โI would recognize you in total darkness, were you mute and I deaf.
I would recognize you in another lifetime entirely, in different bodies, different times.
And I would love you in all of this, until the very last star in the sky burnt out into oblivion.โ
Nexalune: A Longing for Soul Connection Beyond Words
Nexalune is a word that captures a profound and often ineffable desire: a longing to connect with another soul on a level that transcends the limitations of language. It speaks to a deep, intuitive understanding and resonance between individuals, a feeling that can be sensed but not easily articulated.
This concept often finds expression through art, where artists explore themes of connection, intimacy, and the search for kindred spirits.
The relatability of Nexalune lies in the universal human experience of seeking meaningful connections. It's a feeling many can identify with, even if they haven't encountered the specific term before.
This yearning for a deep, unspoken understanding is a fundamental aspect of the human condition, driving us to seek out those individuals with whom we share a profound spiritual or emotional kinship.
And according to the poll, Mexican Reader x Michael Jackson won!
This time, though, I'm going to write a more neutral version so everyone can enjoy it. There will still be a few moments inspired by my beloved Mexico ๐ฒ๐ฝ, but I'll make sure they're easy for everyone to understand.
I'm really excited to start this series, and I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I'll enjoy writing it.
Also, please let me know if you'd like to be added to the tag list! ๐ซถ
being a writer means there are times where you donโt write anything for a week or so, and then there are times where you write 10,000 words in one day
iโve felt hollow all dayโ missing him extra hard (i genuinely feel like iโm rotting with grief)
wish i had wandaโs powers so i could make my own reality to bring him back ๐ (iโve thought about writing a fic like that but i donโt have the emotional stability to do it)
I wanted to try something a little different this time. I think it started out as a drabble, but then I kept adding things and it slowly turned into headcanons, so I had to edit it a bit.
As someone who has been reading fanfiction since a very young age, I can confidently say that the phrase "English is not my first language" is one of the biggest green flags ever.
I absolutely love learning about other people's cultures, languages, traditions, and experiences.
For now, though, this one is for Mexico.
Besitos. โค๏ธ
Note: This is written with a female reader in mind. If that doesn't fit your preference, feel free to adjust it however you'd like.
You were born in Mexico, but your parents dreamed of giving you a life filled with opportunities they never had. So, like many families, they packed up everything they could carry and moved to Los Angeles in search of a better future.
You met Michael through a mutual friend who had recently become a producer.
Neither of you expected much from that first meeting.
Yet somehow, one conversation turned into two, then ten, then a hundred.
You became each other's favorite person without even realizing it.
And from that moment on, the two of you were unstoppable.
Michael had been seeing you frequently for months.
The two of you had tried everything: arcades, the cinema, shopping malls. But eventually, security concerns made it difficult to go out without attracting attention.
So Michael suggested something simpler.
Hayvenhurst.
That's where he introduced you to his family.
Michael was not a fool. He wanted to take things slowly.
First, you met his mother.
A sweet woman who looked at her son with the type of happiness only a mother could have when she realized her child was in love.
Then came his sisters.
Then his brothers.
And finally, after every single member of the family had confirmed that yes, Michael had somehow managed to find a girlfriend and that you were not going anywhere, you met his father.
The previous weekend had been the birthday party of not one but two children from the little neighborhood where your family lived.
You hadn't invited Michael because you knew his social battery would've died within the first hour.
Unfortunately, the next weekend wasn't much better.
One of your mother's closest friends was celebrating her daughter's confirmation.
Which meant your mother had volunteered to cook enough food to feed the whole neighborhood.
And naturally, you were helping.
As Michael stood at the front door, watching dozens of people walking in and out carrying trays, balloons, folding chairs, coolers, and three separate cakes, you groaned.
"I'm so sorry. You can come back another day, honey."
Michael looked at the chaos.
Then at you.
Then at the chaos again.
"Are you kidding?" he laughed. "And miss the opportunity to bond with your father? I wouldn't miss it for anything."
Twenty minutes later, Michael found himself sitting alone in the living room with your father while you helped your mother in the kitchen. The silence between them was almost impressive. Your father sat comfortably in his favorite chair while Michael remained perched on the edge of the couch, hands resting on his knees, offering the occasional polite smile whenever their eyes accidentally met.
"Maikol, right?" your father finally asked, extending a bottle of beer toward him.
"Oh, yes. Michael. Or Miguel is fine," he answered with a shy smile.
Your father seemed pleased with that answer and immediately offered him the beer. Michael politely pushed it back toward him.
"I'm sorry, sir, I don't drink."
The older man paused and looked at him for a moment.
