Sra_Kwonji2

Só alguém que ama escrever. Viciada em fanficar

[srakwonji]

Man In The Mirror - 01

Sumary: A writer at the peak of her career and a singer by hobby, you have always preferred the comfort of weaving stories through words over the roar of a crowd in front of a stage. But the world won't take "no" for an answer. The media relentlessly hunts you, labeling your closeness to Jaafar Jackson as a calculated obsession to claw your way into the Jackson dynasty.

While you struggle to navigate Jaafar’s chaotic and shadow-filled world, a rift in time grants you the impossible: the chance to save Michael Jackson.

Thrust between the past and the present, you find yourself in a desperate battle against destiny.

Every attempt to protect Michael fails in increasingly cruel ways, and what began as mere admiration spirals into an uncontrollable passion for the King of Pop. Now, your heart is torn in two: on one side, your loyalty and desire for Jaafar in the present. On the other, the urgent need to save the man who changed your life decades before.

What you didn't foresee was the danger of being consumed by time itself, and the risk of losing your heart to both the nephew and the uncle.

Warnings: mention of suicide, psychological and physical violence, depression, binge eating, anorexia, sexual innuendos, explicit sexual content, media stalking, death of a protagonist, love triangle, and time travel.

“Where does all this creativity come from?” The tenth question in less than twenty minutes made me sigh. From the same place you should be looking for better questions, I thought. Fortunately, I didn’t have the guts to say that out loud.

“I don’t know. Usually, I just hit the pillow and let my mind wander. I create the most random scenarios possible and piece them together when a wave of inspiration hits. Sometimes it happens when I’m just sitting in the car, looking out the window on my way to an appointment. It’s unexpected, even for me.” Loure didn’t look away, as if she were coldly dissecting every word. Was she judging whether each fact was true or false? I couldn't tell.

“That’s very interesting. Everything you do is, actually. Haha.” I forced a smile to match her statement. If there was one thing I hated more than the media’s hounding, it was the senseless deification of artists—as if we weren’t ordinary people with a bit more money and a burden that’s often heavier than we can carry. “Let’s get to the point: fans are losing their minds over the possibility of you starting a world tour to promote your music.”

Again and again, I felt like I was spinning in an endless circle. The more I tried to express my repulsion toward the stage, the more I was attacked as some loathsome creature who had committed an unpardonable crime.

“They know how I feel about it! To me, music is just a hobby, something I do for fun when I have the time. I’m not cut out for this.” She looked perplexed; I think she was offended.

“How so? At least, that’s not what the sales for your first and only album say. It was a massive success; everyone wants to see you on stage.” I tried to suppress the restlessness that kept my body in constant motion. With every new inflection in her voice, I felt we were sinking a level deeper into her interrogation. “Don’t you think you’re being reckless, throwing away the chance to become a brilliant artist? Any street performer would do anything to be in your shoes.” For God’s sake, why can’t anyone understand how I truly feel?

“But it’s not what I want for myself. My place is behind a laptop, in the comfort of my home. Not on a stage with a crowd screaming my name.” Loure cleared her throat, like someone trying to navigate an awkward situation. I think, deep down, she wanted a scoop to flood the digital channels, but that wasn’t what I had to offer.

“The musical style, the choreography, the lyrics… everything was so well-thought-out. That’s the real reason for such success. You became the most talked-about artist in the world in a year, and your songs haven't left the top of the charts. Did any artist inspire you?” In a reality where artists have sold out to generic music and catchy TikTok dances, any drop of originality breaks the bubble.

“The King of Pop, of course. I’ve been a fan of Michael since I was a kid. Look, I didn’t follow his whole career, for obvious reasons, but my parents were huge fans, so I grew up listening to his music. I’ve lost count of how many times I watched Moonwalker with my younger brother. It’s a shame I never got to meet him. It’s no secret how much I admire him.” A smile escaped my lips. It’s always good to speak with enthusiasm about something we love.

