❛ 𝗙𝗥𝗬 𝗛𝗜𝗦 𝗦𝗛𝗜. 𓂋 ❜
𐔌 ៸៸៸ 𝓦𝓒 ; 𝟔.𝟒k ꒱
❛❛ 𝑠ummary: 𓂋 𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝖿𝖺𝗅𝗅 𝖿𝗈𝗋 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝖻𝗋𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋'𝗌 𝗀𝗂𝗋𝗅𝖿𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗇𝖽. 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗇𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝗌𝗎𝗉𝗉𝗈𝗌𝖾𝖽 𝗍𝗈 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗅𝖾𝗍𝗍𝖾𝗋𝗌. 𝖻𝗎𝗍 𝗆𝗂𝖼𝗁𝖺𝖾𝗅 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝗉𝖾𝗋𝗌𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇𝗍, 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗌𝗁𝖾 𝗁𝖺𝗌 𝖺𝗅𝗐𝖺𝗒𝗌 𝖻𝖾𝖾𝗇 𝖿𝖺𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝖿𝖿𝖾𝖼𝗍𝖾𝖽 𝖻𝗒 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗇 𝗌𝗁𝖾'𝖽 𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗋 𝖺𝖽𝗆𝗂𝗍. ❜❜ 𝑚𝑖𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑒𝑙 𝑗 𝑥 𝐽𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑖𝑒 𝐽𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑠𝑜𝑛'𝑠 𝐺𝑖𝑟𝑙𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑!𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟
𝗧𝗛𝐼𝗦 𝗦𝗘𝗥𝐼𝗘𝗦 .ᐟ.ᐟ contains depictions of 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘪𝘰𝘳, 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘪𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯, 𝘪𝘯𝘧𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺, 𝘫𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘺, 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘭𝘪𝘤𝘵, 𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘥𝘪𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴, 𝘶𝘯𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘩𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘶𝘯𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱 𝘥𝘺𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘤𝘴. Reader discretion is advised. 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗦 𝗪𝗢𝗥𝗞 is a 𝗳𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝗳𝗶𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝘀𝘁𝗼𝗿𝘆 𝗶𝗻𝘀𝗽𝗶𝗿𝗲𝗱 𝗯𝘆 𝗽𝘂𝗯𝗹𝗶𝗰 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝘀𝗼𝗻𝗮𝘀. It is not intended to depict or make claims about the real lives, intentions, or relationships of any real individuals. 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑟𝑑 𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑜𝑛.
ᜊ ๑ ۪ ࣪ 𝖾𝗋𝖺: 𝟣𝟫𝟩𝟪 — / 𝗃𝖺𝖼𝗄𝗌𝗈𝗇𝗌 𝖾𝗋𝖺 · ❛❛ 𝓛os Angeles, 𝓒alifornia · 𝓗ayvenhurst · 𝓔ncino. ❜❜
♥︎ 𝟏𝟗𝟕𝟖. 𝑙𝑜𝑠 𝐴𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑠, 𝐶𝑎𝑙𝑖𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑎. The first letter arrived on a Tuesday afternoon, tucked between a department-store catalogue and a handful of bills she had no interest in opening.There was nothing remarkable about the envelope itself. Cream-colored paper. Her name written neatly across the front. No return address. No indication of where it had come from. She knew anyway. Michael's handwriting had become familiar to her long before she had ever given herself permission to study it.
There was a certain looseness to the way he formed his letters, the occasional flourish at the end of a word, the places where his pen seemed to hesitate before continuing. He wrote as though his thoughts moved faster than his hand could keep up with them. She had seen the same handwriting in notes passed around the house, on scraps of paper left beside records, on little reminders he'd written for himself and promptly forgotten about.
This was different.
She stood in the hallway with the envelope resting between her fingers, staring at her own name. For a long while, she did nothing.The sensible thing would have been to tear it in half. The decent thing would have been to give it back unopened.The safest thing would have been to tell Jackie. Instead, she carried it upstairs.That was the first mistake.The letter was four pages long. Michael began with ordinary things. he told her about a song he had been working on. Mentioned that Randy had been bothering him. Complained, rather dramatically, about having been awake far too late the previous night. There was something almost charming in the way he filled the first page with inconsequential details, as though he were trying to convince himself that he had written for some harmless reason.