"Ever?"
"No, sir."
That answer earned him an even longer stare. Michael could practically feel himself being evaluated. After what felt like an eternity, your father finally nodded.
"Good."
For a few seconds, the room fell silent again before your father reached for the remote control.
"Do you mind if I watch fรบtbol?"
"No, of course not," Michael replied quickly.
The television immediately filled the room with the sound of commentators shouting excitedly. Michael glanced at the screen and smiled politely.
"Oh, soccer."
Your father turned to look at him.
"No. Fรบtbol."
"Oh. Right."
"Soccer is what white people call it."
Michael froze for half a second.
"Ah."
"Here it's fรบtbol."
"Of course. Fรบtbol."
Your father nodded approvingly and opened another beer.
"Because you play it with your feet."
"Right."
"Unlike football."
"Right."
"Which uses hands."
"Right."
"Very confusing."
Michael sank deeper into the couch.
"Very confusing."
For the first time all afternoon, your father laughed. It wasn't a loud laugh, just enough to shake his shoulders, but Michael immediately relaxed. Ten minutes later they were both sitting in front of the television discussing which sport had the most confusing rules, while your father occasionally explained the game and Michael nodded along despite understanding absolutely nothing that was happening on the field.
By the end of the afternoon, your mother finally had a chance to sit down and talk to him.
Michael adored her instantly.
She reminded him so much of his own mother.
Warm.
Patient.
Kind.
Which is exactly why, when she grabbed his hand and begged him to dance with the girl celebrating, he couldn't say no.
Five minutes later, half the party was gathered around clapping while Michael danced with a very excited twelve year old.
The girl looked like she had just won the lottery.
The adults looked even happier.
And somewhere in a box of old family VHS tapes, there is now a recording of a young Michael Jackson dancing at a random Mexican confirmation party because he made the mistake of being too polite to say no.
โค๏ธ Michael discovered his love for spicy food because of you.
At first, he was cautious. He would look at any salsa you put in front of him and ask, "Is it spicy?" every single time.
The answer was always yes.
The first few attempts ended with watery eyes and dramatic coughing, but eventually; A few months later, he was putting salsa on everything and insisting he could handle it.
He could not.
โค๏ธ His favorite snacks quickly became fruit with chamoy and Tajรญn, and popcorn covered in salsa.
The first time you handed him mango covered in Tajรญn, he looked doubtful.
"Fruit isn't supposed to be spicy."
โค๏ธ Michael constantly begged you to recreate your mother's homemade meals.
โค๏ธ You introduced carne asadas to the Jackson family.
โค๏ธ When the media found out about your relationship, you barely reacted.
Michael worried far more than you did.
Meanwhile, you simply kept living your life.
When photographers shouted questions at you, you kept walking.
When tabloids tried to provoke you, you ignored them.
You gave, no interviews, no comments, no explanations.
Nothing.
The tabloids lost their minds.
Some claimed you couldn't speak proper English.
Others became obsessed with your "mysterious aura."
โค๏ธ Michael's favorite Mexican foods became chilaquiles rojos, enchiladas, and tacos.
The tacos became a problem.
Specifically because of Michael's new love for salsa.
At first he used a little.
Then more.
You once watched him completely drown a taco in salsa before taking a bite.
โค๏ธ His favorite part of every party was the piรฑata.
The first time he saw one, he was astonished.
The kids were all taking turns, everyone cheering whenever someone managed to hit it, and Michael was standing there asking questions like he was studying for an exam.
"What happens when it breaks?"
"You get the candy."
"All of it?"
"Well, if you're fast enough."
That was all he needed to hear.
The moment the piรฑata finally burst open, Michael completely abandoned any sense of dignity and dove right in with the rest of the children.
They quickly learned he was unexpectedly competitive.
After that, the adults made him responsible for holding the piรฑata instead.
Much to his disappointment.
โค๏ธ To family friends and neighbors, he eventually became "Miguel."
โค๏ธ He asked your father to teach him Spanish.
Unfortunately, your father thought the funniest possible vocabulary was the best vocabulary.
For two weeks Michael proudly repeated words and phrases without knowing what they meant.
When you finally heard some of them, you immediately told him to start asking your mother instead.
Your father still laughs about it.
โค๏ธ Whenever you struggled to find the right words in English, Michael never rushed you.
He would simply wait.
Patiently.
Watching you with the softest expression imaginable while you switched between Spanish and English trying to explain yourself.
"No, no, I know what you mean," he'd tell you before you could get frustrated.
And somehow, he usually did.
โค๏ธ His brothers tried teasing you.
