of it all: that even a staged romance could stir something genuine in a person heart.
And as he looked at Taeyeon, cheeks puffed, eyes shimmering with a mix of hope and nervousness, Jihoon realized that perhaps, in this strange gray space between fiction and reality, he wasn't as immune to feeling as he once thought.
The fog thickened around them, curling in slow, ghostly ribbons beneath the flickering streetlight.
The Los Angeles night seemed to hold its breath—quiet, heavy—like the stillness that lingers between a yes and a no.