In the quiet darkness of the theater, the screen glowed softly—'Your Name' was still playing, its mysterious rhythm syncing perfectly with the audience's racing hearts.
The air was thick with anticipation, silence broken only by occasional gasps and murmurs as the story unfolded with spellbinding elegance.
A hushed voice echoed from the screen.
"This feeling... probably started from that day."
"The day the meteor fell."
"It felt like something from a dream…"
The screen slowly transitioned—its palette warming with the nostalgia of a simpler, beautiful past. A peaceful countryside morning bathed in soft sunlight bloomed across the frame.
Then, in parallel, the shot split:
On one side, Yoona—playing Gong Sunmin—stood barefoot on the windy shores of Jeju, hair fluttering as she gazed into the cosmos.
On the other side, Ji Changwook's character, Lee Jiyong, watched the same falling meteor from a rooftop in Seoul, bathed in neon lights and traffic hum.
"I just think… this scenery is really beautiful."
With a sudden upward sweep, the camera surged toward the sky like a jet—chasing the meteor's radiant trail. The screen bathed in violet, crimson, and gold. Then, in elegant, handwritten font, the title appeared:
'YOUR NAME.'
The audience collectively leaned forward, their eyes reflecting the meteor's glow.
A beginning worthy of Jihoon's name—where film met art, and emotion painted the screen like brushstrokes on canvas.
As the title faded, a rapid-fire montage kicked in—rhythmic, playful, set to a bright and whimsical tune. Jihoon had personally asked SM Entertainment to compose this cheerful score, and it fit perfectly.
On a split screen, Gong Sunmin and Lee Jiyong were shown living parallel lives—crossing paths unknowingly, their routines intertwined by an invisible red string of fate.
Then—darkness.
A brief, tasteful credit faded in and out.
A soft alarm buzzed.
The picture sharpened from a blur: sunlight pouring through curtains, dancing on the wooden floor of a modest, girl's bedroom.
From left to right, the camera glided with graceful 2D motion.
It stopped on a sleeping girl—Gong Sunmin—lying sideways, hair splayed across her pillow, the hem of her nightgown brushing the edge of the bed.
Gasps and chuckles rippled through the theater.
"Director Lee is so good at capturing everyday beauty," someone whispered.
"Yoona is honestly too cute—she doesn't even need dialogue to shine!"
As the murmurs settled, Gong Sunmin stirred.
"Jiyong-ah… do you still remember me?"
"My name is Sunmin. Gong Sunmin."
The voice, vivid and strange, echoed in her head.
Sunmin bolted upright. Close-up camera on her face.
Her wide, confused eyes scanned the unfamiliar room—old wooden beams, open wardrobe, modest decor. Clearly a girl's room… but something felt off.
She slowly looked down. Her gaze followed the collar of her pajama top… then froze.
Eyes wide.
Hands… hesitantly moved.
And then—cupped.
Confusion deepened.
Her mouth opened slightly as she whispered, "W-What is this feeling? It's… too real."
Just as her hand remained on her chest—creak—the door swung open.
Kim Yoojung's Gong Somin stood at the doorway with a blank stare.
"Unnie… what are you doing?"
Sunmin blinked at her, hand still hovering midair.
"I think… this touch feels too real."
A beat.
Then a double beat.
Sunmin's face changed. "Wait—what did you call me?! Unnie?!"
Somin's brows shot up. "You're seriously out of it today. Get up, we're eating. And please stop being weird."
She slammed the door, leaving Sunmin staring at nothing, still gripping her chest.
The theater erupted in laughter.
"HAHA! Yoona's face is priceless!"
"Wait, is this about a guy waking up in a girl's body?"
"Wow! If I had that power, I'd be like—hellooo me!"
"Oppa! Are you thinking about another girl now!"
"Hehe! Just kidding babe!"
Trying to piece it all together, Sunmin stumbled over to a full-length mirror.
She froze. And then—screamed.
But Jihoon cut away, keeping the mystery just out of reach. The audience leaned in, hungry for answers.
Next scene: breakfast.
