"He had spent years learning the shape of your hurt. When you needed words...when you just needed him to hold you and say nothing. Now— he had become the thing you needed protection from."
SYNOPSIS: Michael cheats and is struggling internally with the consequences. To make things worse, you have no idea— yet.
CONTENT: heavy ANGST, 18+ due to mature themes, dangerous era!Michael, era 1991, hurt no comfort, emotional trauma, cheating, big panic attack, wife!reader, mike is lowkey toxic and a drama king
Author's Note: I've never written an angst/hurt/no-comfort so I hope this scratches the itch cause I was trying to find some fics like this and there's not many. THIS ONE'S GONNA HURT, Y'ALL. Not a request but for my bby @dre6ming since you were craving angst while waiting for more of somebody else's 💕
Michael sat on the edge of the hotel bed for a long time after the woman left. She had gathered her things quietly, giving him one last look before closing the door after he’d asked her to leave. His elbows were braced against his knees and he had both of his hands pressed over his face. Like maybe he could hide from what he had just done if he stayed that way long enough.
The room was eerily quiet now. Nothing but the distant hum of traffic and horns from impatient cars down below.
Just an hour before, music was playing from the stereo on the dresser and the curtains were pulled back wide revealing the glittering city below. Somebody was laughing at something Michael had long forgotten now.
Now, the glasses on the dining room table were half empty. The sheets behind him were rumpled and smelled of an unfamiliar perfume. And the gold wedding band around Michael’s finger felt like it had doubled in weight.
He twisted it back and forth on his finger. Then he raised his hands back to his face.
“Oh God… what did I do?” he whispered into his hands. The words sounded so small in the expensive suite.
Then, his stomach rolled in an awful way and he rushed to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before losing the contents of his stomach.
He had spent most of his life surround by chaos and noise. People screaming his name, cameras clicking and flashing, executives talking over one another because they all wanted to be right. He had learned out to tune out the noise over the years to find a quiet place inside his own mind when the world became too much.
But now, there was no quiet place deep enough to protect him from himself.
Every time he closed his eyes, he saw your face. It wasn’t angry either. That would’ve been easier. Instead, you were smiling.
The same way that you had when he’d left for this business trip a month ago. You were standing barefoot in the foyer, arms wrapped tightly around his waist with your cheek resting against his chest. You had asked him to let you know when he landed. Reached your hand up to straighten the collar of his jacket that was turned up, because somehow Michael always managed to leave something out of place when he was tired. Then you had kissed him slowly and told him you loved him.
He had said it back without hesitation. He kept replaying it in his head. That was the part he couldn’t understand. He loved you. Truly. With every inch of his being.
He knew that with the same certainty he knew the first note of every song he’d ever written, the exact number of steps between the wings and center stage. The way your body fit against his like a puzzle piece when you slept.
He loved the sweet warm scent that clung to your skin after a shower. The tiny line between your eyebrows when you were reading something very carefully. He loved how you talked to yourself when you were cooking and trying to figure out a recipe— and denied it when he caught you, and the way you reached for him in your sleep without stirring.
He loved you, all of you, and he had betrayed you anyway.
The thought made him bend forward until his forehead nearly touched his knees, stomach still churning.
It wasn’t planned. Never. That was the excuse waiting closest to the surface. The one his frightened out of its wits mind kept offering him as if it would soften what happened. Truthfully, he was exhausted and lonely. Frustrated after a long night of industry obligations he didn’t want to attend. Those events were always full of people who treated boundaries like something temporary.
He drank more than usual, but not nearly enough to erase the choices he made that led him here. The woman made him feel admired without asking for anything complicated from him. And for one shameful, shameful hour, he had stepped outside of the life that belonged to him and pretended there would be no cost.
Then that moment came to an end, and there was still you. His mind kept drifting to you. Your clothes in his closet, the books stacked beside his bed that you had started but never finished. The handwritten notes you’d snuck in his luggage when he wasn’t looking. Your voice on his answering machine, asking him if he remembered to eat.
By morning he had already decided he had to tell you. But then you called. Your voice was warm and sleepy because it was still early back at home where you were. You teased him about sounding completely miserable, told him he should’ve brought you for company. Said you missed him.
Michael sat on the hotel sofa gripping the phone so tightly his tendons ached.
“I miss you too, baby.” He whispered. He almost confessed his sin to you right then and there. But when he opened his mouth, nothing came out.
He couldn’t bear the idea of telling you like that. Not like that. You deserved more from him. From your husband.
Michael was disgusted with himself, and it showed in the way he’d been sick twice the night before. Now, sitting in the ruined hotel room, His eyes fell to the wedding band on his hand and he began to cry until the sobs crescendoed violently through his body.
The tears slipped between his fingers and fell silently onto his slacks while the world carried on outside. Completely indifferent and undisturbed by the fact that somewhere in it, a man had just shattered the most precious thing he’d ever been trusted to hold.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
It was sunrise when you woke up on the morning Michael returned home. The estate was still dark and its long hallways were silent except for the occasional creak of the home settling around you. Outside, the sky was turning from black to a deep blue and mist drifted over the lawn.
You stayed in bed a little longer, curled in the sheets on Michael’s side of the bed. It was a habit you’d developed over the years whenever he was away from home. Pressing your face into the pillow, you inhaled deeply and sighed contently. It still carried a faint trace of your husband’s cologne. Warm, sandalwood, clean linen, and something sweet you couldn’t quite pinpoint.
A month had never felt so long
Michael and you had been married long enough to survive separations much longer than that. World tours had taken him across oceans. Film shoots and recording obligations swallowed whole weeks sometimes. There were too many birthdays and anniversaries celebrated through telephone wires than you cared to remember.
But lately, even when Michael was home, you’d missed him. And that bothered you. A lot. He was physically there. Eating dinner with you, sleeping beside you, every now and then resting his large palm on your thigh as he did his reading. But something felt off. His smiled came slower and his kisses were softer, but shorter too. And every now and then, you would look up and see him watching you closely with an expression you couldn’t read. Sadness flickered across his features before he tucked it away, but you didn’t know.
