You knew hooking up with your favorite idol was a mistake the first time you did it.

But how could you resist? The charm, the voice, the way his laughter made your stomach twist—it all felt like a fantasy you’d been carefully curating for years. When he leaned in and asked you to keep it quiet, handing you an NDA like it was a secret key to his world, you didn’t hesitate. You signed your name without thinking twice. Because this was Intak. The Intak you’d loved since you were sixteen.

The first time he brought you backstage, it was everything you’d dreamed of. The dim lights, the faint hum of post-concert adrenaline, the way he looked at you like you were the only person who mattered. You told yourself this meant something—had to mean something.

The second and third times, it still felt special. You memorized the slope of his shoulders, the way his cologne clung to your skin after, the little smirk he gave when you said his name too softly. You convinced yourself this was real, that he wouldn’t do this with anyone else.

By the fifth time, you stopped pretending.

You’d seen the other girls. Different faces, same glazed expression. Same excitement, same quiet heartbreak hiding under the surface. You weren’t unique. You were a name on a list, another girl who got too close.

Still, you kept going. You told yourself you could handle it—that you were mature enough, detached enough, to separate love from illusion. You still went to every concert because he asked, because it felt wrong to say no, because some part of you hoped maybe he’d look at you the way he used to.

But tonight, when his manager waves you past security and Intak greets you with that practiced grin, something in you feels heavy. The butterflies are gone, replaced with exhaustion.

The dressing room smells the same—cheap perfume, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of hairspray—but it feels smaller now. You watch him scroll through his phone between sentences, laugh at something someone texted, and for the first time, you see him clearly.

He’s not a fantasy. He’s not a god. He’s just a boy—careless, impulsive, and a little too used to getting what he wants.

And you’re just tired.