The evening air was crisp and biting as I buttoned up the jacket of the suit Jimin had given me. It was a perfect fit, tailored with a precision that spoke to how well Jimin knew me. But what made it truly special was the shirt underneath, hand-stitched by Halmeom herself—a piece of home, warmth, and countless memories stitched into every thread.

I glanced at myself in the mirror, adjusting the collar slightly, feeling a strange mix of excitement and nostalgia. The reflection looking back at me felt familiar yet different—older, maybe, but with a heart still brimming with the same anticipation that Christmas always brought. Tonight, however, there was something more to it—a sense of purpose, of sharing these moments with the people I cared about most.

When I stepped out into the hallway, Antonella was already there, looking radiant in the blue A-line silk dress Jimin had picked out for her. The color complemented her so well, bringing out the depth in her eyes and the natural elegance she carried. She caught my eye, and for a moment, her expression softened, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

"You look beautiful," I told her, my voice genuine, though understated, as I took in the sight of my sister all dressed up, ready for the evening.

"And you look dashing," she replied with a playful grin, giving me an approving nod. "You clean up well."

"I bathe more than you."

Jimin appeared next, lingering in the background. He had chosen to wear an old pair of clothes, something simple and worn but somehow fitting. His usual ease was present, though there was a quiet humility in his choice that spoke volumes. I knew those clothes meant something to him—perhaps memories attached to the fabric, the stitches holding more than just the threads but the essence of who he was.

"Why the old clothes, Hyung?" I asked, curious but not pressing.

He shrugged lightly, his smile easy, as always. "Just felt like keeping it simple tonight," he said, leaving it at that, and I respected his choice, understanding that simplicity often held its own kind of grace.

Y/n emerged last, and when I saw her, my breath caught. The pink floral chiffon dress she wore flowed around her like a whisper, delicate and elegant. The soft colors and intricate patterns seemed to dance in the light, making her look like she had stepped out of a dream. Her eyes found mine, and in them, I saw a reflection of everything I felt—anticipation, warmth, and something deeper, something unspoken.

I keep repeating myself whenever it comes to her. I say the same words, I feel the same way. That is how spellbound I am.

"You’re stunning," I said, my voice barely above a whisper, but the weight of my words was evident in the way her cheeks flushed ever so slightly, her smile shy yet radiant.

She walked over to me, the scent of her perfume mingling with the faint aroma of the pine tree in the living room, creating a sensory memory I knew I’d carry with me. "And you, Mr. Jeon," she said softly, "look quite handsome yourself."

We gathered our things, and as we headed out the door, the cold air greeted us with a sharp, invigorating chill. The snow crunched beneath our feet, the town glowing with festive lights and decorations, every corner imbued with the spirit of Christmas. It was a night of contrasts—the warmth of the season against the cold winter air, the simplicity of old clothes against the elegance of new dresses, the familiar routine of a movie night made special by the company and the occasion.

The theater was a short walk away yet we took the car for some reason, and as we arrived, the marquee lights cast a warm glow over the snow-dusted street. The movie title shone brightly, reflecting off the frosty windows and drawing us inside, where the warmth of the theater wrapped around us like a welcoming embrace.

We found our seats, settled in, and as the lights dimmed, I couldn’t help but glance over at Y/n, Antonella, and Jimin. Each of them, in their own way, made this night more than just another Christmas Eve—it was a moment of connection, of shared experiences that would linger long after the final credits rolled.

"What are we watching, again?" I quietly asked as the room started filling with families and friends, everyone celebrating a private moment like the four of us.

"Morning Star," Jimin answered as he sat down with four individual tubs of popcorn. Before I could ask anything further, he added,"Four because I'm not sharing my popcorn with your sister and she's not sharing any with you."

I couldn't help the death glare that Antonella shot Jimin but as long as everyone gets their own popcorn, Jimin was completely fine ignoring her.

As the movie began, I reached out, my hand finding Y/n’s, our fingers intertwining as the screen lit up with the opening scenes. The world outside the theater faded away, leaving just the four of us, enveloped in the warmth of the story, the season, and the unspoken bonds that held us together.

As the soft flicker of the screen cast gentle shadows across our faces, I leaned closer to Y/n, her warmth a comforting contrast to the cool air around us. I could see the anticipation in her eyes, the way she settled into her seat, ready to be drawn into the story that was about to unfold.

“If you don’t mind, love,” I began, my voice low and filled with curiosity, “what’s this one about?”

She turned to me, her expression a void. “You don’t know?”

I shook my head, a small smile playing on my lips. “Nope, no clue.”

