He knew he was being totally cliché and a hopeless romantic, but N had always loved the idea of falling in love at a bus stop.

Every single morning, he would wait at the bus stop outside his home for the first service of number 63, the bus that would take him straight to his practice room. He always got to the bus stop a good twenty minutes earlier though, out of a habit of arriving early; and in that amount of time, N would find himself daydreaming about finding love right where he was.

He glanced around. The familiar faces that would wait with him all seemed to have fallen into a routine, and N had taken in everything with his observant, curious eyes.

There was the young, promising businessman, whose eyes were always glued to his smartphone. It comforted N, however, that the man didn’t only use the phone for work purposes, because N had often seen the young man’s sappy smile when the man checked his messages.

The sisters that also waited alongside N were his long-time neighbors, but he didn’t know them very well. From the neighborhood gossip that he had once accidentally heard during one of his mom’s phone calls, the two girls had opened a charming little café somewhere near his company building. With their quaint fashion and pretty smiles, N always thought that it was no wonder that the two of them ended up being café owners.

Adding to their group were the sweet old lady and her grandchild, who only showed up on school days. They were friendly and approachable, and, upon asking and knowing N’s name, the grandmother had insisted that the little boy greet N each morning. The child would also greet another “noona,” and that was how N knew the name of the last and, whom N thought, the most interesting person of their little party.

She was an art student, from what N had observed. She carried a huge knapsack which was stuffed to the brim with what he assumed was art supplies, because she held her textbooks and sketchbooks in her arm. In her pocket (for she always wore tops with pockets, N had noticed), a pencil could be seen sticking out, ready to be used whenever inspiration struck.

She was pretty, N had decided a while back. She wasn’t like the two sisters who were very made-up and stylish, but her pleasant smile lit up her eyes. Falling down in slight curls around her shoulder or sometimes tied up in a single braided ponytail, her dark brown hair reminded N of his favorite chocolate peanut butter ice cream. Her steps were light and bouncy, as though she were born to be the dancer, instead of him.

She was a polite little thing, never failing to respectfully greet and make conversation with the old lady and any other older people who had happened to join their group that morning. N waited for the day that they would finally talk, too, but she never gave him more than a nod and a small smile if they had happened to make eye contact, which was very rare to begin with.

N knew he seemed like a coward for not making the first move, but his dream was to fall in love at a bus stop, not to pick up girls at a bus stop.

Call him stubborn, call him immature, call him a blind believer of cliché happy endings; but N wanted the magic that he believed always came with falling in love. He wanted what he saw in movies and read in fairytales. He thought that if this sweet art student and he were truly meant to be, he wouldn’t have to take the initiative, throw a couple of pick-up lines around, or show his N charisma just to get the girl to notice him: at the end of the day (metaphorically speaking), they would meet somehow.

Thus, N had waited.

On this fateful morning, N sat on the far side of one of the two benches at the bus stop. The bus was scheduled to arrive in fifteen minutes. The grandmother and her grandson, who usually arrived quite early as well, were nowhere in sight. To N’s right, the young businessman was on the phone once more. N couldn’t really hear him, but the young man was slightly frowning and seemed rather exasperated. Pursing his lips together in a little pout, N turned his attention to the other bench where the sisters were seated, the younger of the two leaning her head onto her unnie’s shoulder. A middle-aged couple that N recognized from previous mornings were to the sisters’ left, their fingers entwined as they talked quietly.

N sighed and focused his gaze onto his bright red running shoes. He tapped the tops of his shoes together back and forth but promptly stopped when he saw a pair of sky blue flats make its way in front of him. Eyes widening, he unconsciously straightened his back and took a peek to his left where the object of his interest had sat down.

Even though N would admit that he watched her often, he didn’t actually do much staring. This day, as usual, he took one quick glance and took in everything. He saw that she had in her arm more books than she usually did and her hair was in a slightly messier hairstyle. She had on her glasses, probably in an attempt to hide the dark circles under her eyes, N noted.

He thought she looked pretty any way.

She seemed awkward and flustered as she rifled through her stack of books, and from where N was sitting, he could hear her mutter to herself something about “needing to get a bigger or a second bag.” As she continued looking for something, she accidentally dropped two sketchbooks, and the playful wind immediately picked up a couple of loose sheets and brought them towards N.

With her soft exclamation and scrambling, N jumped up and bended down to help her before the papers could fly any further.

“Oh, thank you so very much,” she said as she knelt down beside him. “I’m so clumsy today,” she added and laughed.

“No problem.”

“It’s finals week, and I haven’t been getting much sleep, so—oh goodness, not that!” Her eyes widened in shock and dread as she saw what was in N’s hand. She tried to reach across and snatch the piece of paper from him, but he instinctively brought it out of her reach and closer to his face as he inspected her artwork.

It was a drawing of him, fully sketched and fully colored.

“Oh goodness, this is embarrassing,” she began. “I’m so, so sorry for drawing you without permission! I never meant for you to find out—I mean—even if I hadn’t, I shouldn’t have... I just—I thought your red hair a beautiful contrast with your dark skin tone—the way the almond shape of your eyes change when you’re thinking—it's—” She suddenly realized that she had been rambling and clamped her hand over . “I’ll shut up now.”

N continued staring at the portrait of him. It was the first time he had ever seen a drawing of himself, and he concluded that it was done very well. Scrutinizing her careful and brilliant coloring suddenly made him comprehend what she had meant by his hair and skin tone. Unconsciously, he reached up and touched his blazing red hair. He remembered how he had first thought this hair color a bad decision.

Her signature and a date were on the bottom right corner, and the words “The Red-haired Thinker at the Bus Stop” served as the title on the top.

He turned his gaze to her and saw that she was still very much embarrassed. He liked her pretty blush. Smiling tenderly, N stood up and stretched his hand out towards her. “Don’t be sorry. This is a wonderful piece.”

She looked up, surprised, and allowed herself to be pulled up by him. “You aren’t creeped out?”

“Of course not! I’m honored, in fact!” N assured her and looked at the drawing once more. “The title though...” he trailed off and tilted his head.

She winced. “Is it weird? I’m sorry. You just always seemed deep in thought.”

Finally passing the drawing back to her, he smiled and replied, “No, it isn’t. Just... my name is Hakyeon, if, you know, you wanted to add it in.”

“Hakyeon...” she repeated softly, letting the name settle in her mind.

“Cha Hakyeon,” he said with finality. “And you really should stop apologizing, Sooyeon. This is really good!”

Just when she thought she couldn’t be any more surprised by her “red-haired thinker,” he proved her wrong yet again. She stared at him, mouth agape. “How... how do you know my name?”

So this was how the magic worked, N thought as he smiled knowingly.

“You aren’t the only one who observes, you know.”