Then, halfway down the second page, the tone changed.
I know this isn't something I ought to be writing to you.
She stopped there. Her thumb pressed against the edge of the paper. She continued.
But I've tried keeping it to myself, and that hasn't made it go away.
The room seemed quieter. Outside, a car passed along the street. Somewhere downstairs, the telephone rang once before falling silent. She read the next sentence.
I think about you much more than I should.
Her eyes lingered.Then came another. Sometimes i think you already know. She folded the letter.She couldn't read any further. It was absurd, really. She had known Michael for years. He was Jackie's younger brother, somebody she'd seen at family dinners and studio gatherings and quiet afternoons when the Jackson household seemed to have more people moving through it than any ordinary home could possibly contain. She knew his laugh. Knew his temper. Knew how quickly his moods could change when he was tired. Knew how he became quieter when something had genuinely upset him.
She knew him.
That was precisely why this frightened her. Because she knew enough to understand that Michael rarely said something he hadn't thought about first. And she knew enough to understand that this was not a passing whim. She placed the letter inside the drawer beside her bed.
She did not throw it away.
The flowers arrived two mornings later. White roses. Not an enormous arrangement designed to attract attention, but something smaller. Tasteful. Almost modest.There was no card. She didn't need one. She stood in the doorway looking at them while the delivery boy waited patiently for her signature. After he left, she carried the vase into the kitchen and set it near the window.Then she stood there staring at the flowers as though they had personally offended her. They were beautiful.That irritated her even more. Michael had always possessed an almost infuriating understanding of small gestures. He didn't need extravagance. He knew precisely how much was enough to make something difficult to dismiss.That evening, Jackie came by.
he walked through the front door carrying a paper bag from the restaurant down the street, kissed her cheek and began talking about his day before he'd even taken his coat off. his gaze eventually wandered toward the window.
he smiled when he saw the roses. "Those are lovely." She looked over her shoulder. "They are." He placed the food on the counter. "Who sent them?" She hesitated. It lasted less than a second. It was enough. Jackie looked at her. She lowered her eyes toward the flowers. "They were delivered." He laughed softly, unaware of the carefulness in her answer, and began unpacking dinner. She watched him for a moment.
The guilt came quietly.That was the worst part. There was no dramatic betrayal yet. Nothing had happened. She hadn't kissed Michael... she hadn't encouraged him.. she hadn't told him she felt the same. But she had read the letter. She had kept it. She had put the flowers in water. And somewhere inside herself, in a place she refused to examine too closely, she knew why. Michael had always liked beautiful things. Music. Old records, flowers, children's drawings, the gardens at Hayvenhurst. Women with striking faces whom he sometimes called beautiful fish in that odd, private way of his, as though beauty itself were something to be admired without necessarily needing to be possessed. But this was different...
the fourth letter contained a pressed flower again, the fifth contained a photograph, michael was sitting on the floor of a studio in the picture, his curls falling loosely across his forehead, one knee drawn toward his chest and a notebook open beside him. He looked tired. Younger than the photographs that appeared in magazines. Less polished. More like the Michael she knew when there weren't cameras around. She turned it over.
On the back, in his handwriting, were the words: This is what I look like when I miss you.
She sat there for a long time.Then she placed the photograph inside the drawer beside her bed. and the letters continued. Michael never sent them all together. He understood that too much of anything could become ordinary.One would arrive after several days. then nothing, then another. sometimes there were only a few paragraphs, sometimes there were pages. One evening she found herself sitting cross-legged on the floor beside her bed with 9 of them spread before her.
The first had been soft and careful.
The second had been hopeful.
The third was unmistakably Michael and the rest repeated again...
You don't have to answer me.
She read further.
I'd rather know what you truly think than have you say something because you feel sorry for me.
That line should have made her angry. Instead, it made her chest ache. Because she could hear his voice in it. She could picture the expression he'd wear while writing. His head bowed, His curls falling forward, His mouth moving slightly as he searched for the right words.. another sentence followed.
I don't want to make trouble between you and Jackie.
She stopped. For one brief moment, she thought perhaps he understood.Then she read the next line.
But I can't pretend I don't want you simply because wanting you is inconvenient.