Sunmin, now composed but awkward, served eggs and kimchi to her grandmother played by Kim Haesook and sister. Her movements were oddly confident—too smooth.
"You seem normal today," Grandma noted.
"Right? Yesterday you were… kinda weird," Somin added, chewing.
Sunmin paused, chopsticks midair.
"Weird…? What do you mean?"
In the theater, more whispers buzzed:
"Wait—did she already switch back?"
"This movie is messing with my head."
"I love it."
On the walk to school, Sunmin met friends, classmates, neighbors—all reacting to something she couldn't remember.
"You forgot where your seat was."
"Your hair was a mess!"
"You played basketball with the boys!"
"You were like a different person, Sunmin."
Sunmin's face blanched.
"No way. I… did that?"
"You really don't remember? It's like you lost your memory," her best friend frowned.
"Actually… I've been having weird dreams too. It's like… I'm living someone else's life."
The scene faded gently with the soft rustling of wind brushing through the trees.
The screen was bathed in hues of blue and green, as the wide sky stretched overhead, endless and open.
A gentle breeze swayed wildflowers as the mystery of the film deepened, quietly pulling the audience further into its emotional current.
Three girls walked down a country path, schoolbags slung over their shoulders, their shadows stretching out behind them under the midday sun.
Sunmin looked pensive, almost bored.
Her friend, Jiyeon—lively, the kind who always had her head buried in comic books or reading up on strange trivia—grinned and nudged her.
"You know what they say in parallel world theories?" she said excitedly, "If you dream about someone you don't know, you're probably dreaming about yourself… in another world."
Sunmin rolled her eyes with a soft groan. "Come on, Jiyeon, not this again."
"No, seriously! I read it in this extracurricular magazine. Dreams could be portals! You might be swapping lives with your alternate self."
The third girl chimed in, "Well, if that's true, her other self is probably having a much better time than us, we are stuck in this nowhere town."
Sunmin scoffed, flicking a pebble with her shoe. "Exactly. This place is so dead. I can't wait to graduate and move to Seoul."
"Sigh.. tell me about it," the third girl muttered. "We don't even have a proper cinema."
The conversation trailed off into mutual groans, the three of them walking past stone walls and orange orchards. But then—
The screen lifted.
The camera soared into the sky.
From above, Jeju unfolded in a way the girls never noticed: the sea sparkling like glass, emerald forests brushing the edge of sleepy towns, winding roads hugging the coast.
The beaches were golden ribbons, and the farmlands were laid out like a living tapestry.
To the audience, it wasn't a boring countryside—it was a sanctuary.
Jihoon's camera didn't just shoot Jeju. It loved Jeju.
[A subtle title card faded in the corner: "Supported by Jeju Tourism Council"]
What the girls dismissed as small-town dullness was, in fact, a quietly extraordinary world.
The camera descended gently, now following Sunmin as she walked through her daily routine.
A montage began: quiet, rhythmic, unhurried.
Sunmin leaving home with her schoolbag, waving goodbye to her grandmother. She crossed a narrow bridge near Yongyeon Pond, its still water reflecting cherry blossoms.
She passed the bustling black pork restaurant—smoke curling from chimneys as the customer of a group of girl enjoying their feast, ahjummas yelling orders in rapid dialect, the scent of grilled meat filling the air.
A nearby street market displayed fresh fish, tangerines, handmade snacks. Kids ran past her in school uniforms.
This was her life.
At dusk, she changed into work clothes and arrived at the local winery.
She stood barefoot in a large wooden vat, hem of her dress tied up, giggling as she stomped on fermented fruits. Grapes squished beneath her feet with a satisfying splat.
The camera captured it all—her movements graceful, almost like a butterfly spreading its wings.
Her younger sister, Somin, stomped beside her, laughing freely, her cheeks rosy. For a moment, the screen froze on their smiling faces—pure joy, untouched by the world.
A slow, warm acoustic guitar score played.
The audience didn't see a wine-making scene.
They saw a return to nature.
Peace.
A collective hush fell over the cinema.
"Director Lee is so good at this," someone whispered.