She sighed softly, a fondness in her gaze as she explained, “It’s an action melodrama about the martyrs during the Korean War. Quite a sad film, actually.” Her voice carried a weight, the kind that only comes when one speaks of something profound and deeply moving. “I’m not entirely sure why Antonella chose this for tonight, but it’s become quite famous recently. The theater is completely sold out.”

I nodded, absorbing her words, feeling a pang of somberness at the thought of what was to come. “So, the war is the action?” I asked, trying to grasp the full scope of the film’s narrative. “Where’s the melodrama, then?”

She glanced at me, her eyes narrowing slightly, a hint of impatience seeping into her tone. “The families, perhaps,” she replied, a touch of annoyance creeping into her voice. “Just watch, I’m not entirely sure myself.”

I caught the subtle shift in her mood and decided to let the conversation rest, my hand gently squeezing hers in reassurance. The room around us quieted as the opening scenes began to play, the somber tones of the film immediately pulling us into its gravity.

The sound of distant gunfire and mournful melodies filled the theater, and as we watched, I could sense the heaviness of the story weighing on us both. Y/n’s fingers tightened around mine, and I could feel the shared tension between us, a silent acknowledgment of the poignant tale unfolding on the screen. And it was a rather expensive on my memories.

As the film delved deeper into the lives of the soldiers and their families, the layers of melodrama began to unfold with a poignant intensity. The heartbreak, the sacrifices, the love lost and found amidst the chaos of war—it was all intricately woven into the narrative, each thread pulling at the heartstrings with a delicate, almost painful precision. The further the story progressed, the more I found myself captivated, the raw emotions of the characters resonating within me, stirring a deep, almost unsettling empathy.

A folk song began to play softly in the background, its melody distant yet hauntingly familiar. It carried with it a weight of nostalgia, an ache that seemed to echo the sorrow of war, yet within it, there was a purity, a sweetness that spoke of love and longing. The song painted a vivid picture of lives left behind, of hopes that lingered in the air like the final notes of a lover’s farewell.

“This is called Baennorae,” Jimin whispered, his voice barely audible above the mournful tune. He didn’t wait for me to ask; he seemed to know I was drawn to the music. “It originated near the coasts, sung by boatmen and fishers as they rowed their boats. It brought synchronization and strength, but more importantly, it sang of how they missed their wives or lovers when they spent months at sea.”

The explanation hung in the air between us, adding another layer to the already complex emotions swirling around us. “So the war is like the infinite sea,” I murmured, my voice thoughtful, “where most of them will never get the chance to go back to their wives?”

Jimin nodded, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. “Yes. Just like your Mai’s story, right?” His words were tinged with a bittersweet understanding, a nod to the older generations who had fought to build a nation, often at the cost of their own happiness and future.

Y/n had been right; it was a sad film, but it was also something more—a testament to the resilience of the human spirit, to the enduring power of love even in the darkest of times. The film didn’t just tell a story; it breathed life into those long-forgotten memories, those sacrifices that had shaped the world we lived in.

When the credits finally rolled, the heavy spell of the movie began to lift, like the slow dissipation of fog after a storm. Yet, the magic of the night remained, a lingering warmth that kept the cold at bay. We stepped back out into the crisp night air, our breaths forming small clouds in the frosty darkness. But it wasn’t the cold that occupied our thoughts; it was the quiet bond of the evening, the shared experience that had brought us even closer together.

Jimin, Antonella, Y/n, and I walked together toward the car, our steps in sync, the snow crunching softly beneath our feet. The night still held a sense of promise, the quiet joy of Christmas Eve dancing in the twinkling lights that adorned the town, in the hushed whispers and shared glances that passed between us.

As we reached the car, Antonella turned to Jimin, a teasing smile playing on her lips as she noticed his fogged-up glasses. “How can you even see with those on?” she asked, her tone light, yet laced with genuine concern. The cold air, combined with his warm breath, had made it nearly impossible for him to see, and for someone with poor eyesight, it must have been like looking through a thick haze.

Jimin grinned, his response quick and nonchalant. “Practice makes perfect,” he replied, his voice steady, leaving no room for further questioning. He had met Antonella’s challenge with ease, his calm demeanor an unspoken match for her playful jabs.

I couldn’t help but smile at their exchange, the easy banter that flowed between them, a testament to the comfort and understanding we all shared. It was a night I knew I’d carry with me—a night where everything felt right, where the past and present intertwined in a dance of perfect harmony, and where Antonella, always quick with her shenanigans, had found a worthy opponent in Jimin.

How I wish they become someone's someone!