She closed her eyes. "Michael." His name escaped her like a reprimand.There was nobody there to hear it. She folded the pages carefully. Every letter went into the same drawer. She never told herself why she kept them. She didn't need to. Michael became more confident once he realized she wasn't destroying them. He had never asked whether she read every word. He didn't have to.There were things a person could learn from silence. the fact that the letters disappeared from the mailbox without being returned. the fact that the flowers remained in her apartment. the fact that she never once complained to Jackie. the fact that, whenever Michael caught her looking at him across a room, she looked away with an expression that was not quite anger.
It was enough to keep him hopeful. Perhaps too hopeful. He began waiting for moments when Jackie wasn't nearby. Nothing improper at first.
A conversation in the garden. A few minutes in the kitchen. A walk down the driveway after a family gathering.
He would ask about her work. Her plans. The things she wanted from life. He listened carefully. That was part of his charm. Michael could make listening feel intimate. He remembered details people assumed he had forgotten. He would bring something up weeks later and watch the surprise cross their faces. With her, he remembered everything;
The actress she admired.The record she couldn't stop playing.The dress she had mentioned wanting.The way she disliked carnations.The way she always drank her coffee.
He collected little pieces of her without ever admitting he was collecting them. And every time she tried to put distance between them, he found another harmless reason to be near her. It would have been easier if he'd behaved badly. It would have been easier if he had been crude. instead, he was gentle.That was what made him dangerous. One evening, she found him alone upstairs.
Jackie had gone out. The house had settled into the quiet that came after everybody else had disappeared into their own lives, and she had only gone upstairs because she needed to return something she'd borrowed. Michael was in his room. He was sitting near the edge of the bed, a record playing softly somewhere behind him. He looked up when she entered. For a second, neither moved. Then his expression changed. Michael rarely needed drama when a look would do. His attention settled entirely upon her.
She placed the item on the dresser. "I came to return this." His eyes followed her. "..you could have left it downstairs."
"I could have." There was a pause. She turned toward the door. "don't go yet." The words stopped her. She looked back. Michael had risen from the bed.
There was something unusually serious about him. she knew that expression. It meant he had decided to say something and had already convinced himself he was entitled to be heard. She folded her arms. "This needs to end." Michael came a little closer. She could see the faint confusion in his face, though she suspected he understood perfectly well. "The letters," she continued. "The flowers. Waiting for me whenever Jackie isn't around. All of it."
he studied her quietly.Then he said, "If you truly wanted them gone, you would have sent them back." Her jaw tightened. "You don't know what I want." His gaze didn't leave hers. "Then tell me, girl."
"I don't want you." The words were firm. The silence afterward wasn't. Michael took another step. She didn't move.The space between them diminished until she could feel his warmth against the air between their bodies. His voice lowered. "Look at me and say it again." She did. "I don't fucking want you. michael." He moved a little closer. She remained where she was. "You need to listen to me, Michael. i'm serious."
"I am listening, girl."
"Then listen carefully again." His expression softened, but he didn't look away. She took a breath. "I don't want you." The words landed between them again. Michael didn't answer immediately. Instead, he studied her face with an attentiveness that made her suddenly conscious of every inch of distance separating them. then he said quietly, "If that's truly what you want me to believe, then show me." Her brows drew together. "What?"
"Show me, girl." He took another step. "Look at me and tell me there isn't anything here. again." She stared at him. "You're Jackie's brother."
"I know who I am."
"Then you know why this is wrong."
"I know why you're afraid."
"I'm not afraid." His expression changed. Not quite a smile. Something more knowing. "Then don't look away." She hated him for saying it. She hated herself for obeying.
Michael moved closer again. Another step. Until there was almost nothing left between them. She could feel his breath against her face. His eyes dropped briefly to her mouth.Then returned to hers. Her heart began beating too quickly. he lifted his hand, hesitated, and finally brushed a curl away from her cheek. She should have stopped him. She didn't. His fingers remained near her temple.Their foreheads nearly touched.The room had become unbearably quiet. Neither of them seemed willing to breathe too deeply. Michael leaned forward until the distance between their mouths was reduced to almost nothing, close enough that every breath passed between them, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his lips without actually feeling them.
