This review contains spoilers (some from season 2)
At first glance, Oregairu might seem like just another high school romance—predictable, shallow, and forgettable. But looks can be deceiving. Beneath the surface, Oregairu challenges everything from the meaning of connection to the absurdity of self-deception, questioning the very ideologies we often accept without thought.
Instead of simply delivering a typical romance narrative, it exposes the flaws in societal norms and unchecked beliefs, urging us to confront the uncomfortable truths about our relationships and our search for belonging.
The story highlights the life of Hachiman, an individual who seemingly accepts the idea that for the rest of his life, he will be perceived as a background character. He has no friends—and seemingly wishes to keep it that way. He believes that the idea of “making the most of youth” is simply idiotic.
The Self-Sacrifice Trap
Hachiman can often be described as the "sun" of his own universe. He remains detached from those around him, while others simply orbit his presence. He is sharply observant, like a physiognomist—seeing things others overlook, reading people's faces like maps—precisely because he’s always watching, analyzing the animalistic tendencies of human behavior: grouping, hierarchy, conformity, and more.
But this role comes with a cost. Through self-sacrifice, Hachiman constantly prioritizes others’ well-being, disregarding his own happiness. Like the sun, he offers warmth and stability while silently burning himself out. He takes on pain, misunderstanding, and isolation so others can remain comfortable. Yet what he doesn’t realize is that one day, the weight of it all may become too much. Years of repressed emotion, if released all at once, won’t just destroy him—it could hurt those around him, undermining the very relationships he tried to protect through selflessness.
"It's my job to get attacked by people, not her."
His self-sacrifice compels deeper thought. Why does he consistently put his own well-being on the line to make others content—even when it brings him no tangible reward, or even the most negligible benefit?
It’s rooted in his self-negligence, his disregard for his own life. He doesn't believe he is worth much of anything. This may stem from his passive nihilism—where he sees little meaning in his existence and clings to ideals like sacrifice to create purpose.
And why should he care about his life when nobody else cares about it either? It's pretty clear that nobody wants to be anywhere near him, and—well—he doesn't want to be near them either. He knows, secretly, they are judging his every move and how he looks. Ironic, isn’t it? Except, his analysis comes from hurt—theirs comes from prejudice.
But his self-hate goes beyond nihilism. It’s a subconscious belief that his happiness holds less value than others'. And, well, was he ever truly happy in the first place? If his life has been spent in discontent, what’s the point in trying to elevate it now?
And I understand him. Why should you prioritize your own nonexistent happiness when it’s so easily discarded? If it’s nonexistent, why even try to rekindle the fire when your path feels predetermined? It feels like too much work. For him, the answer is clear: he’d rather destroy his already fragile mental health than confront it. After all, the heavier you are, the harder you fall. Those who are weighed down by fleeting joy will inevitably crumble in the face of the world’s cruelty.
Defense by Detachment
"All you fools who delight in youth can all go to hell."
And that is what he hates about his peers. Their affinity for basking in excessive happiness is, in his eyes, unintelligent. Not only does it create false hope, but it makes one sensitive to the world—a world that is cruel and indifferent to suffering. One who is hardened to that cruelty, like Hachiman, doesn’t worry about happiness. Why should he? Where was his happiness to begin with? If his life lacks meaning, what’s the point of being happy at all? That’s why he doesn’t care about making friends. His path is already set in stone—he wasn’t meant to be special.
But ironically, he is special, precisely because of how idiosyncratic his beliefs are—beliefs that diverge radically from those around him. Yet, he fails to see that many of his problems stem from his own actions. His physiognomic sensitivity to others’ expressions and social rituals only stokes the fire within him.
Why? Because, subconsciously, he envies the vast majority. His distance from the norm gets to him. It’s why he constantly analyzes the groups around him.
His incessant critique of class dynamics is, at its core, a defense mechanism—meant to mask his deep resentment toward his own idiosyncrasies. Be it his antisocial nature, his “dead fish eyes,” or his painful experiences—he despises himself. It runs so deep that he deceives even his own mind—as revealed through his monologues, where he clings to the belief: “There’s nothing wrong with me—there’s something wrong with everyone else.”
Seeing Through the Fake
"Go ahead, tear down your own friend."
