WataNare Finds Romantic Comedy Gold in the Absurdities Of Queer Dating

It’s refreshing to see this level of openness, especially as contemporary American animation like the recent King of the Hill reboot grasps at low-hanging gags and reductive understandings of open relationships. WataNare feels not only modern, but free of judgment while being aware of consequences. The narrative, and how it’s framed, has an implicit interest in Renako’s relationship to Ajisai as much as it does her connection with Mai. Similarly, Satsuki embodies the role of so many queer friends who want to support somebody in the one way they know they might not ever be able to. She shows kindness and patience for Mai’s temperamental nature, but isn’t afraid to kick her out after being kept up all night.

These feel like relationships and situationships that aren’t idealized, but instead, a self-aware and postmodern approach to classic romance anime set-ups. In this, it feels truer to queer experience than certain other yuri anime. A resting level of instability is an expected but unspoken given to queer dating. Specifically in regards to trans women, the societal boot on our neck as a collective adds a distinct desperation to our interactions. In one way or another, we’re often scrambling for approval from friends and strangers alike, and at odds with most people in mixed company.

This, I think, adds a certain weight to connections with others like us. “If we’re the only two people like this in a few square miles,” you think, “then maybe we should find a way to stick together.” And from here can spring fast, less than ideal attachment that gives way to intimacy that sears like wildfire—infernal, uncontrolled, dangerous. Other times, however, it can be a spark that ignites a stable, steady bonfire after a rushed move across the country. I’ve experienced both, and it can still be hard for me to predict where things will go in new connections.

WataNare’s third and fourth episodes, though, show how wrong this sort of fast chemistry can go early on. Mai has that aforementioned desperation—despite being an object of affection for many, she romanticizes and idealizes. She projects this onto Renako so much that she often puts her in disadvantageous positions that border on sexual assault. Yes, this is a cartoon, and it is hot, but it’s important to note that cornering somebody you’ve just begun dating in the bathtub and forcing yourself on them is actually assault.

Yet precisely because this is an anime, something that constitutes “assault” in real life can be used in fiction to elucidate a deeper truth. The following episode centers on Renako’s conflicted, frustrated feelings after Mai forces intimacy while Renako’s sister is home. As the audience sees her not only negotiate her affection for Ajisai, but also confide in Satsuki, we come to understand that she doesn’t view Mai as a would-be rapist or anything of the sort. In fact, she wants to “go there” with her, too—just maybe not around her little sister, and maybe not that fast.

This speaks to two of WataNare’s biggest strengths, both of which keep me glued to each episode. One is that character behavior actually has consequences; in spite of the exaggerated comedy, each girl feels like a tangible, imperfect being capable of hurting or reading bad faith into one another. But the other—and perhaps the more major contributor—is that these mistakes feel like the very real, very difficult mistakes many of us either make or experience early on in the process of embracing ourselves. Each character must negotiate terms with one another in a shifting, changing arrangement that forces them to contend with their pre-conceived notions.

Watanare gives me strained empathy and, on some level, forgiveness for queer people in bad places that have put me in uncomfortable positions. Getting near blackout drunk with a self-professed sex-repulsed college friend, who then talked me into unprotected penetration. A Twitter mutual who cornered me in a bar booth and said she wanted to kiss me the second time we ever hung out. (I gave in after the third time.) Others whom I don’t want to litigate publicly, too. For years, I’ve held some sort of grudge against things done to or put on me—focused so much on my own hurt, and how it triggered my actual rape trauma, that I couldn’t cast a shade of complexity over any of it.

This is the virtue of visible, popular queer media like WataNare—something that rings especially true now, as global governments and special interest groups crack down on LGBTQ media. Renako and Mai’s dynamic not only illustrates some of the very real issues that permeate queer dating spaces, but also informs the viewer on how to navigate their own feelings while maintaining empathy for others. To try and understand the source of somebody’s hurt, within realistic expectations, and ask yourself how much ill intent to read into others. Now at its halfway point, I’m eager to see how these girls resolve (or fail through) their respective relationships through this series.

In the 21st century, a resting level of messiness is expected as a queer person. But it’s in how we understand, forgive, and move on that we learn to clean up and form a more resilient collective. Works like WataNare show us how that’s possible, and that—in and of itself—makes the series a worthwhile work of contemporary yuri so far.

Madeline Blondeau has been writing about games since 2010. She’s written for Paste, Anime Herald, Anime News Network, CGM, and Lock-On, among others. In addition, she has written, hosted, and recorded film criticism podcast Cinema Cauldron. Her published fiction debut is due out between 2026 and 2027. You can support her work on Patreon, and find her on BlueSky @mads.haus.