It must be the album you thought. Dangerous was due to release soon, so there was always a deadline or a room full of people waiting for Michael to decide whether the bassline needed to be heavier or if the strings needed another layer.
Michael carried his work inside his body until it reflected in his posture and the hollowed skin beneath his eyes. Over the years, you learned how to recognize the signs before complete burn out.
That was why this morning, you decided to take care of him. You yawned and stretched as you finally climbed out of bed, the cold air of the room hitting you quickly. You pulled one of Michael’s sweatshirts over your head and twisted your hair into a bun to keep it out your face before padding downstairs.
You only turned on the light above the stove, preferring more darkness as the sun slowly rose. Then you mixed pancake batter and started brewing your coffee. By the time the sun had fully risen, the kitchen smelled like butter, bacon, cinnamon, coffee, and maple syrup. You hummed to yourself quietly as you arranged fruit and powdered sugar over the pancakes. Then, you set two mugs on the table.
His car was in the driveway just after seven. You recognized the distinct engine humming in the distance and the faint voices from his security team. Excitement coursed through you so quickly that you nearly forgot to shut off the stove. You rushed into the foyer just as the front door opened.
Michael stepped inside wearing dark slacks, a black sweater, sunglasses—and the exhaustion of a man who had slept little to none. His curls were tucked beneath a hat and his leather overnight bag hung from his opposite hand. Still, he looked beautiful to you.
His head lifted when he saw you, and for a second his whole face changed. Relief, love, and something more dark passed through his expression in a frenzy. You quickly closed the distance between the two of you, and he dropped his bag to catch you.
“Hey handsome. There you are.” You murmured against his neck, leaving soft kisses. Michael melted into your touch and held you tightly. A little too tight.
He pressed his face into you, breathing you in. You laughed softly as you ran your hands over his back in that way that always grounded him.
“You act like you’ve been gone a year.” He didn’t answer, but his arms tightened. The force of the embrace surprised you enough to make your smile fade a little.
“Mikey?”
“Just missed you. That’s all.” He whispered His voice was strained though. You turned your face and kissed his temple.
“I missed you too, baby”
When he finally pulled away, his eyes were wet behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. He removed them quickly like he forgot he was wearing them before looking over your face with a tender gaze.
“You okay? What’s up?” You asked.
He nodded too fast. “Yeah mama, just tired.”
“More like exhausted”
“I’m alright.”
Still not convinced, you reached up and pushed a curl out of his eyes. He leaned into your hand instinctively. Then his gaze dropped to your mouth, and you kissed him. He kissed you back, but something about it felt hesitant. It lasted just a second, almost so quickly you didn’t notice.
When you pulled away, he gazed at you like you gave him something he didn’t deserve. The expression made you uncomfortable in a way you couldn’t put words to. So you changed the topic.
“I made you breakfast. Your favorite” A shy smile tugged at his lips despite the way he felt inside.
“Of course you did” That was the thing. You were always taking care of him. Making sure he had what he needed, sometimes at a cost to yourself. He followed you to the kitchen, wondering how many more acts of love he could survive before the truth broke him.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Unfortunately, the distance didn’t disappear when Michael came home. It got worse.
He was attentive in weird, uneven bursts. One afternoon, he just appeared out of nowhere in the doorway of the library carrying your favorite flowers for no reason. Then he stood watching while you arranged them in a vase, eyes following every movement of your hands. And then that night, he held you so close that you woke up feeling suffocated and sweating against his chest.
The next day though, he barely spoke at all during breakfast.
He started bringing you gifts after long rehearsals and recording sessions. A new book he thought you might like, a silk scarf in your favorite color, and a small bottle of perfume he had smelled somewhere and immediately associated with you.
The gifts were appreciated. But they frightened you. Now Michael had always been extremely generous with his time and money. He loved to give, much more than receiving. But you couldn’t help but feel like these offerings weren’t just spontaneous affection, but more so an apology for something you had never accused him of doing.
If you asked if something was wrong, he would just say it was work stuff.
“This mix isn’t right yet”
“Just not sleeping well, that’s all”
“Management's been on me”
And every time, you believed him. Because you loved him and trusted him. The alternative never entered your mind.
In the past, there had been rumors about your marriage.
Women constantly claimed things and headlines manufactured affairs from various photographs Michael had taken with fans. Every friendly conversation and smile he gave became evidence for the press to declare he had a new secret lover.
Michael was always more hurt by these stories than you were. “How can they say that about us?” He would ask, genuinely distressed. “They don’t know me…Us.” You always reassured him.
The trust was so deeply ingrained in your marriage that you didn’t even consider the possibility of unfaithfulness even while standing in its shadow.
Instead, you turned inward and blamed yourself. Maybe you had gotten too comfortable. Or maybe the marriage was less exciting to him now that the honeymoon phase was long gone.
You wondered whether your complaints about his long nights at the studio had added more pressure on top of the weight he was already carrying. And as embarrassed as you were afraid to admit, you had even begun studying your own reflection more closely when getting dressed.
On date night, you changed your hair twice. Bought a new nightgown— that never got worn because Michael came home at 2am and fell asleep before you could show him.
You tried hard. So much harder.
And that’s what haunted you later.
You cooked more of his favorite meals and waited for him to come home to enjoy them, even though you never knew when he’d arrive. Kept leaving handwritten notes for him to encourage him. Sometimes if you had time, you’d stop by the studio with lunch for him and massage his shoulders while he listened to the same run over and over again, trying to pinpoint how to improve it.
Every act of love you offered made him quieter and pushed him farther away.
Then one night, you found him standing by himself in the bathroom with the water running endlessly. He was facing the mirror, both hands gripping the sink as his head hung low.
“Runnin' up my water bill, boy” You had said jokingly. But he startled so violently that your stomach clenched. Immediately your face changed when he met your eyes in the reflection of the mirror. You stepped inside immediately.
