i could use another cigarette;

i could use another cigarette;

Hongbin had a habit of staring at his face in a mirror for ungodly amounts of time during random periods of the day. He had several mirrors in his room actually; there were at least two on every one of his walls and three in his bathroom. He had one in his school locker, a carry-around one in his backpack and sometimes he would use his phone's camera to look at his reflection.

At first, he didn't care about who saw him constantly looking into mirrors. It sort of started in middle school, when all the kids were considered weird anyway, so what was one more? But then he entered high school and his peers began to write him off as a self-absorbed narcissus who didn't care about anyone or anything else but his looks—"Of course! What else would a model care about?"

Of course. What else would a model possibly care about? Apparently what others thought of him, so he toned it down in public. People still talked, but it wasn't as unbearable as before and he began to have some semblance of a normal school life.

He swept his light brown hair to the side and adjusted his glasses as he finally turned away from the mirror, deciding that was enough and he needed to finish his reading before dinner.

Hongbin both liked and genuinely hated leaving his room; there were no mirrors in the other parts of his house besides his parents' room and his sisters' rooms and that relieved him. Outside his room, no matter where he went, he wouldn't have to see his reflection—but then there was the itch. The unbearable, intense, painful itch that radiated off the walls and onto his skin, making it tingle in anxiety and in turn, made him want to curl into a ball and die . . . Until he would retreat to his room and see his face in one of his many mirrors, and then he felt a million times better.

"You're doing it again." Taekwoon's soft voice snapped him out of his trance and he flinched slightly, swinging his locker closed (a little harder than necessary) on reflex.

When he turned to face Taekwoon, the faint look of worry on his face made Hongbin's stomach sink. He repeatedly told himself that he should absolutely never look at his mirrors when one of his friends was around. They didn't care at first, but like everyone else, they started to notice when they got older—unlike everyone else, they worried about him instead of judging.

Hakyeon had once tried asking about it all, but Hongbin simply stared at him in a very Taekwoon-like manner, silently begging for the subject to be left alone. They had only tried to get him to talk about it a few times after that, but his reaction was the same every time. They would think he was stupid. They would think he was being ridiculous. That he was pathetic.

Why would a model possibly think his face was absolutely disgusting?

If he was ever actually willing to answer, Hongbin might say he didn’t know—a part of him honestly didn't. When growing up, he was constantly told that he had a precious face, that it was flawless, that puberty treated him extremely well, and that he was lucky. He supposed he was. His smile was bright, he had the dimples of an angel, and the surface of his skin was smooth and soft.

His face was so . . . perfect.

So perfect that with the help of someone whispering cutting words into his ear, Hongbin quickly decided he was a freak.

He never talked to his parents about what the heads of the agency said to him the day they did his final interview. They would have definitely caused a scene and Hongbin didn't want trouble for anyone, so he kept quiet about it.

"Ah. It’s only your face we’re interested in. Of course, your body image will also need work, but your face is your best and only asset to this company."

Hongbin accepted those calmly-said words. His parents were so excited for him about the modeling deal that, at the stage the entire thing was at, he couldn't drop out.

Every time he thought of that moment, his mind exploded and there was a nuclear meltdown inside his body.

One of his first modeling partners was, Hongbin found out too late, a really terrible person. His name was Yang Byunhee, and he was two-faced to the point where Hongbin didn’t know which personality was actually real. Byunhee was the someone whispering into his ear all of the time—in the makeup room, behind curtains, on sight for shooting, while they were shooting, while they were getting ready to go home, when they would travel to international locations—anywhere he could slip in gnashing words to Hongbin about his looks. Always his face.

"No one looks that perfect."

"All you have is your looks."

"I would be miserable too if my looks were the only thing good about me."

At first, Hongbin didn't worry about his appearance. His mom doted on them and constantly told him he was a handsome young man, just like most mothers did. It was when people started calling him worthless in every other thing he did, calling him useless for anything else, telling him he was just a pretty face that it started waring him down.

He really wasn't good at anything was he?

"Hyung!" sang out Hyuk when they got to their lunch table. "We're still coming over to your house today, right? You promised you'd play for us while recording!"

The rest of the table looked at him expectantly and he swallowed thickly.

After his second year of modeling, Byunhee was transferred to a different category of modeling, but every now and again they would meet up for a shoot; Byunhee would ask him what he was up to and how school was. His conversational side was the good one, and a less-wary Hongbin gladly answered those questions without talking about hobbies. There was once, recently however, where he let slip the fact that he was teaching himself how to play guitar.

It had taken every ounce of his strength not to desperately clasp his hands over his mouth after the admittance. He had quickly learned that his hobbies were Byunhee's main ammo.

Byunhee had snorted. He snorted, laughed, and sneered, saying that it was ridiculous that Hongbin was trying to be good at something else when all he could ever do was have his pretty face (which, he didn’t fail to mention several times, wouldn't last forever). He told Hongbin that he should definitely give up playing guitar because he would never be able to do it, listing off many (in reality, very stupid, but to Hongbin they were legitimate) reasons.

This was the day after he promised to play for his friends. He hadn't thought about it since then.

Without thinking about it, he began to poke at his food with a sudden and intense interest in it while avoiding the curious eyes of his friends. His mind quickly dug up all the excuses it could so that they wouldn't come over and he wouldn’t have to play for them.

The entire world around him slowed and began to melt as his mind folded on itself.

Don't be like that. chided one part of his mind—often the part that tried to make him think straight and actually be happy.

Are you kidding? If you play for them, you're just going to make an idiot of yourself! argued another part.

How long have you been friends with them? They’ve never let you down before.

They're just like everyone else. If you play for them, they're just going to laugh at you.

The arguement raged inside Hongbin's head, and at the worst possible time, he felt the itch and his stomach churned.

Practically sending his lunch tray flying, he pushed out of his chair and made a beeline for the cafeteria's exit. The air around him grew thick and it became hard to breathe and he fiercely needed to see the one thing that he might have any ounce of confidence in—that everyone thought was perfect. No one cared about anything else. It was the only thing he had that made them recognize him—the only thing about him that was worthwhile.

He heard calls of his name somewhere far behind, but he didn't stop running, weaving through various students and fighting back tears. Byunhee was right; it was completely laughable that he thought he could be anything else other than a good-looking model, and it was wrong and selfish of him to want anything else. Just accept it already. Everyone can move on with their lives if you do. Quit being pathetic.

He ran into the bathroom and slammed the door, locking it behind him. Not wasting any time, Hongbin practically launched himself in front of the mirror and his eyes roamed fervently over his face, observing every dip and shine and the curve of his single-lid eyes and the slope of his nose and the (somewhat unstable) gleam in his eyes. His heart slowly began to beat at a normal pace and his labored breathing calmed.

When you get home, you're going to destroy your guitar. You're going to burn all of your sheet music and throw away your microphones and mixing board that Wonshik gave you for your birthday.

Your name is Lee Hongbin, and you locked yourself in the restroom.