As the theater lights dimmed and the film SUNNY began to play, the screen slowly came to life with the glow of a quiet, well-furnished home.
The story opened with the older version of Im Nami, played by Jung Aeri, a woman who seemed to have everything—wealth, a beautiful house, and a family.
But as the camera lingered on her face during yet another silent breakfast, it was clear something was missing.
Nami sat with her family at the dining table for breakfast, gently stirring her spoon in a bowl of untouched soup.
On the other end of the table sat her husband who is buried in with his phone, barely glanced at her and her teenage daughter rushed past the table without so much as a "good morning" before leaving the house.
Though her life looked picture-perfect from the outside, inside, Nami was drifting—lonely, disconnected, and slowly fading into the background of her own life.
One day, during a routine visit to the hospital to see her strict, no-nonsense mother-in-law, Nami's life took an unexpected turn.
As she walked through the quiet hallway, her eyes landed on a nameplate outside one of the patient rooms: Ha Chunhwa.
She paused. That name. It had been 25 years. Could it really be her?
Curious and a little nervous, Nami stepped inside—and there she was. Older version of Chunhwa played by Im Yejin, once the fearless leader of their high school group, now frail and tired, yet still carrying that same spark in her eyes.
"Nami?" Chunhwa smiled weakly. "Wow… you haven't changed a bit."
"Chunhwa unnie…" Nami whispered, her heart catching in her throat. "It's really you."
The two old friends spent the next hour catching up, laughing quietly at old memories and shaking their heads at how fast life had flown by. Chunhwa, still as bold as ever, confessed how she'd made a vow back in high school—to be successful, to earn more than 100 million won, and to prove everyone wrong.
"I finally did it," Chunhwa said with a soft smile, looking out the hospital window. "But you know what I want now, more than anything?"
Nami tilted her head. "What?"
"I want to see everyone again. All of us. Sunny."
Nami's breath caught at the name.
Sunny—their high school girl group, named after their favorite disco song, Sunny by Boney M.
They weren't great singers, and their dance moves were all over the place, but they had heart.
They had friendship. And for a little while, they had the world.
But time passed. Life happened. And like many teenage promises, the bond they once had slowly faded into memories.
Chunhwa's voice softened, "I don't want to die without seeing you girls again. Even just once. I miss our laughter, our fights, our dreams… I miss us."
That night, as Nami lay in bed staring at the ceiling, Chunhwa's words echoed in her mind.
Something inside her stirred. Maybe it was guilt, maybe it was nostalgia—or maybe, just maybe, it was the part of her that still remembered what it felt like to be alive.
The next morning, Nami visited her old high school.
The building had changed. It had a new coat of paint, a renovated wing, and a modern glass entrance—but the air, the feeling of the place… that hadn't changed at all.
It still smelled faintly of chalk and teenage sweat, and as the school bell echoed in the distance, it felt like she'd stepped into a time capsule.
She slowly walked through the corridors, her heels clicking against the polished floor, each step bringing a flood of memories.
Laughter in the stairwell.
Secret snacks passed under desks.
That one time they got caught writing love letters during math class. It all came rushing back.
"Nami?" a voice called from behind.
She turned and saw a familiar face—older, rounder, balder—but unmistakably her former homeroom teacher.
He blinked a few times, then broke into a warm, surprised grin. "You were the transfer student from Jeolla, right? The one from the '80s?"
Nami chuckled softly. "Yes, that was me... With the country accent and all."
"Ha! You're always quiet, polite… but always hanging around with that wild bunch of girls." He laughed, shaking his head. "Ha Chunhwa, Kim Jangmi, Hwang Jinhee... what did you all call yourselves again?"
"Sunny," Nami replied, smiling fondly. "We called ourselves Sunny. After that disco song."
The teacher's face lit up with recognition. "Right, Sunny. You girls were something else. Always causing a ruckus, but full of heart."
He paused. "So, what brings you back after all these years?"
Nami hesitated, then said quietly, "I'm looking for them. Chunhwa's in the hospital… she's very sick. Her last wish is to see us all together again."