There’s a reason Hachiman resonates so deeply with people like me. I’ve seen those same fake smiles. I’ve sat in classrooms where you can hear the hidden feelings behind someone’s fragile words. And yet, somehow, I felt more alone surrounded by people than I ever did in silence.
That kind of solitude—it isn’t just loneliness. It’s the belief that connection, as it’s usually portrayed, is performative and empty. Those group projects with that quiet feeling of not being included? The hurt buried in the fat, bullied kid’s words? You’re not wrong for noticing it. The more you notice it, the less it hurts—and the more your subconscious sharpens into something like psychoanalysis.
Hachiman doesn’t despise people because he’s cruel—he despises the rituals of happiness they cling to, the fragility of their illusions. And maybe that’s the real tragedy. When you can see through everything, nothing feels worth seeing anymore. That’s why the saying exists: “I wish I could see it for the first time again.” Seeing something for the second time simply makes it lose some of its meaning. You become detached—not because you want to be, but because it feels like the only honest way to live.
The Socrates Parallel
Hachiman is a modern-day Socrates. No, not in the way you might think. Sure, Hachiman is intelligent—but it’s not about brilliance. It’s their methods, defiance, and alienation that mirror each other.
Socrates challenged the Athenian values held sacred by those around him. He acknowledged his own ignorance, while pointing out that others were blind to their flaws and pretended to possess wisdom. He was radical, unfiltered, and reviled by the mob they called the Athenians—despised not only for his biting criticisms but for challenging their sacred beliefs. To question everything was, to them, to threaten everything.
Hachiman, much like Socrates, takes a page out of the same book—constantly expressing his disdain for friendship, happiness, and the concept of groupism. Through his silence and loneliness, Hachiman speaks his mind about what he truly believes.
Many mistake Hachiman’s worldview as purely cynical—an automatic rejection of hope, friendship, and connection. But in truth, his perspective is grounded in a form of brutal realism. He doesn’t hate people for the sake of being edgy. He observes patterns. He watches how people behave when no one’s looking, and from those observations, he draws conclusions. Painful ones.
Hachiman vs Groupism
"Why is everyone always telling me to change? I don't want other people trying to tell me who to be."
He sees the repressed feelings people try to conceal in order to fit in. He sees the peer pressure people fall into trying to impress a group—because, after all, who wants to be regarded as a loser? Would you rather spend your youth chasing fleeting applause, or sit in silence, carving out something real?
Of course, the answer seems easy. But when push comes to shove, will you stand your ground, or will your fragile, empty words shatter when tested?
Hachiman’s cynicism, much like Socrates’, is not an act of rebellion for the sake of edginess—it’s a defense mechanism. Both use it as a way to survive in a world they see as full of falsehoods and pretense, a way to maintain their sanity in the face of overwhelming dishonesty.
Hachiman doesn’t passively accept the world around him—he challenges it. He goes against the grain of human nature, defying the same impulses that drive others to conform and seek approval. He sees the suppression people undergo to appear just like everyone else, and his extensive understanding of microexpressions only amplifies his isolation.
Not only does he notice the false, pitiful kindness people show him, but also the subtlest shifts in tone—the kind that makes you feel as though you're being toyed with. “We are best friends, right?” If you know the line, you know the weight behind it—the brutal undertones wrapped in what seems like an innocent question.
It’s a pain that can only be endured in solitude, slowly eating away at you from the inside. And pointing out the obvious pretense of it all? That’ll just make you seem stranger to those around you.
This constant alienation Hachiman endures only intensifies his absolutist mindset. His refusal to question or adapt the ideals he’s lived by for years is steadily creating immense problems. Not only does it prevent him from forming meaningful, deep connections with others, but it also increases the distance between him and those around him. While others grow and adapt, he remains static. He wrongly believes his views are infallible and that it is everyone else who is mistaken.
And I don't blame him. Why try to conform and be like the norm when there are obvious problems with how society functions? The tendency to suffocate one’s multifariousness just to seem “like the rest of us.” The hierarchy that naturally forms in classrooms and workplaces. The conspicuousness shown toward anyone who is unattractive or different. Hachiman sees through all of it—and honestly, so do I. However, I also subconsciously judge people based on looks. It’s part of our human biology.
