Muse

She had been observing him for almost two years now--it was a hobby she was a tad reluctant to tell her editor.  Not that the latter would have cared, for as long as she produced manhwas that sold and raked in profits, it did not matter how "normal" her process was.  She knew other authors whose interests were much more risque than hers.

Soojin started drawing and writing when she was in high school--it was the only thing she was both mildly proficient at and enjoyed.   Having grown up in a traditional Korean family, her education was tough and rigorous, for she was only going to be accepted into a prestigious university if she devoted all of her waking hours to studying.  And, not to brag, but she was not a half-bad student either.  Her father bragged about her marks to anyone who would lend an ear while her mother raved about her beauty.  She was the poster child for their selfish desires.  She did everything her parents had asked of her, but when she started attending college, she found herself pursing her passions rather than her path (or, the path her parents had carefully laid out for her).  

A headache starts to subtly bang in her head as she remembers the long, angry phone calls and conversations--the emotional meals.  Every disappointed look her father sent her was still as clear in her mind as it was when she told him that she wanted to purse a career in manhwa writing.  To her parents, they were just cartoons with pretty pictures drawn in them--nothing suitable for someone of higher intellect.  But to her, they were her most prized possessions.  They were her escape from reality, and when she wrote them herself, she never felt more in control of her life than ever.

In secret, she had always been the girl who watched Japanese animation shows until late hours of the morning, the girl whose real crush was a fictional character.  That was not acceptable to the reality in which she lived, so she had trained herself to saying that Shakespeare was her favorite author, while Woo Bin was her school-girl crush.  She lived her life under false pretenses and she had fully intended to continue doing so.  Upon entering college, she did not believe that she had what it took to make a living out of her clandestine hobby.  

But that all changed when she met him.

Their first and only meeting was by chance.  She had been returning back to her apartment early in the school year when she bumped into a guy her age.  He was carrying a few grocery bags and she, being the easily-distracted-by-her-phone-young-lady that she was, ran into him.  She immediately began to pick up the bag he had dropped, offering to help him, when she made the fatal mistake of looking him in the eyes.  He was smiling, saying that she had nothing to worry about and actually, they were right in front of his place (which was the same apartment complex that she lived in)--there was no need to help him.  His words, while carried by his smooth, deep voice, went right in one ear and out of the other.  She forced herself to remove her attention from his eyes to the ground.  Her memory recalls bowing a few times and hearing his name before watching him go in the building.  

Kim Jongin.

She never told him she lived there, too.

From time to time, she had started seeing him enter and leave the building before she began to realize a pattern.  Initially, she did not even recognize that she was looking out of her seventh floor window to catch a glimpse of him, but she soon came to understand how weird it was.  She thought about how freaked out he would be if he found out, but she couldn't help herself.

In her defense, she did not keep watching him in some strange, ual desire.  Her intentions were innocent and pure.  

He must have been a college student because he tended to carry a book bag with him during the week.  Her own sanity had prevented her from searching for him on her campus--what would she had even said to him if she had saw him?  The thing about him that really intrigued her, however, was a hat that he wore.  After his classes were over, he would return home (on Wednesdays) and fetch a black snapback with the word "Wolf" printed on it.  Swiftly walking into the apartment and swiftly exiting it, he would pull it over his hair before merging back into the bundle on people moving along the pavement.  

At first she did not know what to make of it--maybe he was involved in some illegal, under the radar stuff--she had no clue.  He was very secretive about it.  But even with those dangerous possibilities, her curiosity did not end there--in fact, it was only amplified.  It wasn't until she had seen one of his friends for the first time that she figured it out.  They were standing outside the complex talking when suddenly, he broke out in dance.  

His hat was on.

He was a like a river when he moved--his motions were fluid and precise.  Gentle yet powerful--gosh, she could have watched him for days.  She watched his demeanor flip in an instant when he put the hat on--it was like some secret code.  But his insane dancing skills were not what compelled her to throw away a college education and start a life as an author.

His eyes were what changed her mind.

There was something about his eyes that pulled her in.  She watched as, in present time, he spoke with his friends outside the apartment building.  They must have been compli