“What is it? Is something wrong?”
“Nothing”
“You’ve been in here forever, Mike. What're you thinkin' about?”
He stared at you through the reflection instead of turning around. For a moment, it looked like he might tell you. His mouth opened and his eyes filled, but then he dropped his gaze.
“Just that record. That’s all.”
You exhaled softly and moved behind him, shutting off the water and wrapping your arms around his waist. His body went rigid under your touch. You felt it immediately.
“Baby,” You whispered, resting your cheek between his shoulder blades. “You’re carrying too much again.”
Grace he didn’t deserve.
Michael closed his eyes as guilt washed over him, nauseating him.
“You don’t have to be perfect all the time. You can just be you with me, you know that right?” A tear slipped down his cheek and disappeared before you could see it.
“I know” He said quietly.
“You can talk to me. Whatever it is.”
His hands came down to where yours were resting against his stomach, holding you too now.
“I know, baby.”
He turned in your arms and held you with his face buried against your neck. His body was trembling, and you mistook it for exhaustion. So you stroked his curls like you always did and told him it would be okay.
You always made him feel so safe. He nearly confessed right there. He inhaled sharply. “I have to tell you something” he whispered.
You pulled back to look at him. “What is it?” His eyes moved over yours. Fear entered them so suddenly that you went totally still. But then, he shook his head and said it was nothing.
He didn’t have the courage yet. He wanted to tell you. So badly. But he couldn’t bear to put you in that type of agony. He’d rather die. And that’s why he hated himself in this moment. In every moment you’d overextended yourself or did something just because you loved him.
He didn’t deserve it, and he knew it. He was devastated.
Later, you would replay this memory until it felt like punishment that you couldn’t see things for what they were.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
You learned the truth at a charity luncheon six weeks after Michael came home.
The day was unremarkable. You picked out a cream suit and wore a silk blouse underneath. Gold hoops adorned your ears with your hair swept back away from your face. Michael was supposed to be attending with you, but a scheduling conflict came up that morning. He kissed your cheek while you got dressed and apologized, promising he would make it up to you.
It was no big deal it happened a lot. So, you went alone.
The luncheon was in a private ballroom that had been decorated elegantly with white flowers and soft, gold fabric. Wives of people in the industry, performers, executives, humanitarians, and philanthropists moved about the space while photographers hovered near the entrance. Being Michael’s wife, you had attended enough events like it to smile through small talk without thinking.
Halfway through the event, a woman from Michael’s label approached you at the refreshment table. You knew her vaguely, she’d always been friendly and talkative. And today, you noticed she was on her second glass of champagne, which meant she was sure to be extra chatty.
“It’s sooo good to see you. You look beautiful!” She said, kissing the air beside your cheek.
“Thank you, so do you.”
“We missed you sooo much in New York.” At first you just blinked. The sentence didn’t register initally.
“Excuse me?” You smiled politely, trying to get clarification.
“The Mercer dinner. Michael was basically hiding in a corner all evening, you know how he gets at those things.”
A cold chill washed over your body. Michael wasn’t in New York. He was in Chicago.
At least that’s what he had told you.
Still, you maintained your smile, even as your right eye began involuntarily twitching and your heart rate picked up.
“And when was this?”
The woman gave you the date. It was the exact night Michael had called you from what he claimed was his hotel in Chicago.
He claimed rehearsals ran late. He sounded really distracted and then he ended the call early because he said he was tired and needed some sleep.
Your fingers tightened so hard around your wine glass you thought it might break. “Oh” was all you said, like the wind had been knocked out of you.
Instantly, the woman knew she spoke too much. You saw it in her face. “Well maybe I just have the dates wrong…”
You continued to smile politely, at this point it was frozen on your face despite the rage you felt internally. You felt like you were in the Twilight Zone.
“You don’t.” you said simply. The activity in the ballroom continued around you. Silverware scraping, laughter and music. But at this point it all seemed far away, and you had tunnel vision.
“Who was he with?” you asked. The woman looked toward the crowd, desperate for an escape.
“That isn’t my business.” At this, your heart rate picked up even more.
“Who was he with?” You asked again calmly, this time your voice took on a covert threatening tone.
She lowered her voice as her eyes darted nervously around the room hoping no one was watching.
“Look, I didn’t see anything happen, okay? I’m sorry. I thought you knew. Please don’t say you heard anything from me! I really need this job, I can’t afford to lose it.” You stared at her unblinking now. That was not an answer. But it was confirmation.
She reached for your arm, but you stepped away before she could touch you. The room tilted and you placed your wine glass on the table before it slipped from your hand and shattered, exactly like you felt you were right in this moment. The truth entered your body slowly, then all at once.
New York.
The lie.
How distant Michael had been.
The endless gifts.
Him crying in the bathroom.
The way he kissed you like he was apologizing.
You felt sick.
You left the luncheon without saying goodbye to anyone. Outside the afternoon sun was still hot and bright. Papparazzi called your name as you walked toward your car, but you barely heard them over the chaos inside your head. Your mind was racing.
On the way home, you didn’t cry. Not yet. You sat completely still as if you were having an out of body experience as the city moved past. Your mind began recalling memories with cruel precision. Michael coming home and showering immediately before he’d let you touch him. He claimed it was grime from the plane and he wanted to be clean for you.
Him pulling away when you touched him. Bringing you flowers with tears in his eyes.
And then, him whispering, “I have to tell you something”.
Realization settled over you, slowly, coldly. The first tear fell before you reached home.
For weeks, you believed him when he said it was just work. You thought the distance meant you were failing him. You stared at yourself in mirrors wondering if he still thought you were pretty. Dressed more carefully. Tried to cook better, even asking his mother for tips. Swallowed your complaints and loneliness.
And all this time. He knew exactly what he had done. He watched you—allowed you— to chase him while he held the truth in silence. The humiliation of it all made your face so hot it burned to the touch.
