I didn’t expect to get this obsessed. Truly. When I first started watching Culpa Mía, based on the first book of the trilogy by Spanish-Argentinian author Mercedes Ron López, I thought it’d be just another guilty pleasure, something dramatic to unwind with. But now, with Culpa Nuestra out, I’m fully in, rewatching scenes and texting friends about it. And I know I’m not alone.

Yes, technically it’s a teen romance, but come on, plenty of adults are watching too, hearts clenched, yelling at the screen like it’s our own messy journey. There’s just something about the way this franchise mixes chaos, chemistry, and cultural tension that makes it impossible to look away. Love and identity don’t happen in a bubble – they’re tangled in what we inherit and who we’re becoming.

Let’s talk about forbidden desire, because whew… that trope is doing some heavy lifting here. In telenovelas, it’s rarely just about lust – it’s about navigating the boundaries of culture, social class, and family. Love isn’t just love, it’s a site of rebellion, a battleground for self-determination and defiance. In the Culpa universe, the romance is magnetic but always on the edge of catastrophe. That tension is often painted as intense but doomed: all passion, no peace. We’re taught to love hard and suffer with grace. It’s romantic, yes, but also limiting.

Then there’s gender. You’ve got the classic brooding male lead, Nick (played by Gabriel Guevara), with his deep voice, dark past, and emotional unavailability. Then there’s the “loyal” (even though she cheated on him in Culpa Tuya), Noah (played by Nicole Wallace) – she’s the fiercely, endlessly patient female protagonist, the glue, the fixer, the one who endures. And yes, I like her strength, but I also hate how much she’s expected to carry.

I’d like to see more women carrying their strength without always being defined by romantic agony: characters who navigate desire, ambition, and independence on their own terms, showing that passion can coexist with freedom.

That’s the magic-slash-frustration of the Culpa trilogy. It rides this line between comfort and critique. Yes, it indulges in melodrama and familiar clichés. Still, it’s also giving Spanish-speaking characters a spotlight at the center of a global genre, not as sidekicks, comic relief, trauma tokens, but as full leads. With the first film topping Prime Video charts globally, the trilogy’s success enables us to recognize ourselves in others and uncover the parts we keep hidden.

Here’s the thing… the audience is drawn in because the emotional mess captures the high stakes of young love and the way those feelings stick around well into adulthood. Discovering love, identity, and obligation doesn’t end at 18. It lingers with the push-pull of wanting to choose ourselves without abandoning the people and places that shaped us.

Echoing author Elizabeth Acevedo’s reflections, stories rooted in cultures don’t need to be perfect to matter, and what makes them powerful is their truth. And Culpa Nuestra isn’t perfect. But it’s truthful in how it presents the fire and friction of being a teen, of loving hard, and breaking cycles like machismo,  while still staying connected to where you come from.

So yeah, maybe it’s “just” a teen romance. But for many, it’s also a cultural moment because it centers characters handling family pressure, fiery feelings, and social norms in a way that mainstream teen dramas rarely do, beyond stereotypes.

It’s not just culpa mía, it’s culpa nuestra. And I’ll happily stay in this chokehold a little longer.