“Funny you should mention Michael,” she said, her voice turning sharp. I saw the exact moment she smirked sarcastically and circled a topic in her notes. “Especially since the tabloids haven't stopped talking for a second about your sudden closeness with the Jackson family. Specifically, your romance with Jaafar. Some say your ‘admiration’ is a calculated strategy to seize the Jackson legacy. What do you have to say to those who call you an opportunist

I didn’t move, but my "poker face" was failing me—there was a screen right in front of me reflecting my expression. That has always been my flaw: I can’t hide my discontent. It’s not the first time I’ve been accused of such lowly things. Day after day, the same feeling returns like an endless nightmare: I always think the next time will be worse, and that realization creates a suffocating tightness in my throat.

I wanted to scream, to curse her out. To say it was absurd, that Jaafar and I have nothing but a friendship, and that he’s just dragging me into his private world. I don’t want to carry anyone’s legacy.

Why is it so hard to understand that:

I

Don't

Want

To Be

A Singer

The memory of the exact moment I met Jaafar is still fresh. A wave of nostalgia hits me as I recall that day.

The weather in London felt freezing. The view from the small hall's door confirmed it: there was no sign the sun would show up to brighten that busy afternoon. The aroma of freshly roasted coffee and buttery biscuits filled the thin air. I hate coffee; I felt so suffocated and nauseous that I thought I might vomit over the pile of custom bookmarks in front of me—gifts with Russian embroidery that I had customized myself.

A massive line stretched out of the lobby. I didn't know where it ended, but the pain in my right hand was starting to make me whimper. Even with gloves on, I knew if I didn't stop, my fingers would freeze. Repetitive motions were always an issue due to my excessive immersion in my work.

“You should hire a better team.” I couldn't ignore the shiver that ran through me at the sound of that soft voice. I looked up quickly, searching for its owner, and was met with a warm smile. “They should realize you’re in pain.” I froze instantly. Was it that obvious?

“Nonsense, dear. I’m not in pain. What’s your name?” I tried to ignore the fluttering in my chest, but it was hard; his gaze was like embers that intensified with every second. I took the book from his hands, avoiding his attention like a small fish being circled by sharks.

“Jaafar,” he replied, looking a bit embarrassed for keeping me waiting. “Jaafar Jackson.” I sensed the pride in his last name, but the name was the least of it—his entire presence was captivating. “Can I ask for a photo?”

My security guard looked at me, as if to say, “Your call.” I rarely turn down fan requests, so I stood up and walked over to the photo area.

As he followed me, I got a better look at him: his eyes were like two shining blackberries. Small drops of water dripped from his curly hair, indicating he’d just washed it. Jaafar wasn't very tall and wore a high-end black overcoat, a size too big, which hid his body’s proportions well—I couldn't tell if it was just his style or intentional. I’d like to say I wasn't swayed by his beauty, but that would be a very poorly told lie.

The Jackson boy stood beside me, his arm going around my back without actually touching me. I didn't know if I was more flustered by his woody-citrus cologne or his respectful gesture.

A tingling in my hands stopped me; I pulled my gloves off quickly, opening and closing my fingers urgently. The pain was so sharp a groan escaped my lips.

“May I?” Jaafar looked at my hands and, without thinking, I held them out. His touch was warm, delicate, and soft. He pressed his fingertips down, massaging them with precision. The relief was immediate, and it was enough to leave me speechless. “I guess the physical therapy hasn't been enough,” he commented.

“How do you know?” He laughed.

“I’m a fan, remember? I know everything about you—at least, what you put out in the media.” I cursed myself for being so naive. “Your fingersare turning purple; were you trying to lose them?” I made a face.

“I didn't realize it was that bad.” I lied. Of course I knew; the discomfort had become unbearable. I should have known. But now, seeing that he was the reason the pain was gradually subsiding, I realized how foolish I’d been. A simple massage would have done the trick. “Your hands are so warm.” He laughed again.

“Thank you, I think. I’m happy to be of use to my idol.” My cheeks burned.

“Seriously, I owe you one.” A mischievous smile played on his lips.

“I’d love to cash in that ‘favor’ by taking you out to dinner.” I think my surprise was obvious.