When you entered your shared home with Michael, you walked straight upstairs without saying a word to any of the staff. In the bedroom everything was indifferent. His book rested on the nightstand, turned upside down on the last page he read before his eyes got too tired to continue. His sweater was strewn across a chair from him leaving in a rush that morning.
Then, your eyes landed on a picture of you both, taken during the first year of your marriage. Michael was smiling at you instead of the camera.
You picked it up and threw it across the room, feeling satisfaction as the frame struck the wall and shattered into pieces. You sat on the edge of your bed and cried until your chest ached.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
Michael felt the change before you said anything. He came home that night expecting the familiar sounds of you moving through the house, playing your favorite music from the stereo. Maybe your voice on the phone talking to one of your girlfriends.
Instead, everything was silent. He found you sitting at the dining room table with an untouched plate of food in front of you.
You had cried until there was nothing left before you cleaned up the glass from your outburst. Your eyes were swollen, and the sight made his heart lurch.
“Baby?” You looked up. You’d been so deep in your thoughts, wondering where you went wrong, that you hadn’t noticed his presence. “What happened?” He asked.
“Nothing” The word was eerily familiar in your home. Michael swallowed and moved closer, reaching for your shoulder. Sensing his touch impending you rose to your feet suddenly. “I’m tired, I’m going upstairs. Goodnight.”
He watched you leave, and panic began as a faint pressure under his ribs. After a long moment, he followed you and willed himself not to overreact. Maybe the luncheon was exhausting, or paparazzi had said something cruel. Maybe you just didn’t feel good.
When he found you, you were in the bathroom washing your face and completing your bedtime routine.
“What happened today? Did somebody upset you?” Michael stared at you through the reflection, watching every single movement carefully like doom was soon to come.
Casually, you continued smoothing cleanser over your skin, watching it foam in the reflection. “I said I’m tired.”
Still Michael didn’t depart from the doorway.
“Are you feeling alright?”
“Yes.”
“Do you wanna talk about it?”
“No.”
Michael shifted awkwardly on the balls of his feet like a child pestering their mother with a million and one questions. He knew he should probably leave you alone, and usually he would have given you your space. But the guilt of knowing what he had done, paired with your reaction, forced this awkward response. Your answers were too calm.
So Michael stepped closer. “Look at me”. You rinsed your face and reached for a hand towel. He caught your wrist gently. You froze under his touch, eyes lingering where his hand was.
For one hopeful second he thought you might turn into him. Let him hold you, or even ask the question he’d be dreading for six weeks.
But instead, you looked down at his hand and said simply, “Let go”. His fingers opened immediately. The words were not loud at all and that’s what struck him much harder than if you had yelled at him.
You walked past him. He remained next to the sink, gazing at the empty space where you’d stood.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
That night you slept on the far edge of the mattress with your back to Michael. He laid awake behind you, watching you since he’d gotten in bed. The distance between your bodies was short but it felt impenetrable.
He reached towards your waist once during the night. He stopped himself before he could reach you.
“Baby?” You didn’t answer, but your breathing pattern told him you were awake. “Can I hold you?” More silence. Michael lowered his hand, and the simmering panic he felt tightened.
Over the next three days you became polite and that terrified Michael more than anger would have.
You had stopped waiting for his presence after long workdays. You didn’t accompany him when he watched television. And most painfully for him, when he kissed your cheek before leaving in the morning you stood still and allowed it— but you did not turn your face toward him.
You started calling him Michael.
Not Mike.
Not Mikey.
Not love.
Just Michael. Every withdrawal felt like punishment to him. And he tried everything. Everything except the truth.
He brought you more flowers. You thanked him and left them wrapped on the table. He ordered you take out from your favorite restaurant, and you said you weren’t hungry. When he asked if you’d take a walk with him you declined, stating you had more work to finish.
At night he craved your touch. He laid beside you aching to confess, but fear kept closing around his throat.
If you didn’t know, telling you might destroy the marriage. But… if you did know— then the marriage might already be over.
Michael existed in limbo between these two options and it petrified him. He wasn’t able to choose either option. He was too scared.
The fourth evening, he came home early. The house was unusually quiet again. He called your name from the foyer and received no answer. His heart started beating faster before he had even reached the stairs.
He told himself not to panic. You could’ve been in the bath or reading with the bedroom door closed. Maybe you fell asleep early after another long day of barely speaking to him. There were dozens of harmless explanations, but none of them quieted the dread that had been building inside him since you stopped reaching for him.
When he found you, you were in the master bedroom. You were standing with your back to him and your suitcase was open on the floor. For several seconds, Michael’s brain couldn’t register what he was seeing.
He saw the suitcase and the neat stacks of folded clothes—and the empty spaces and hangers starting to form on your side of the closet. But he refused to connect them. He stood there, frozen and helpless in the doorway with one hand wrapped around the strap of his bag. He watched you place items inside the luggage, like maybe the room might reorganize into something less scary if he blinked enough.
Then he forced a nervous smile. It was born out of habit, not natural emotion.
“Baby?”
You placed another sweater in the suitcase, not answering him or looking at him. The small movement pulled his attention to what was already inside the suitcase. Your jewelry. A soft blue blanket your late grandmother gifted to you. The same one you carried from room to room whenever you were sick or sad.
Quickly, Michael realized these were not items someone packed for just a weekend. They were pieces of your life. A life you shared with him. His smile disappeared.
His hand loosened around the bag strap until it slipped from his fingers and landed softly against the carpet. The soft thud made you pause for just a moment even though you didn’t turn to him.
“What’re you doing?” He asked. His voice was quieter than he intended it to come out. There was already fear laced through it, although he pretended he didn’t understand.
When you reached for another blouse, he took one step into the room, then another. His eyes moved frantically between your face and the suitcase.
"Where are you going?” You kept folding. The lack of an answer made the pressure in his chest deepen. He could feel his pulse beating hard and uneven under his skin. His mind raced through possibilities. Maybe you were just gonna stay with your mom for a few nights for some reason. Or you needed space?
He thought if he stayed calm and chose the right words, he could keep the situation from becoming what it already was coming to.