She closed her eyes. For one terrible second, she thought he was going to kiss her. She wanted him to. That was the part she couldn't forgive herself for. Her eyes opened again. "No." Michael stopped. He didn't retreat immediately.He remained there, his face inches from hers, his breathing unsteady.Then, slowly, he stepped back.The disappointment in his expression lasted only a moment before he covered it. She looked toward the door. "I can't do this."
Michael's voice followed her. "You always say that after you get close enough to make me believe otherwise." She turned. "You make me believe whatever you want."
"Nah." His gaze held hers. "You do that yourself." She stared at him. Michael's expression softened. "I've never had to make you keep the letters." She had no answer. He knew it.
The next letter arrived the following morning. She recognized the handwriting before she opened it.There was no greeting. No explanation. Only a page filled almost entirely with one thought.
you came into my room to tell me you don't want me.
She continued and sat down.
you stood close enough for me to hear your breathing.
Another line.
You looked at my mouth.
Her fingers tightened around the paper.
I don't think I'm imagining everything.
Then, beneath it: you can tell me no as many times as you like.
then more: I'll still know what I saw.
She read the final paragraph slowly.
If you truly don't want me, I will respect that. But don't expect me to pretend I don't see what happens when you are near me.
Her cheeks burned, she folded the letter.This time, she nearly tore it. Nearly. Instead, she put it away. Beside the others. Then Michael disappeared from her life for several days.
No flowers. No letters. No waiting outside. No unexpected conversations. Nothing.
At first, she was relieved.Then she began noticing the absence.That was humiliating. She found herself glancing toward the mailbox. Listening for footsteps outside. Wondering whether Jackie had spoken to him. She hated that she missed something she had spent months insisting she didn't want. When the next letter finally came, there was no romantic confession inside.
Only a photograph.
Michael standing beside her best friend, monica. She stared at it.The two of them weren't touching. nothing about the photograph itself was incriminating. But there was something about Michael's expression. Something deliberate. She turned it over. No message.
Nothing.
She slipped it into the drawer. She told herself it meant nothing. A few days later, she went to Hayvenhurst. Jackie wasn't home. She hadn't expected Michael to be there.The house was unusually quiet, and she was already halfway down the hallway when she heard laughter from upstairs.
a woman's voice... very familiar. Her steps slowed.
she knew that voice..her best friend.. monica She stopped outside the bedroom. For a moment, she couldn't bring herself to look.Then she did. Michael was kissing her, definitely not a mistake, not an accident. not something that could be explained away by an awkward moment at a party. His hands were around her waist. Monica's fingers were resting against his shoulders. Michael's eyes were closed.The sight was so intimate that it seemed to erase everything else around it.
The letters.The roses.The photograph.The nights she'd spent staring at words he had written for her.The way he'd stood inches from her and asked her to tell him she felt nothing.The way he'd looked at her as though he knew. She stood completely still. Michael didn't see her. Neither did monica, her bestfriend friend. And perhaps that was the only mercy left in the room. Because she didn't have to hear an explanation. she didn't have to hear him plead. She didn't have to give him the satisfaction of knowing he'd finally managed to make her jealous. She simply stepped backward.
Once.. then again.
the hallway seemed impossibly long. She walked toward the stairs without making a sound. Behind her, Michael remained unaware. For months, he had written to her as though persistence could eventually turn a refusal into permission. He had believed her silence meant there was something underneath it. He had been right.That was what made the moment unbearable. Because she had wanted him, secretly... quietly. Enough to keep every letter. Enough to preserve every flower. Enough to stand inches from his mouth and forget, for one terrible second, whose brother he was. And Michael had finally found the proof he'd wanted.
Only he had found it too late. By the time she reached the front door, the hurt had hardened into something far less forgiving. She stepped outside.The California evening was warm, the sky washed pale above the trees. She didn't cry.
She simply stood there with her hands trembling at her sides, realizing that the person she had spent months trying not to love had managed to hurt her without ever once being hers. And upstairs, Michael still had no idea that the game he'd been so certain he could control had finally become something neither of them knew how to survive.
❤︎ ❛ © 𝙢𝙞𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙚𝙡𝙨𝙢𝙚𝙡𝙤𝙙𝙞𝙚
