Kdrama Deep-Dive Review: A drama that invites you to not just watch them in grief, but live it yourself—through your own eyes, in your own heart
Melo Movie takes on one of the heaviest themes of all—grief. Whether or not you have lost someone dear, you would have known grief in some form: in the things you have lost—your job, your dreams, your love. This drama does not ask you to observe grief from a distance; it invites you, and you must allow yourself to see it, through your own eyes, in your own heart.
I, for one, had to pause several times just to process the emotions it stirred in me. There were moments I saw myself reflected in the characters—their struggles and sorrows resonating deep.
Gyeom has been carrying his grief for years. From the start, it was just him and his elder brother, Jun. And from the start, he learned to hide his pain behind a bright smile and an easy-going life. No one could see it, but beneath his laughter lay the weight of unimaginable loss. He lost both his parents on the same day, nearly lost his brother then too—only to eventually lose him anyway, as Jun’s health failed him.
When Jun attempted suicide, Gyeom spent time alone, retracing the path his brother’s car had taken off the road. Testing out the scenarios, he came to a quiet, devastating confirmation—Jun had wanted to die, not live. Gyeom chose to keep it to himself, understanding that Jun, as always, would never speak of it. Was this, too, a form of grief? The weight of knowing that a loved one had chosen death, even when their act was never realised?
And when Jun finally died, the fact that Gyeom could not—would not—step into the house resonated deeply with me. I myself have not, could not return to the places I once shared with the person who left me—not even to this day. I felt his pain so acutely when, one by one, he turned the photo frames face down, unable to look at them. When he saw, from the side, the empty chair where Jun used to sit with his tea—unable to go near it. When he would not even step into Jun’s bedroom.
I understood him, fully—because if you step too closely, the memory might just crush you.
Mubee, on the other hand, carried her grief with deep guilt. And she was unable to share it with anyone. When she finally wanted to tell her mother, her mother wouldn’t even let her—as if shielding her from it, or perhaps carrying her own unspoken grief.
Grief alone is already heavy—but grief laced with guilt is the heaviest of all. How does one go on, knowing—or even just believing—that they may have caused another person’s death? When Mubee tried to confess this to her mother, that it was her fault that her father died, she was stopped. Instead, her mother apologized—for not being kind enough to her. Yet we know she was always there for Mubee, especially when her father was not.
Her mother’s apology was so unexpected. Was she feeling guilty for not being there for Mubee when she was missing her dad? But she was there. Was it, then, the fact that she never reassured Mubee about her father? And in the end, I don’t see that being resolved for Mubee, though she did begin to see that she was so caught up in her own pain and that she failed to see the pain in others. When her mother once tried to share her pain—Mubee did not let her.
Now, let’s talk about Sijun. In his grief of losing Jua—who broke up with him on their seventh anniversary—he froze in time, unable to let go, unable to move on.
For Gyeom, grieving his brother’s passing took time. But in contrast he very quickly chooses what to remember and what to release: he keeps the rattan chair but gives away all the VHS tapes. But Sijun clings to the past and that keeps him stuck.
The sadder thing is that what Sijun grieves is not so much about love as it is about self-pity. He is not just mourning the loss of their relationship; he settles into his inability to move forward, justifying his right to grieve, finding comfort in being trapped in that past moment. Could he be one of those people who chooses to stay in grief when all of us long to be free from it?
Yet in the end, he does break free. He finally recognises that his pain is self-inflicted, that he has been clinging to something already gone. And letting go of Jua wasn’t just about her—it’s about letting go of a part of himself, too. So when Jua, perhaps out of kindness, gives him that final kiss, it could have been another trap, another excuse to fall back into his old pattern. But this time, he chooses to move on. And that is huge.
Grief is something we all carry. It takes different forms, presses on us with different weight, but it is inevitable. Whether consciously or unconsciously, we all carry it differently—some with quiet resilience, others burdened by guilt, and some trapped, unable or unwilling to let go. In some way, we are all in grief. Maybe it’s sad, or maybe it’s good that grief never fully leaves us. But as we see in Sijun, sometimes, we do have the power to let go.
And when that moment comes—the letting go but not forgetting—it is nothing short of monumental.
So perhaps, one day, I will return to those places—not just to grieve, but to remember.
If you or someone you know is struggling, please reach out to a trusted friend, a mental health professional, or a crisis hotline in your area.
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