“Baby, look at me.”
You smoothed your hands over the blouse you had just folded. Michael moved around the bed until he was closer to you. When you still didn’t look at him, he reached out and took the next piece of clothing from your hands. Not roughly, but because he couldn’t bear to watch you continue.
You stared at the empty space between your fingers where the jacket had just been.
“I found out.” You said.
The room started to close in around Michael, and suddenly he felt like his worst nightmare was coming to life. His hand went slack around the fabric, and the jacket slid from his fingers and fell to the floor. He didn’t ask you what you meant, and that was most damning.
The silence lasted for only a few seconds, but in that time his breathing had stopped. His lips parted and the terror he had spent weeks trying to escape had finally caught up with him.
“Who told you?” He whispered. A sad laugh escaped you.
“What do you mean who told me?”
Michael closed his eyes the minute he heard disbelief wound tightly through your question. He knew instantly he’d said the wrong thing. But panic had pushed him before he could stop it.
“That’s what you wanna know?” You asked. “You don’t wanna know how I feel? Or what I heard? You wanna know who said what so you know how much I know? Are you fucking kidding me, Michael?”
“No” he shook his head quickly and reached toward you before he could think otherwise. “No, that’s not what I meant.”
“So what did you mean?” You turned fully to face him now, arms crossed and lips pursed. His mouth opened, but fear crowded every answer he could think of out of him. He looked at you helplessly, eyes starting to fill with tears. The absence of an explanation only made your expression harden.
You nodded slowly as tears stung your eyes.
“Exactly.”
Michael’s stomach dropped when your first tears fell. Tears that had always pulled him closer to you without thought. He stepped closer, his hands rising toward your arms because his body believed he still had the right to soothe whatever was hurting you.
“Please let me explain” he said softly, voice trembling. You moved away before he could touch you and the rejection stopped him in place. His hands remained suspended in the air between the two of you for a long moment before they fell awkwardly to his sides.
Something heavy settled in his chest, heavier than the guilt he had carried for weeks. This was the first time you were in pain and wouldn’t allow him to get near it.
He had spent years learning the shape of your hurt. When you needed words—when you just needed him to hold you and say nothing. Now, he had become the thing you needed protection from.
“Explain what?” You seethed, angrily wiping away tears that had slipped despite your best efforts to contain them. “Explain to me why you told me you were in Chicago and you were in New York? Or why some random bitch from your label knew where my husband was, and I didn’t?”
Michael flinched at your words and his throat tightened.
“It was only one night.” The words escaped him before he had a chance to think about how they sounded. Your entire face changed and instantly he felt dread.
“One night? Michael, I’m your wife.” You said in disbelief, voice choked with grief.
“Baby, I didn’t mean it like that” He said quickly, voice cracking through tears. “I swear, that’s not what I was trying to say.”
“How many nights would make it matter to you?”
“It matters to me. It matters so much, this has been killing me.” He pleaded.
“Why, because I found out?”
“No, god no” He shook his head frantically, words failing him completely.
“Then why didn’t you tell me Michael? Why did I have to find out from someone else?” Your eyes were locked on him now, unblinking with blatant disbelief.
“I was scared. I’m so sorry.” Michael didn’t know what to do except be honest now that the weight of his decisions had come crashing down on him. You scoffed in disbelief.
“You were scared?”
“I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t want you to hate me.” Tears were spilling freely now as Michael’s hands dangled at his sides. He didn’t know what to do with them, and he was fighting the urge to reach for you after your previous reaction.
“But you knew how to lie to me, right?”
He physically drew back, one hand moving toward his chest like your words hit something tender under his ribs. The truth of them hurt because there was nothing he could say to defend himself.
He had arranged his flight, and divulged a false schedule, called you from one city and said it was another. Every lie required effort and thought.
The truth he claimed he couldn’t manage only required courage.
You stepped toward him, angry now.
“You knew how to call me from New York fucking City and tell me you were somewhere else. How to come home and kiss me like you hadn’t touched anyone else.” Now your voice choked, “How to climb in our bed like you didn’t break our vows, and let me touch you like nothing had happened.”
Michael’s face fell more with every sentence. He wanted to interrupt you so badly, tell you that none of those moments were false. Loving you had never been the lie, but unfortunately he understood how paradoxical and cruel that sounded now. You would find no comfort in knowing he had loved you while betraying you. If anything, it would just make what he did seem more senseless.
“Every single time I asked you what was on your mind you looked me in my face and told me you were tired. What the fuck, Michael?”
He flinched again as you swore at him, something you never did. “I know” He said, barely above a whisper.
“And I really thought it was me.”
Michael shook his head immediately, eyes widening. “No baby, it was never you. You’re perfect. Always been so perfect for me.” Your heart sank to your stomach.
“If I’m so perfect for you, why would you do this to me? To us?”
The words silenced him. Your face twisted with disgust as the anger finally gave away beneath the full weight of the humiliation you had felt for the last three days. “I kept trying to figure out what I needed to change. I stopped complaining when you weren’t here when I needed you. I made your favorite foods and waited until they got cold, hoping you’d come home early. I even bought new clothes because I thought maybe you didn’t want me anymore. Oh god, Michael” your hands came to your face as the grief overtook you, no longer able to retain it.
“Baby, I’m so sorry. Please don’t ever think—” His voice cracked heavily as he spoke through tears, stepping toward you before he could stop himself.
“It’s too late. I already did.” A sob tore through you involuntarily before the last word had fully left your mouth. Michael moved on instinct. The sight of you breaking apart in front of him erased every thought except the need to catch you.
His hands closed gently around your arms as he tried to pull you toward his chest, desperate to offer you the same comfort he’d given you throughout every pain you had endured together— throughout his time loving you.
The same comfort he’d given you when you when your childhood dog passed away. The kind he’d given when you decided to walk away from a career you loved with your soul because it wasn’t right for you anymore. The same comfort he’d provided when you cried quietly at night, wishing he was there more.
