It’s well past ten and less than an hour remains until I need to meet the rest of the boys at the nightclub. I stare up at the ceiling, one arm curled under my head as I make out shapes in the texture of the maroon ceiling, despite the dim lighting. I let out a loud breath of air resembling a sigh and roll my head to the side, eyes flicking across the sleeping form beside me.

This marks the third one in less than a month.

I push myself up on my elbows, sinking back down into the plush mattress slightly, and examine the dark room in search of my clothes. I discover my pants clinging onto the bottom of the mattress and my shirt all the way across the room along with my jacket. I shift into a sitting position and bounce from the mattress and onto the carpeted floors with a soft thud. I snag my jeans from the bed and slip into them with ease before crossing the room to retrieve the rest of my garments. I stumble over a pair of fluffy white slippers that are placed nicely beside the bed as I stumble through the darkness, and curse myself when the commotion of me attempting to keep my balance causes the slumbering female to stir.

I sigh in relief as she turns to face the opposite direction, completely unaware of my awakened presence. I pick up my shirt and slide it over my head and pull my arms through the tight sleeves of my sleek leather jacket. Just as I’m about ready to exit the room, I turn and briefly look back with a slight pang of guilt— but of course, why should I feel guilty? This is what I do, and besides I’ll most likely not even remember the girl by tomorrow morning. With a quiet sigh, I slip on my converse that had been sloppily tossed aside enar the entrance to the bathroom and pull open the door leading to the empty motel hallway.

As I walk down the hallway lined with paisley wallpaper and dreary dim lamps, I pull my phone out of my back pocket and check the time. 10:27. I still have time before the show starts. I enter the lobby and it’s quiet except for the tick of a wooden clock hanging from the wall paired with the muffled snores of the desk attendant.

I spare a quick glance at the middle-aged man slumbering deeply, snuggled deep into the worn cushions of a swivel chair. I reach down into the front pocket of my jeans and pull out a fistful of bills and dispose of them in the tip jar. It’s the least I can do, thy guy obviously has a pretty ty job— the nightshift at a rickety old motel located in one of the worst settings to be wandering after dark.

I push open the front doors that lead outside into the brisk nighttime air and shiver at the biting sensation of the breeze against the back of my bare neck. I shove my hands into the pockets of my leather jacket and begin my journey towards the club where the boys and I are scheduled to meet. I don’t even bother looking back to satisfy the pang of guilt I feel hardening in my chest.

I’ve made a name for myself, Byun Baekhyun the playboy, Byun Baekhyun the heartthrob, Byun Baekhyun the heartbreaker. I created the person I am, I allowed people to see me in a light that I didn’t intend, I allowed myself to be known for aspects I didn’t wish to be known for.

By the time I entered senior year of high school and into my freshmen year of college, I became known as the boy that every girl, with lack of better words, wanted in their pants.

It started when I was eighteen and witnessed close friends of mine getting girlfriends and going on dates every Saturday, holding hands and sharing the smallest, yet sweetest gestures of affection. After I saw how happy my friends had become, I wanted to give it a try as well. Unfortunately, the girls I tried to start a serious relationship with only wanted me for their own ual reasons; they never wanted to actually walk around being known as my girlfriend. After awhile I became known as the boy that anyone could get their hands on, because I allowed others to take advantage of me without a single word of protest.

Once I entered my first year of college, I had begun to see the transformation of my features as I matured over time, and so did the majority of the female students. It started off rather innocent, I began receiving little heart-shaped candies in my locker every day, or I would find notes taped to my desk or on the door leading into my dorm room. But once I had the idea to start a band with some of my fellow musically inclined classmates, everything went completely ballistic. After our first gig at a class gathering, the number of female students practically throwing themselves at me skyrocketed beyond belief.

I suppose I wrote my own fate by allowing things to escalate to the point that I didn’t know how to make it all stop, let alone force myself to stop. I guess you could say that while in the midst of my teenage haze, I somehow believed that I could find someone who truly appreciated me, not just for my looks or because they thought that I was a trouble-free date, but just me.

And boy was I a fool for thinking that.

I allowed myself to be consumed by the expectations and beliefs in which the society I lived within threw at m