The teacher's face softened. "I'm sorry to hear that. I'll check the old alumni files, see if we can find anything."
As Nami followed him to the office, they made small talk while the homeroom teacher searched through the school records. Unfortunately, there wasn't much to be found—too much time had passed. Just as Nami was about to give up and leave, the teacher suddenly perked up.
"Wait a second—Kim Jangmi! She came by a few years ago trying to sell me insurance. Gave me her card too. Maybe you can start there."
Nami thanked him and held the business card like a golden ticket.
Later that day, she visited the hospital again.
There, Chunhwa—now frail and on oxygen—was surprised by a sudden, teary-eyed hug from none other than the grown-up Jangmi.
"You idiot!" Jangmi sobbed. "Why didn't you tell us sooner? You bought insurance for everything but not for your damn self?"
Even Chunhwa managed a laugh.
Through the emotional reunion, another old friend, Seo Geumok, joined them. She was quiet at first, then suddenly exclaimed, "Wait—I know someone who can help us find the rest."
"Who?" Nami asked.
"There was this debt collection agency," Geumok said sheepishly. "Back when I was hiding from debt, no matter where I moved, they always found me. If they could find me, they can find anyone."
Using that odd but effective method, one by one, the rest of the Sunny girls were found.
Ryu Bokhee, now a plastic surgery consultant; Hwang Jinhee, still foul-mouthed and fearless; and finally, even the elusive Jung Suji—still cold, still beautiful, and still nursing quiet scars.
Nami's own life, meanwhile, was quietly unraveling.
One day, she discovered her daughter being bullied at school.
When she gently asked what was wrong, her daughter snapped.
"What's the use of telling you?" she shouted. "You don't understand anything!"
That hurt more than Nami expected.
In her daughter's eyes, she was just a quiet, mild housewife.
She didn't know that her mother once danced in the streets, yelled at riot cops, got into fights, laughed until sunrise with six other girls who made the world feel less lonely.
And so, in a moment of ridiculous, beautiful defiance—those forty-something-year-old women, the ones who once called themselves Sunny—got together again.
They found out about a group of teen girls who had been bullying Nami's daughter.
Instead of calling the parents or writing complaint letters, they made an appointment… to fight.
It was chaotic, messy, and utterly glorious.
When the police arrived, confused about why a bunch of middle-aged women were brawling in a schoolyard, the Sunny girls were already in the back of the patrol van, sweaty and bruised—but laughing.
As the van drove off, they raised their hands in unison and performed their signature celebratory dance from high school, like nothing had changed.
For a moment, it really hadn't.
The movie ends with a bittersweet goodbye. Chunhwa's funeral.
Her last wish? That her friends dance Sunny one last time.
In a room filled with mourners, five grown women slowly took the stage. The lights dimmed. The song began to play.
"~Sunny… yesterday my life was filled with rain… ~"
At first, their steps were hesitant—off beat, clumsy, uncertain. They glanced at one another with watery smiles.
But with every beat, their feet remembered.
Their bodies remembered.
She was there, in every move.
Tears rolled down their cheeks as they moved in imperfect rhythm, arms raised toward the ceiling like they were seventeen again.
They weren't just dancing for Chunhwa.
They were dancing for who they used to be.
For the time when they believed anything was possible.
For the girl in each of them who never really left.
And as the music soared, something incredible happened—
They weren't awkward anymore.
They were alive.
In the crowd of audiences, someone began to cry. Then another. Then more.
Even a teenage girl in the back row wiped her eyes with her sleeve and mumbled softly,
"Damn it… this director's tricking me into crying again."
By now, the cinema knew better.
Whenever a Jihoon film was playing, they stocked up on tissues and handed them out with the tickets—no joke. Years of experience had taught them that no matter the audience—young or old, man or woman—his films always found a way to tug at something deep.
And Sunny was no different.
It wasn't just a film.
It was a celebration—of friendship, of youth, of dreams that still lived somewhere inside us.
It was a quiet, aching reminder of what it means to grow older… without ever truly letting go of who you once were.