You shoved him away, and he stumbled backward. He was completely stunned into silence. His hands remained raised for a moment, fingers still curved around the shape of you even though you weren’t there anymore.
The rejection drove the weight in his chest deeper, your tears had always been something he was allowed to soothe. He’d never needed permission to hold you before. Now the distress on your face only sharpened when he came near you. He lowered his hands slowly, afraid of agitating you further.
“Don’t touch me.” You cried. Michael’s lips parted, but no words followed. His gaze moved helplessly over your face as another tear slipped down his own. That was when the truth settled inside him with unbearable clarity. He was not the person who could make this hurt better. Because he was the reason it existed.
Silence swallowed the room and stretched until it became unbearable for Michael. You turned away first, not angry or dramatically. Just… quietly. You reached for the zipper on the suitcase, and he watched your fingers wrap around the metal tab.
Something inside him screamed.
The zipper closed with one smooth, unforgiving sound, and to Michael it sounded like the end of every future he had ever imagined with you. Like someone closing one chapter of their life before they began another. The realization made the room spin for Michael.
No.
This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be.
Then, you reached down and grabbed the handle of your suitcase. His body moved before he had ever made the decision to. Two hurried steps carried him around the bed until he stood directly between you and the bedroom door.
His chest was rising and falling unevenly, his expression somewhere between terror and disbelief. The movement surprised even him. He was blinking rapidly like he was disoriented, like he didn’t consciously decide to block your path.
He just couldn’t bear the idea of watching you walk away. Not while there was still breath in his lungs.
When you looked up at him, your face was streaked with tears. His stomach twisted so violently he thought he might lose the contents of his stomach.
He had done that. Every single tear, every ounce of hurt written across your features. He put it there.
He hated himself with a depth he didn’t know was possible.
“Move” Your voice wasn’t angry anymore. Just exhausted. And that hurt Michael more than if you'd slapped him. His lips trembled and he shook his head.
“I…I can’t” the words came out barely above a whisper. “I can’t let you leave”
“You don’t get to stop me.”
“I know,” He whimpered helplessly. “I know I don’t.” His eyes fell to the floor in shame before lifting back to yours. There was no defensiveness in them.
“I know I don’t deserve a conversation… or another a chance” He rubbed his hands over his face, dragging them down until they rested over his mouth for a moment. His shoulders shook under the effort of trying to compose himself. When he lowered them again, more tears fell. “I know I’m embarrassing myself. I know” A humorless laugh escaped him and his chin quivered. “I understand that you can’t even stand to look at me right now, and I wouldn’t either…” his voice trailed off sadly, unsure where he was going with this. “But… I don’t know what else to do.”
The admission seemed to cost him something. Michael had spent his whole life trying to solve problems. If a certain dance move didn’t look right, he’d rehearse till his feet were numb. Song wasn’t right? He’d rewrite it 50 times before it saw the light of day. There was always something to do, some way to fix things.
This was the first problem he had ever faced where his effort felt meaningless. There was no way for him to rehearse his way back into your trust, and he couldn’t outwork the betrayal.
“I can fix it.” The words spilled out before he could stop them. His mind was racing miles ahead of him, desperately searching for anything—anything that might convince you to stay.
“I… I won’t travel alone anymore.” He took another careful step toward you before stopping himself, worried of you recoiling from his touch again.
“I’ll cancel trips if I have to, you come everywhere with me” His breathing remained uneven. “I’ll give you every itinerary before I leave. Every hotel, every phone number.” His words started tumbling over each other now.
“I’ll tell you where I am before you even have to ask. I’ll…” he frowned in that same way he did when he was a little boy and an interviewer’s question perplexed him. He was frustrated that his own thoughts couldn’t keep up.
“I’ll fire people, I’ll stop going out. I’ll…” His voice broke under a sob. “I’ll do anything. I mean it. There isn’t anything I won’t change.” He searched your face desperately, looking for any tiny shift that would show him you were hearing him. His chest heaved as tears continued to fall. “I swear to God, I’ll spend the rest of my life making this up to you.” His lips were swollen now from how hard he was biting on them in between sentences, trying to stop himself from completely falling apart.
“I’ll do anything to earn your trust back. I don’t care how long it takes.” He shook his head frantically, voice dropping to a whisper so fragile it carried across the room.
“Just…” he couldn’t finish the sentence. This was killing him. His throat closed around the word so he tried again. “Please don’t leave me. I can fix it.”
Now your eyes filled with tears.
“There isn’t anything to left to fix, Michael. I can’t do this anymore.” You said sadly.
Your statement settled over him with a chilling finality. He simply stared at you, blinking. For a minute, it seemed like he didn’t understand what you had said.
“I have to go.” Your voice wasn’t angry anymore, just tired. Like somebody who had spent the last three days crying until there was nothing left.
Michael felt his chest seize painfully. His hand instinctively pressed against it, trying to soothe the ache. He had never understood why people described heartbreak as physical until now.
And when he saw you reach for your suitcase handle again, his stomach dropped when he realized you were done listening. When you stepped toward the door, he moved instinctively, pressing his back further against it. His movements were frantic and clumsy now. His body had totally disconnected from the calm composure he usually carried. His curls fell into his face as tears spilled down his cheeks.
He looked at you the way a drowning person would a shoreline. “Please… please don’t do this to me. I love you.”
“I can’t, Michael. I don’t want this anymore. Not like this.” You said, shutting your eyes tightly.
The words hollowed him out, and he stared at you. Waiting for you to take them back. Or to say you were gonna stay at your mom’s for a few days. But the words never came.
Michael’s breathing quickened and his eyes darted around the room, his mind was betraying him. He could already see it. You carrying your things downstairs, opening the front door… the sound it would make when it closed behind you. You driving away. Never coming home.
His chest tightened so violently he had to press his palm harder against it to ground himself. He dropped to his knees when they buckled. He pressed his forehead against your stomach as his breathing refused to settle.