But Hachiman isn’t like us. I’d go as far as to call him psychologically pathological. He sees past the laughter and smiles. He doesn’t just glance at the surface—he stares straight into what people try to hide. What truly matters to him is what lies underneath. He’s rewired his brain to think differently, because he knows exactly what it feels like to be treated like garbage.
He relates to those who become the silent victims of multifaceted jokes—those little “harmless” comments people use to tear someone down without seeming cruel.
And those jokes? They’re what push people onto the path of loneliness. Just one taste of cruelty—especially when no one steps in to defend you—can break something inside. Noticing the tiniest details, like a shift in tone, makes you self-conscious, paranoid, and distant.
Hachiman doesn’t walk around saying “everyone is fake” because it sounds cool—he says it because he’s seen it, lived it, and continues to witness it in subtle ways. The delayed laughs. The forced kindness. The passive-aggressive jokes disguised as bonding. These aren't paranoid delusions. They're microaggressions people pretend not to notice.
He’s used to blunt jokes about his “dead fish eyes.” At least those insults are honest—there’s no pretense, no fake kindness masking the cruelty. But when it turns into anonymous bullying, when your only option is to bottle it all up—it stops being commentary. It becomes humiliation. And the moment you speak up, you’re labeled insecure, sensitive, or even pathetic.
People pull away. You grow even more isolated. The “friends” you trusted talk behind your back, revealing who they really are when you’re not around.
And the worst part? It all comes down to something he can’t even control: genetics. You can’t change the shape of your eyes without surgeries or fillers. It's not constructive criticism. It’s not the kind of bullying that motivates change—it’s just bad luck. Hachiman drew the short end of the stick.
How do you fight something that was never your choice to begin with?
His sister? She turned out fine—normal, outgoing, well-adjusted. But him? He got stuck with the face that invites ridicule... His signature eyes draw attention for all the wrong reasons. And those jokes about his features cut deeper than most insults. Because it’s not something like, “You’re fat, just lose weight.” It’s the unbearable pain of being judged for something you can’t fix, no matter how hard you try.
So, what does he do with all that pain? He gets to it first.
Those same traits—his 'dead fish eyes,', his tendency to have work thrown onto him—Hachiman turns into punchlines. He mocks himself before anyone else can—because if he’s the one landing the blow, it hurts less. It's a way to seize control in a world that constantly tries to strip it from him.
That’s the sad irony: the traits that isolate him are the same ones he parades as comedy. Not because he thinks they're funny, but because laughing at himself is the only way he can breathe in a room full of people waiting to laugh at him anyway.
It's simply a defense mechanism. If he's already distant from everyone else, why not stretch that distance further? He doesn't mind. He owns the joke because he knows it’s true. By getting there first, he takes the power out of others’ hands. It’s a preemptive strike, not for approval, but for control.
He makes people uncomfortable on purpose. Because discomfort creates distance—and distance means safety. If someone already acknowledges their flaws, what’s the point of pointing them out again? There's no satisfaction in kicking someone who’s already on the ground, especially when they're the ones calling themselves out. His loneliness and strange appearance is used as a weapon. That’s the trap he lays. Laugh at him, and it feels redundant. Pity him, and he’ll make you the fool.
He disarms cruelty with cruel honesty—his own. He confuses protecting himself with protecting the truth. What he sees is real. But it's not the whole reality. Little does he know, his ways have endless holes.
And that’s where people like Yukino and Yui challenge him…
Yukino and Yui: Opposition and Alignment
To the untrained eye, Yukino may seem like your archetypal tsundere... She believes she is superior, shuts people down with brutal honesty, and maintains her distance between people as if emotions are beneath her. But digging into what really makes her tick? You find out that's not all she brings to the table.
Yukino's ice cold demeanor isn't just mindless brutality to others around her; Its the shell she has meticulously put together after years of mistreatment and insurmountable expectations.
From a young age, Yukino was often the target of bullying due to the jealousy many girls had for her. She had looks, smarts, athletic prowess, and well, the people around her felt overshadowed by her blinding amount of talent.
It’s not just about her talent; it’s driven by her relentless pursuit of growth and success. And when you’re constantly compared to an older sister who seems perfect, it’s easy to understand why she’d shut herself off from others.