“You only look shy. You don't waste time, do you?” Jaafar bit his lip, glanced around to make sure we weren't being watched, and whispered in my ear: “It runs in the family.”

Why was I so mesmerized in less than five minutes? I couldn't decipher it, but there was something about him that drew me in like a magnet.

“I’m just kidding. I’m not a creep; I’m just trying to get your attention. I’d love to be your friend.” That day, I felt unable to say no. Maybe I was hypnotized, or maybe I was just too weak to refuse.

I don't regret the friendship, but I can't help constantly wondering what would have happened if I’d said no. Would my life be easier without Jaafar? Or even more distressing?

I don't know if I want to find out.

Back to reality, adrenaline surged through my veins. My anger was so intense my body felt like it was boiling. I remembered my manager’s pleas not to give in to provocations, but how can I stay quiet when everything in me is screaming for defense?

“It's not the first time I’ve talked about this, but I have to reiterate: Jaafar and I are just good friends. There is nothing more to it, much to your disappointment. And as for the accusations that I want to seize the Jackson legacy—please, don’t make me laugh. I don’t need to use anyone to achieve anything, and I certainly have no interest in riding the coattails of another artist.”

She huffed, flipped through her papers hurriedly, and continued her "horror show."

“That’s not what Jaafar seems to think.” I have to admit, I underestimated how low they would stoop by using a recording from the premiere of the Michael movie, where Jaafar said I was the dream of his life. I knew something like that could happen, but I didn't think they’d actually have the nerve. In the end: Media 1, Me 0.

“Are your questions always this inappropriate?” My tone cut through the atmosphere. I’d reached my limit.

The interview was cut short. My team stepped in to prevent the worst from happening. Generally, I’m a very composed person. But I can't guarantee that when I’m provoked so harshly.

So, I made a quick exit and walked out of the studio, my mind in shambles. The night ended there. The stress was so high I had to crack my knuckles against each other so the annoying sound would bring me back to earth.

“You should think rationally, just for once,” Harry said as soon as he caught up with me in the hallway. From the look on my manager’s face, it was clear he wasn't happy with another failed interview. “Give in just once; take advantage of what they’re saying about you and Jaafar. You have a chance to play the media.” I stopped immediately.

“I’m not going to sell my private life like a reality show. That’s not who I am. I won’t involve my friend in this, nor will I turn my feelings into something marketable.” Harry let out a bitter laugh.

“Friend? You know damn well Jaafar is crazy about you. He’s been desperately trying to win you over for about three years. But it seems you’re the only one who can’t see how much that boy wants to get between your legs.”

My fingers slid through my hair, pushing it back in an effort to control myself. I had to fight the urge to slap him.

“Don’t you ever say that again. If I hear one more piece of trash like that come out of your mouth, consider yourself fired. I have no problem finding another manager, but I won’t tolerate being treated so disrespectfully.” He swallowed hard. “And for the last time: I’m not doing a damn tour. Learn to take no for an answer. Are we clear?” Harry sighed, exhausted, and simply nodded.

I smiled with satisfaction, turning back toward the car waiting for us in the parking lot.

My hands won't stop shaking. A glass of water sits on the coffee table. Two headache pills rest in my hand; I close the medicine bottle and toss it onto the sofa beside me.

Jaafar stares at me in silence, watching my every move. I swallow the medication with a desperation I can't hide.

The liquid helping me not to choke slides down my throat with a distinct sound. As soon as I’m done, he takes the glass from my hands and puts it back where it was.

By the way he looks at me, I can guess what he’s thinking.

“I don't like it when you use that junk.” By a twist of fate, there he was, taking my hands just like the first time, massaging my skin so carefully that it was impossible to deny his touch acted as an instant painkiller for my body. “I’m serious, you need to stop.”

“I’m in a lot of pain, you know that.” He swallowed hard. His intense gaze shimmered with a certain sadness.

“I’ve heard that before.” A shiver ran through me the exact moment I understood what Jaafar meant. “I’m afraid of losing you.” He rarely commented on the loss of his uncle, but it was evident how much the wound remained open, all these years later.