Every inhale came in sharp and frantic, not fully reaching his lungs. Each breath chased the last as if his body had forgotten how breathing was supposed to work.
His shoulders were trembling now, not from crying, but from panic. Pure, overwhelming panic. Your hand fell away from your suitcase as you dropped to your knees too.
“Michael” you said firmly. He didn’t answer, lost completely in fear and his own thoughts. His fingers curled weakly into the fabric of your shirt, holding on to you like you might disappear if he let go. “Michael” you repeated, more sternly this time. You cupped the side of his face, and his whole body leaned into your palm. For a second, it felt like every other time you’d ever comforted him. After bad dreams, migraines. Whenever the world became too much to bear.
He was fully hyperventilating now. “Look at me” you said. Slowly, his eyes opened and they were shiny and terrified.
“I can’t… I..”
“Breathe Michael, you gotta breathe baby. You’re gonna pass out.”
“I don’t care” he said in between hiccups and breaths. “I can’t… you’re leaving” he gasped.
“In through your nose, and out. Try for me, please” You deliberately kept your own breathing slow. His breath started to even, he tried but it kept catching in his throat. Then he looked toward the suitcase, and the panic doubled. His chest spasmed again and his hands slipped from your waist to the carpet beneath him.
“…You’re really leaving” he said, voice trembling as he tried to talk between breaths. It wasn’t a question. It was a devastated man finally acknowledging the reality he had tried so desperately to outrun.
When you closed your eyes in response, Michael knew. And it hurt more than if you had just said yes. Because now, you weren’t even trying to lie to him.
“No” The word dissolved into a sob. “No” His breathing had become so erratic that his entire upper body jerked with each failed inhale. Michael had panic attacks in the past, but never this severe.
Instinctively, you moved closer and your hands found either side of his face. He leaned into you again, desperately. The way a freezing person reaches toward warmth.
“I need you to breathe.”
He swallowed another sob, “I don’t know how” The confession broke your heart. This was a man who commanded stadiums and rehearsed until sunrise. And here he was, sat on the floor looking up at you like a frightened little boy. Totally lost. “I don’t know what to do… how to make you stay.”
The room fell silent. There was still plenty to say, but there just simply weren’t any words left. He searched your face anyway, looking for mercy. Or hope. Instead there was nothing. Just tears that flowed from a place that felt empty now.
“Oh god, baby. I’m so sorry” he covered his face, the shame, burning through him full force now. What had he done? “I’ll never forgive myself. I don’t expect you to either.”
His eyes drifted to the wedding ring on your left hand. It was still there—for now.
His lifted his gaze back to yours. “Are you gonna take it off?” You were silent. He watched your face carefully for any sort of an answer. But all he got was fresh tears, and trembling lips. He understood without you needing to answer.
His own wedding band felt heavy now. He looked down at it, turning it slowly. The little gold band that symbolized forever with you. He had broken that promise. “I ruined everything” he said softly. Not dramatically or looking for reassurance. Just a fact.
For a long time neither of you moved. The room felt suspended in time. Michael remained on his knees at your feet, shoulders rising unevenly beneath shaky breaths. His hands had slipped from your hips sometime during the silence. Now they just rested against his thighs, palms open and empty. He didn’t reach for you again. He wanted to. But he finally understood that wanting wasn’t good enough anymore.
You looked down at him one last time. He had exhausted himself. Not physically, spiritually.
He watched quietly as you gathered your purse from a nearby chair. His eyes followed the movement automatically. His lips parted, but he was out of pleas, promises, and apologies.
He couldn’t ask anymore. He had already offered you every version of himself he knew how to give. And there was nothing left. You had rejected all of them.
You walked across the bedroom floor, and the sound of your footsteps seemed unnaturally loud in the moment. This time, he didn’t try to stop you.
His body wanted to. Every instinct he had was screaming at him to stand up. Run after you. Throw himself in front of any door he had to.
But he stayed where he was. He knew you deserved the freedom he’d stolen from you weeks ago.
When your hand settled around the door knob, you hesitated. “I loved you with everything I had to give, Mike. I really did.”
Michael shut his eyes, the sentence felt like a knife. Not love. Loved. As in past tense. His breathing faltered again. When he opened his eyes, you were already stepping into the hallway. He listened as your footsteps grew fainter. As the front door opened and shut. And then nothing.
It was the kind of silence that settles over a home after someone who once filled it with love is no longer there. Michael stayed where he was. His eyes never left the bedroom doorway, as if maybe you’d come back if he stared long enough. His hand drifted to the center of his chest slowly, right over his heart. The ache that had settled there was dull and heavy. He pressed harder, but it didn’t help.
Hours passed. Afternoon melted into evening. Evening into night. The house darkened around Michael. Someone called the home phone, and it rang until the answering machine picked up. A car pulled into the driveway, then left. The world continued on outside with no reverence for how Michael’s heart had been broken.
Every room suddenly held the shape of someone who wasn't there anymore. The mug you'd used that morning still sat in the kitchen sink. Your favorite throw still rested over the arm of the living room sofa. One of your hair ties lay on his nightstand. Little pieces of you remained everywhere.
Everything except, you. Michael blinked slowly, the reality still refused to settle completely. It felt impossible that a marriage could end in a single afternoon. That a person could wake up having a wife, and go to bed alone.
His thumb rubbed absently over his wedding band. "I did this." He spoke the words into the empty room. He lowered his head, shoulders sagging beneath a grief too large to carry.
And for the first time in his life, there wasn't a stage big enough, a rehearsal long enough, or a song beautiful enough to fix what he had broken.
He simply sat there in the dark room, one hand pressed over his heart, staring at the doorway long after the sun had disappeared, trapped inside the quiet realization that some mistakes don't end when the confession is over.
And this one would follow him into every tomorrow he had left.
─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───
please respect my work 💌
Everything posted here is written
by @brownsugarletters. Please do not repost, copy, translate, claim as your own, upload to Al tools, or share my writing outside of Tumblr without permission.
