A Moment to Remember 2004

Kim Su-jin is introduced as a 27-year-old fashion designer whose recent heartbreak from a married colleague has left her feeling adrift and emotionally fragile. After a spell of depression, she heads to a convenience store and, in a moment of miscommunication, meets Choi Chul-soo, a tall, rugged foreman who is quietly pursuing his dream of becoming an architect. A blend of chance and tension follows their encounter, and upon returning home, Su-jin receives her father’s forgiveness, which rekindles a spark of hope that new beginnings are possible. The film then pivots toward a hopeful narrative of renewal, where a chance meeting blossoms into something deeper than either expected.

From that initial spark, the two set out to explore a relationship that defies the social boundaries that usually separate them. Despite the clear differences in their backgrounds—the designer’s refined, cosmopolitan world contrasted with the foreman’s grounded, hands-on life—the pair discovers a shared rhythm in small joys and intimate moments. Their courtship is marked by gentle, affectionate gestures, light humor, and a growing sense of trust. As the bond deepens, the decision to marry feels both natural and transformative, a testament to how connection can redefine two people from different walks of life.

The second act follows the newlyweds as they settle into life together. Chul-soo channels his practical energy into designing the couple’s dream house, while Su-jin steps into the role of a wife with warmth and ambition. Their home becomes a canvas for daily life, where simple routines—cooking, decorating, and planning for the future—take on a profound significance. Yet happiness subtly reveals itself as precarious: Su-jin begins to show moments of forgetfulness, including a dangerous lapse where a stove is left on, sparking a fire that Chul-soo narrowly extinguishes. The near-miss underscores a creeping unease and prompts the couple to seek medical advice, signaling a shift from romance toward a more daunting, shared challenge.

The third act delves into the emotional and medical reality of Su-jin’s early-onset Alzheimer’s disease. Denial gives way to a dawning fear of what memory loss will mean for their life together, and the couple faces a profound emotional test: how to stay connected when memory itself can betray you. They commit to walking the path side by side, even as the disease progresses and everyday moments become increasingly difficult to navigate. The strain is real and intimate—forgetting names, repeating questions, and the weight of knowing that the person you love may fade from your own memory. Eventually the couple makes the painful choice for Su-jin to leave their home and enter an assisted facility, a hardship that tests the limits of devotion.

Even in the face of heartbreak, Chul-soo remains steadfast. He visits with quiet resilience, choosing to shield his eyes behind sunglasses so Su-jin cannot glimpse the tears he hides, a poignant symbol of enduring love in the presence of pain. The film returns to the early spark that brought them together, staging a final, intimate recollection of their first meeting in a way that’s both melancholic and tender, surrounded by friends and family who bear witness to their bond. In the film’s closing moments, Su-jin sits beside her husband in a car at sunset, a tableau of companionship that persists even as memory falters, and Chul-soo gently whispers a line that underscores the core of their relationship: > I love you.