Seunghyun sighs, setting down his pen for the fortieth time that night. His writing pad, to his dismay, is still blank. He checks his watch, his heart sinking further down in his chest when he realizes he’s been sitting here—uninspired—for almost an hour.

He glances around the dimly lit bar, hoping his eyes will light on someone who could inspire even a line or two. He just needs something. To the front of the bar and to his left, there’s a girl with brightly dyed red hair. She smiles seductively and talks to the bartender in between drags of her cigarette. She’s pretty, but nothing about her snags Seunghyun’s eye and keeps it there. There’s an older man with girls—almost surely es—clutching tightly to his arms and laughing loudly at whatever he says.

There could be a story there, but Seunghyun is absolutely positive it isn’t one he wants to write. There’s one young man, probably only a few years older than Seunghyun, seated a couple tables away, completely alone, the light from the fixture just above his table swaying over him, bathing his features in a soft glow. There’s really nothing that sets him apart from the bar’s other patrons, but just seeing him lights a fire in Seunghyun’s mind.

Seeing into other people’s lives with just a glance might be seen as a talent, but is something rather commonplace for Seunghyun, and even becomes boring after a time. Perhaps the reason he’s so intrigued is that this boy is just a question mark. The other patrons’ behaviors and mannerisms, even their appearances give his imagination some sort of clue about their true selves. He knows fully well that there are already books about broken families, already books about girls with daddy issues, already books about public officials with secret vices. He needs something new and revolutionary. Something that won’t give away the ending in the first sentence. Perhaps this boy gives him all that. Everything about him is a mystery, a page turner, that keeps Seunghyun guessing.

What does he do for a living? Seunghyun can’t tell by looking at his clothes or his hands or his body type. What is he thinking about? Seunghyun can only stare at the angelic, yet melancholic expression that seems torn halfway between a contented smile and a teary breakdown.

When Seunghyun looks up from his—now scribbled on—yellow notepad, the boy is gone. He’d only looked away for a second. He doesn’t even have time to panic or ponder where his unsuspecting muse has wandered off to.

“Do you mind if I join you?” he jumps slightly as his thoughts are interrupted by a smooth, but unexpected, voice. He looks to his left, only to see the boy he’d been staring at off and on for the last half hour.

“Not at all,” Seunghyun says awkwardly clearing his throat and scooting aside to make room for his newfound companion.

“Are you an artist?” he asks as he slides next to Seunghyun.

“Sorry?”

“Are you an artist? You kept looking over at me and then at a notepad.  Were you sketching, or?”

“Oh, no,” Seunghyun laughs, nervously shifting his notepad under his arm in an attempt to block it from view. “I come here to people-watch. It helps with my writer’s block.”

“Looks like you cured it,” the stranger smiles, nodding in the direction of Seunghyun’s—now full—notepad page. “What do you write about?”

Seunghyun laughs a bit darkly and takes a longer drink than necessary from his glass. There are lots of topics that he is fully capable of writing about: ancient mythology, historical fiction, religion, and so on.

But, as his publisher has informed him many times, those things are dry and won’t sell on their own. Readers want a little something more with the story, something that they can easily connect to. Something with heart. Unfortunately for Seunghyun, the inner-workings of the human heart is a topic that is completely elusive. That isn’t to say he hasn’t felt. In truth, Seunghyun has probably already felt a wider range of emotion in his few short years than most human beings will ever feel. It’s as difficult for him to describe the intricate workings of his heart as it is for a blind person to describe what a simple blade of grass feels like, to a person with sight.

“What I write is mostly ,” he says, but the stranger isn’t listening. He has gently wrestled Seunghyun’s notepad out from underneath his elbow, and his dark brown eyes are drinking in the words on the page, an unreadable expression on his face.

“It’s good,” he says, after a pause. He sets down the notepad and looks at Seunghyun.

“It’s just scribbles,” Seunghyun blushes, feeling slightly embarrassed and scooting his notepad back up into his arms. “But what about you? What brings you here?” he asks, hoping to switch the focus from him.

“I’m a writer, too,” the stranger says, leaning back a bit and stretching. “I didn’t really come here to people watch, but I did hope the atmosphere would inspire something.”

“Did it?” Seunghyun asks.

“I suppose it helped a bit,” he says, shrugging.

“Can I see?” Normally, Seunghyun wouldn’t dare ask such an imposing question, but he really felt his relationship with this stranger was “show me yours and I’ll show you mine” at this point. After all, he’d had his writing wrestled from his, normally protective, grasp.

“Yeah, if you’d like,” he says. He fishes in his cardigan pocket, pulling out a worn paper and handing it to Seunghyun. He opens it eagerly.

The words that await him are hardly what he has expected. He certainly hadn’t pegged his muse as a writer, much less a writer of such caliber. It was a different genre than what Seunghyun had practiced, but lyrical poetry was always a fascination of his. At least, Seunghyun assumed they were lyrics. And his unsuspecting muse was certainly a master with words. His poetry flowed without a flaw, as though words simply existed to acquiesce his every whim.  Seunghyun’s eyes floated down the page, hanging on to every word until—abruptly – the lyrics came to an end, unfinished.

Seunghyun hands back the worn paper, unaware that he is slightly agape. The stranger smiles.

“It’s just a draft. And, of course, I have to thank you for inspiring a few lines,” he says, pocketing his work once more.

“I did?” Seunghyun asks, slightly shocked. The stranger nods.

“It seems we inspired each other quite a bit this evening,” he laughs slightly. Seunghyun can feel his cheeks growing red once more.

“Those are song lyrics,” he says, clearing his throat a little. “Who are you? Have I heard your music somewhere?”

“Kwon Jiyong,” the stranger says offering his hand, “and definitely not. I’m struggling a bit at the moment.”

“Lee Seunghyun,” he says, feeling a little more at ease and accepting Jiyong’s handshake, “and welcome to the club.”