I’m going to say this once and never again. If you don’t agree with me, you’re more than welcome to unfollow and block me. I’m also not a chicken and will be tagging exactly who I’m talking about because this is honestly ridiculous.
I’m going to preface this by saying this isn’t to cause drama or get likes. My account is garnering plenty of engagement from my writing and my personal posts already. This is merely for educational purposes and to shed light on an issue that’s infested the internet for years. This is also NOT just about the MJ fandom but I’m using it as an example because it’s happened here. Again, if you don’t agree with me, unfollow or block me!
I recently followed an account under the impression that they were a black owned blog. Their layout, use of AAVE and black oriented reaction pictures made me believe that I found another black writer to support. But I learned that the owner is a white women.
I want to follow more black writers here to uplift them in a space that is heavily biased against black fans. Situations surrounding belittling black writers in the MJ community have been rampant for a while now so I take it upon myself to support and follow fellow black writers who represent me and many black MJ fans who have felt underrepresented in the fandom.
Back to the issue. Finding out that this account is a white woman behind the scenes upset me quite a bit. I genuinely believed she was one of us and was combating the racial problem within the fandom. That being said, I’d like to point out why this is more than just a ‘I feel scammed’ situation and more about digital dishonesty.
Digital blackface is a massive issues in online communities across the internet. It’s a conversation that has been ongoing for years now, even before I was on the internet. Many people outside of the black diaspora have downplayed it as a problem, stating that free speech shouldn’t be considered black fishing or harmful towards black communities. However, I would like to point out that Digital Blackface is more than just using ‘black media’ to express yourself, it directly impacts how the world views black peoples as a whole.
Accounts on Tumblr and other platforms have popped up pretending to be black people since conception of social media. They use Ebonics and black reaction pictures/gifs as a means of communication which often time leads to real black-owned accounts believing that they are interacting with black people. In hindsight, one would merely say “well it’s not their fault you thought they were black,” and that is exactly the problem.
As I said before, I follow black blogs to uplift my people. The internet is riddled with racism directly impacting black communities. We get called the hard r, monkeys, ghetto, nasty, undesirable etc and platforms don’t bat an eye. Racism towards us is so normalised that it’s bled into every internet fandom. So you see why black people online gravitate towards each other? Because we want a safe space for ourselves. We want to appreciate each other, dote on each other, love, respect and support each other’s art.
How do black folk know that an account is black owned? We use Ebonics, black media and black phrases that only we would know. So you can imagine how disheartening it is to find out that an account using such media would be a white woman behind it.
Nonblack POC or white person reading this might not understand the gravity of this situation but I implore you to read up on it and take time to fully understand why it’s upsetting.
Terms like ‘the saxophones are getting louder” “goofy ahh” “I’m crine” “unc” “Deadass” are AAVE/Ebonics. Finding them on TikTok and incorporating them into your online vocabulary when you’re not apart of that community is a form of digital blackface and cultural appropriation. It’s not Gen Z slang or TikTok slang and it’s not a funny audio just for vibes. It’s BLSCK AMERICAN language.
I’m not BA and I do use Ebonics here and there but I avoid incorporating it into my speech when I don’t understand how to use it properly. And I don’t use much of it because, again, I’m NOT black American. Black Americans have been kind enough to even let black people outside of the United States use their language and I don’t even want them to think that I’m being irresponsible with that privilege.
Now in regards to this situation. I don’t want to hear things like “Michael was for everyone.” Although that was true, you would be really stupid to believe that Michael didn’t understand that black people were/are the most marginalised and racially abused people on the planet. This man grew up in undoubtedly the most racially divided time in USA history. He even spoke out about the industry steals from “especially black artists”. He was aware that black art is abused for white financial and political gain. Black media (whether it be music or simply reaction photos) is art.
So why position yourself in a way that make you appear to us as a black woman @michaelmuse ? Your entire aesthetic is based in a way that draws in a black audience. You use black faces as reaction pics and Ebonics but you draw the line at reblogging black fanfics when you know that this site favours reblogs over comments and likes.
Your previous username (ebonymuse) in itself is indicative of the issue I’m discussing here. ‘Ebony’ is a term primarily used to describe black people. Urban dictionary defines it as “the essence of dark skin that is enriched and plentiful with melanin. greatness. beauty”. It’s even a common term used to define a porn category for to black people. Now the term itself is constantly being critiqued for bordering on being a fetish term, however, you see how it’s for black people? Dark skin people to be exact?
So why is a white woman with white ass skin using that term in their username? I’m a black woman with albinism and even I wouldn’t use that term. Why? Because it isn’t not for my pasty self.
I’ve read some of your fics and this has nothing to do with me wanting diversity or inclusion from you, nor is it to hate on your work. You do use Ebonics in your work so I’m sure you knew that your fics would attract black readers to your blog. Your behaviour (whether you did it intentionally or not) was deceptive and potentially harmful to my community. You need to educate yourself on the contents of this conversation to fully understand how bad this situation actually is. There’s no way you’ve been on the internet and didn’t know that black Americans have been begging nonblack (especially white) folk to stop using their media as your own or as ‘a silly tend’ or to be relatable.
I’ve seen a few black British blogs come to your defence and I’m bewildered to see them pandering for a white woman about something that affects black people as a whole. I myself am not Black American but I will stand by them when their culture and language is diluted and turned into a ‘trend’ for everyone else to steal and appropriate. It’s wrong and it impacts us all. White people (even other POC) don’t separate us. They see one fake black account say stupid things and assume that’s how all of us feel/act. I understand that the UK is differently set up but your low racial self esteem is affecting us all. You let white Brits walk all over you and your culture and you just laugh along like it’s funny. This is why racism there will never end. You let white footballer wear braids, let white folk use AAVE and flat out call your Afros messy and you think it’s not that serious. Stand up. Immediately.
You guys really need to do better. Stop misconstruing Michael’s words to get away with disrespecting black people. You’re becoming just as bad as those who racially attacked him.
tangentwithtanner
turnnoffyourmind
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