What’s left is a defense mechanism, built out of necessity. If she shows no weakness, no vulnerability, no room for others to exploit her, then maybe—just maybe—she can avoid the crushing disappointment of being viewed as lesser than the ideal. Every sharp word, every biting remark is a shield, keeping people at arm's length to prevent them from getting too close, from seeing the cracks in her perfect facade.
But deep down, Yukino craves something different. She wants to be seen for who she truly is, not the cold, distant persona she’s crafted for survival. She wants validation, not for her accomplishments, but for her humanity. The paradox is that the very walls she’s built to protect herself are the ones that keep others from getting close enough to see that. And so, she continues to walk the delicate line between self-preservation and the loneliness that her walls inevitably create.
Internal Conflict – Desire for Connection vs. Fear of Vulnerability
"I'll do it myself–like I always do."
It's simple. No cracks. No blind spots. No weak spots. This is the mantra Yukino lives by. According to her? Connections don’t matter. But peel away the surface, and you’ll see the burning pain of her loneliness—and her constant yearning for perfection. These impossible expectations and judging eyes, always waiting to punish her weaknesses, are what forced her to adapt, to create this armor of tempered glass. And when you find that one tiny flaw in her defense? All it takes is a single, focused blow to shatter everything.
Yet, the more she keeps others at a distance, the more she begins to realize that this self-imposed isolation doesn’t give her control—it steals from her the very thing she’s longing for: real human connection. She sees it in others—their laughter, their shared stories, the way they support one another. And deep down, she wonders... could she ever have that?
There’s a quiet yearning buried beneath her cold exterior, one that’s almost too painful to acknowledge. The truth is, every time she pushes someone away, every time she seals herself off, she also shuts down the part of her that longs to be seen, heard, and accepted. It’s a cycle, and with each repetition, it becomes harder to escape.
The distance—just like Hachiman’s—continues to grow to unforeseen lengths. And why? Because they were forced to become like this. Their protection is their downfall.
But Yukino isn’t just like Hachiman. While his armor stems from rejection and bitterness, hers comes from the fear of being a burden—of being perceived as useless or undeserving in the eyes of others. That fear drives her to become the embodiment of perfection. They’re so similar... yet so different. Two sides of the same coin, shaped by opposing pressures.
And maybe that’s why they get along so well. Hachiman? He’s at the bottom of the social hierarchy. Yukino sits at the top. Opposites attract, right? She doesn’t need to prove herself—everyone already expects her to succeed. Hachiman? He’s already been written off. He has nothing left to prove.
The icing on top of the cake? These weaknesses are so secret yet so obvious in the way she speaks. As soon as Hachiman asks to be friends with her? She instantly turns him down. This isn't just her subconscious telling her she is superior to him. This is her armor protecting her from a thought-to-be attack. She has built her wall based on her past—guys trying to get close to her because they had ulterior motives—and it is hard to tell someone what they have seen countless times isn't fully correct.
After all, it wasn’t just boys with ulterior motives she had to guard against—it was the girls too. The ones who smiled to her face, but whispered behind her back. The ones who acted friendly, but made her the target of quiet jabs and passive aggression. Jealousy wrapped in sugar-coated cruelty.
Yukino wasn’t blind to it. She saw how the other girls looked at her—like she was some kind of flawless doll, something to admire but never befriend. They didn’t see her efforts, only her results. And when you’re constantly punished for being “too perfect,” it’s hard not to start believing that maybe being yourself is the problem.
It was her against the whole world.
And this perfectionist mindset was self-destructive. She tries to be perfect—yet is that really what she wants? Is it truly what would make her feel seen, comfortable, human? She isn't just some porcelain doll for others to project their ambitions and insecurities onto. She's a person, and somewhere along the way, she lost sight of that. She got it all wrong.
She wasn't supposed to be perfect. But those intense comparisons to her sister made her fall into the trap of perfectionism.
Her sister—beautiful, accomplished, revered—became the invisible measuring stick against which Yukino judged herself. It wasn’t just admiration. It was a rivalry laced with pain. The drive to be better—no, to be perfect—compared to her sister consumed her from the inside out. Every achievement felt insufficient. Every failure felt like confirmation that she was, once again, second place.
“Why can’t I be better?” “Why can’t I do what she does?” “Why am I never enough?”
These are the questions that echo in the back of her mind. They never leave.