“That’s not going to happen,” I assured him, even though I knew that deep down, I can’t guarantee a future I can't control. “I’m still going to annoy you until you’re an old man.” Jaafar let out a hearty laugh.

“Prince is getting married this Saturday,” he remarked, making sure to look me straight in the eyes.

“Wish him all the best; Prince deserves it.” I pulled away suddenly, walking into the kitchen. The cold floor against my bare feet brought immediate relief. A curious fact about me: I’ve loved walking barefoot since I was a child; it’s like an uncontrollable habit. It’s not that I don't use slippers; I just avoid them as much as I can.

With some difficulty, I reached for two glass flutes on the bar counter.

“You can tell him that yourself, you know? I received direct orders from the groom to bring you as my plus-one.” With my back to Jaafar, I managed to hide how uncomfortable the subject made me. I’ve been trying to dodge this commitment since I received Prince’s invitation.

I seriously think being surrounded by the Jackson family has been causing me major problems.

And as a way to escape the topic, I took longer than necessary to choose a wine for Jaafar, because I knew my friend could read the tide of mental confusion I was in with a single glance. I didn't want him to notice how much I’ve been struggling between my desire to stay by his side and the constant urge to push him away.

“You’re not planning on drinking, are you?” I looked at the wine in my hands and the concern etched on his face. Does he really think I’m that reckless? “You just took medication that’s already strong enough; you can’t mix them.”

“It’s for you, silly! I’m having juice.” I shook the pitcher containing passion fruit juice.

“I’ll have the same as you.” Sometimes I feel like I’m dealing with a needy, protective child. Jaafar was like that with me—always sweet, attentive, and very dedicated to looking after my every breath.

“I don't feel comfortable being seen with the Jacksons. Especially after what I had to hear today. Do you know what they’re saying? That I’m an opportunist trying to seduce Michael Jackson’s nephew just to get my hands on the King of Pop’s legacy.” Unlike my irritation, Jaafar laughed. And not just a little. I have to admit, the story is absurd—how could they say that?

“You’re as talented as a Jackson. You’re just missing the last name, which I can fix pretty quickly.” He winked at me. Even though his tone was teasing, I couldn't suppress the memory of the conversation I had with Harry right before getting home. Is Jaafar really what he says he is? “Relax, you’re a complete artist who won people over with your writing. Now that you’ve shown an even more sensational talent, it’s understandable that people are eager to enjoy your gift. The world needs more well-rounded artists like you.”

“You’re scaring me with all this talk. I thought you understood how I feel, and how I don't see a future for myself in music. I want to keep floating in my own madness, writing my delusional stories and captivating whoever wants to enjoy my work.” I poured the juice into each glass and put the pitcher back in the fridge. Jaafar was still analyzing my words. But at no point did he look away; on the contrary, he followed every detail, including when I returned to the living room and brought the rest of our dinner to fill the coffee table.

“I know. And you know I would never tell you to do something you don't want to do. But I can't ignore your talent and not compliment you on something so obvious—you are the real deal. Don't let people get to the best part of you and steal your will to live off your art. In time, they’ll forget about this.” How can he say the sweetest, deepest thing and then smile as if it meant nothing? Even after all these years, Jaafar still has that same way about him, which completely melts me and throws me into a mental fog even worse than what the media does. What kind of feelings is he truly capable of stirring in me?

“I’m glad you said that. Imagine if I had to block you out of my life and end our friendship?” Jaafar, who was taking a sip of his juice, was startled by my words; he coughed incessantly, turning red from the unexpected mishap.

“You’re not serious, are you? Do you really think about pushing me away like that?” It’s incredible that even now he hasn't gotten used to my dry humor. But I don’t blame him; it’s hard to predict what I might do, and judging by my history of discarding failed friendships, Jaafar was well aware he could easily become a statistic in my life.

“You look so cute like that, all panicked. You’re really afraid of losing me, huh?” I teased with a wide grin.

“Screw you, you’re so mean to me. You’re lucky I’m still your friend.” Yes, Jaafar, that’s the real reason I still insist on keeping you in my life.

Your friendship is too valuable to me.

I don't want to risk losing you either.