"It's peaceful. Beautiful."
"Yoona's wine making it's like therapy."
"Yeah… I kind of want to drink that wine."
"Dude! She's underage!"
"Haha! Just saying!"
The screen faded to night.
Jeju's rural skyline—twinkling lanterns, warm yellow lights from small homes, a starry sky overhead. It didn't feel old-fashioned. It felt eternal.
Then—cut.
A sharp alarm rang.
The screen was blurry again, just like the beginning of the film. Slowly, it came into focus—but this time, it wasn't a girl's room. The walls were filled with posters, textbooks, and sneakers.
A boy's room.
A small, cluttered studio apartment in Seoul. Neon light filtered in through the blinds. Cars honked in the distance. A metro train rumbled by.
Lee Jiyong stirred.
Still groggy, he reached for his phone, smacking around the nightstand until he knocked it off.
He leaned too far—and fell off the bed with a thud.
Groaning, he sat up, rubbing his head.
Then—paused.
He looked down.
Touched his body.
Confusion dawned on his face.
The audience instantly knew.
Sunmin and Jiyong had swapped bodies again.
He stumbled toward the mirror—paused.
His eyes widened.
"What the hell?!"
The scene proceed as Jiyong in school uniform, now clearly occupied by Sunmin's consciousness, walking through the crowded streets of Seoul.
The audience laughed again—every twitch, every subtle movement showed that it was Sunmin in a boy's body. Changwook's acting nailed it.
"Yoona and Changwook are killing it."
"They're totally believable."
"It's so hard to act like a different gender—especially naturally like this."
Jihoon's camera lens opened wide onto a different universe—Seoul.
Suddenly, everything was moving.
The screen was flooded with energy, color, and noise.
Towering skyscrapers sliced the skyline like blades of steel and glass.
Neon signs blinked above crowded intersections where cars honked in frustrated rhythm.
People brushed past each other like fish in a stream—each on a mission, each in a rush.
Delivery bikes zipped through traffic, and high-speed escalators churned inside massive glass-front malls like veins of a living, breathing city.
It was chaos but in controlled.
And Jihoon made it all sing.
The contrast with Jeju was striking—deliberate, even poetic.
In Jeju, the shots were wide and slow, the camera lingering on the wind in the grass, the soft light on someone's face. Warm pastel hues—tangerine oranges, seafoam greens, creamy yellows—painted the countryside like a dreamscape.
But in Seoul?
The palette shifted instantly.
Steel blues. Chrome grays. Fluorescent whites.
It wasn't just the look that changed—it was the rhythm. The editing now mimicked the pulse of city life: quick cuts, sharp pans, whip transitions, drone flyovers, and sudden zoom-ins on character reactions.
The sound design crackled with urgency—the beep of crosswalks, the muffled bass from passing cars, the constant ping of smartphones.
Each frame was alive.
Yet, amidst all that, Jihoon's camera never lost its focus. It danced between speed and silence, capturing not just Seoul's rush—but its loneliness too.
In one wide shot, Jiyong stood alone on a crowded subway train. The metal reflected a hundred faces, none looking at him. The city was loud, but his silence was louder.
This wasn't just a change of scenery.
This was a collision of two souls from two different worlds—playing out like a duet, each melody twisting around the other, contrasting yet complementary.
Jihoon had painted them like light and shadow—something not many directors in Korea are able to do: a seamless transition between two contrasting styles without it ever feeling abrupt.
This is why 'JH Composition' is gaining increasing recognition from critics and professional filmmakers—because capturing transitions through light and movement is no easy feat.
Back in the unfolding story, the body swaps between Sunmin and Jiyong became more frequent—and even more hilarious.
What began as a shocking, awkward experience quickly evolved into a daily routine of comedic chaos.
Each morning brought a new surprise—not just for the characters on screen, but for the audience as well.
And all the while, Jihoon's camera continued to capture it with subtle grace—letting the comedy breathe, while allowing the emotions to slip in quietly through glances, silences, and small, intimate moments.
[Author's Note: Heartfelt thanks to Wandererlithe for bestowing the power stone!]