And her sister knew this. She didn't want to be seen as a worse version of her younger sister. She wanted to keep her grasp on the crown. And she protected it well—not letting it slip a single millimeter. From leadership skills, athletic prowess, school smarts, and achievements, Haruno drove Yukino to grow this protective shell made from hurt, fear of rejection, and insecurity. And that was her weapon. Why keep power with pure strength when you can do it with manipulation?
Yukino's perfectionist mindset—fueled by others, creating a synergy with her yearning to be better than the rest—was exactly what was keeping her from being that role model that everyone else looked up to. That fear of being lesser clouded her mind and covered her eyes to the goal she wanted to attain. Making her make those rash decisions that stopped her from being better.
And why exactly did Yukino and Hachiman feel the same things, felt through different experiences?
"Birds of a feather flock together"-Anon
Not only were their ideals so close, but their subconscious was wired to be the same. Similarly, they both psychologically analysed all of the people they came across. But Yukino did it out of fear. Hachiman did it because of suspicion.
Their cores are completely the same, but forged with different materials. They each have different things to learn from each other. Hachiman often pointed out the fact that her drive for perfection was stupid and counterintuitive. Yukino? Hachiman's lack of drive to be seen as anything to anyone was often put through intense criticism.
But deep down, they knew that their way they thought was deeply flawed. But that tiny piece of knowledge they had was overpowered by their ideals and their stupidity fueled by experience.
Over time, they get to know what makes them both tick. They can't know about eachother at a single glance. They are psychologically pathological—what they know about eachother is meticulously crafted over months of talking and getting to know eachother.
Overtime they can acknowledge their flaws because they know that they are practically the same. Although from completely different placement on the social hierarchy, that butterfly effect of how they are perceived by others makes them so similar yet so different.
But they are missing one component. Both of their antisocial natures halt their growth and their abilities to become normal functioning humans in society. If they become too comfortable having only one friend, they are going to keep that way.
And thats where Yui Yuigahama comes in.
Yui: The Complete Antithesis of Hachiman.
Yui is exactly what Hachiman despises in a human. Overly bubbly, sickeningly adept at conformity, and self-deprecating for others' useless happiness.
Yui, like Hachiman, is low on the social hierarchy. But unlike him? She is blind to how terrible she is being treated. She mindlessly follows those who are above her in the social hierarchy. She makes herself seem like it's okay to just be the side character to someone else's greatness.
Constantly sucking up to the group leader's bullshit. Getting pushed around and not doing anything about it. This isn't just her personality—it runs deep in our human nature.
Those who aren't at the top of the social hierarchy have to "shoulder that pain for the rest of their lives". Not only does she live from this to a T, but it is extremely obvious in the way she speaks.
she knows she hates to be pushed around. But in order to not be hated by others, she puts on an act like it doesn't matter. She makes sure that other peoples happiness comes first, just like Hachiman. However, Hachiman does it because of his self-nihilism. Yui does it for the sole reason of keeping her social status.
However, that is what makes her special. Due to this, she can close the distance between herself, Hachiman, and Yukino without a second thought. The main thing she cares about is being a friend to both of our antisocial M.C's.
Due to her outgoing personality, she is able to rub off on Hachiman, slowly allowing Hachiman to get out of his comfort zone and allowing him to become a functioning member of society.
In a world obsessed with appearances, where people twist themselves into knots just to be accepted, Hachiman chooses isolation, Yui chooses submission, and Yukino chooses superiority. Each of them reflects a different reaction to the same disease: the impossibility of truly genuine human connection without some kind of lie.
Hachiman hides behind cynicism and self-sacrifice, convinced that being hated is the only form of honesty. Yui wears a smile and tells herself it’s okay to be treated like a sidekick, just so she’s not left behind. And Yukino, proud and sharp, builds walls of perfection to avoid needing anyone at all.
But the brilliance of My Teen Romantic Comedy SNAFU isn’t in showing how they change—it's in showing how they choose to move forward despite those lies.
They don’t become perfect. They don’t find a magical solution. But little by little, they start wanting something real. Even if it hurts. Even if it’s messy. Even if it means being vulnerable.
And that’s what makes this story so powerful. It’s not about fixing people.
It’s about people who are broken in different ways, trying to figure out if they can still be understood. 
