When Belgian director Anthony Schatteman set out to make his debut feature, he wasn’t looking to craft the next grand queer tragedy. He wanted, instead, to capture the heady rush of first love—the kind that feels like it could change everything and yet is built out of the smallest, most fleeting gestures. With Young Hearts, which premiered this summer, he’s done just that: created a film that feels less like a story told than a memory half-remembered, glowing at the edges.

The film follows 14-year-old Elias, a shy farm boy whose days are upended when Alexander, the confident new kid, moves in next door. Their friendship quickly becomes something more, unfolding in a series of sun-drenched moments: playful wrestling in the woods, a stolen kiss under sudden rainfall, bare feet splashing in a hidden stream. Schatteman, who has spoken openly about growing up queer in small-town Belgium, draws on his own sense of what it means to long for connection in a world that often overlooks teenage desire.

What makes Young Hearts striking is not its story—boy meets boy, boy falls in love—but its refusal to dramatize pain. Unlike Lukas Dhont’s Close, with its devastating portrayal of how fragile adolescence can be, Schatteman’s film imagines a gentler reality. Parents and guardians here are supportive, not suffocating. Elias’s grandfather, a widower tending the family farm, offers quiet wisdom rather than judgment. Alexander’s aunt and uncle, who run a nightclub, are painted as protective and affirming. Even the inevitable bullying at school barely leaves a mark, brushed aside in favor of moments of joy.

This softness has divided critics. Some praise the film for offering a rare queer story unclouded by trauma, a cinematic space where young love can simply exist. Others see its polished optimism as a missed opportunity, a rose-tinted version of adolescence that papers over the confusion and heartache many LGBTQ teens still endure. Both readings are valid—and both point to why Young Hearts feels so culturally resonant now.

In an era where queer representation on screen often falls into one of two camps—either tragic martyrdom or glossy, sanitized coming-out tale—Young Hearts dares to be something in between: a romantic fantasy grounded in ordinary life. It doesn’t deny that being young and queer can be difficult, but it asks, quietly and insistently, “What if it wasn’t?”

That question makes Young Hearts less of a drama and more of a wish. It’s a film that doesn’t bruise but instead glows, lingering not as a wound but as a daydream: the memory of a first crush, the warmth of summer air on your skin, the electric thrill of realizing you’re no longer alone.

And maybe, in giving audiences that softness, Schatteman has achieved something radical after all.

Young Hearts will be available to rent and buy on digital platforms from 1 September.