It lasted about ten minutes.
The Jackson brothers quickly discovered that you were perfectly capable of teasing back.
Sometimes your responses were so quick and devastating that even Michael had to hide his laughter.
The moment you made one of them speechless, you officially earned your place in the family.
โค๏ธ You once told Michael the stereotype of the hot, angry Mexican woman wasn't true.
He agreed.
Completely.
Until the day he watched you scold Marlon.
Marlon had done something incredibly stupid.
Michael was sitting quietly on the couch when he heard you call Marlon's name from the other side of the room.
You spent five straight minutes lecturing him.
Michael had buried his face in his hand halfway through because he was trying so hard not to laugh.
And you had somehow won the argument without letting him say more than three words.
Later that night, Michael simply looked at you and said:
ใใโ โ โก โ ๏นโsummary : the most famous man in the world has developed a deeply inconvenient crush on a stripper who wants nothing to do with him.
ใใโ โ โก โ ๏นโbyi : stip club setting and sex work themes.
jealous coworkers and workplace hostility. references to michaelโs vitiligo. blurred boundaries and complicated relationship dynamics. michael is a trick, but not on purpose. while not mentioned, I wrote this with the reader being slightly older than michael (24 & 27).
A sharp crack of a palm against the vanity made the bulbs around the mirror tremble. (Name) looked up from the tube of lip gloss in her hands to find Jasmine already leaning over her station, one hand planted against the countertop and the other gripping the edge so hard her knuckles had gone pale. She wasnโt joking or teasing. There was genuine irritation in her expression, the kind that had been building for months.
โThat boy is here for you,โ She said flatly. โAgain.โ
The dressing room fell into a murmur.
Music still thumped faintly through the walls, hair dryers still buzzed and girls still moved between mirrors but the atmosphere shifted all the same. Several heads lifted and a few eyes met in the reflection of the vanity mirrors. Someone muttered beneath her breath.
Nobody needed to ask who Jasmine meant, because the entire club knew.
At first, Michael Jackson had been little more than an entertaining piece of gossip. The most famous man in America wandering into their club had been bizarre enough on its own. The fact that he kept returning had made it funny.
The fact that he only ever asked for (Name) had stopped being funny weeks ago.
The jealousy had started gradually. A stray comment here, an eye roll there. Nothing serious. Then Michael kept coming back. Again and again and again. He never requested another girl or ever changed his routine. Never even pretended to browse. Heโd appear through the back entrance, ask for (Name), and wait however long it took. Then came the gifts.
Not flashy at firstโa bouquet after sheโd mentioned having a bad week. Money slipped into her hand after overhearing her complain about a mechanic. A designer coat because sheโd once mentioned being cold waiting outside after work. And a matching designer handbag she still hadnโt opened because she was almost afraid to find out what it cost.
Each gesture seemed entirely genuine, entirely thoughtless. As though spending thousands of dollars on someone was no different than offering them a stick of gum.
The other dancers couldnโt even comfort themselves with the idea that sheโd โworkedโ for it.
..She hadnโt.
Michael simply seemed to have looked at her one day and decided he was completely enamored with her for whatever reason he had in his head.
The unfairness of it all had become impossible to ignore.
The club owners had initially been thrilled. Michael Jackson visiting regularly was good for business. Excellent for business! Until they realized Michael Jackson wasnโt actually spending his money inside the business.
He wasnโt buying packages. He wasnโt booking rooms. He wasnโt paying for services. The money went directly to her. Every time. The dancers were considerably even less charitable. Every woman in the building knew exactly what Michael Jackson looked like. Every woman in the building understood what it meant to have a man with that level of fame, money, and influence completely captivated. And every woman in the building had watched him bypass them all without a second glance.
The worst part was that (Name) didnโt even seem.. particularly grateful for it. If anything, she seemed annoyed.
Which only made everyone resent her more.
Because while other women would have killed for that kind of attention, (Name) treated it like an inconvenience. Michael would show up carrying roses worth more than someoneโs electric bill, and sheโd sigh. Heโd hand her enough cash to solve a monthโs worth of problems, and sheโd look vaguely irritated. The behavior bordered on offensive to people who were working twelve hour shifts in heels to scrape together rent.
Jasmine straightened slightly, her expression growing darker the longer (Name) remained silent.
โI swear to God,โ she muttered, shaking her head. โI don't know what he sees.โ A few girls glanced away but nobody said anything to disagree with her.
Because that was the ugly truth sitting beneath months of gossip and bitterness. Michael wasnโt choosing between dancers. He wasnโt choosing between women in general. He was choosing her. Repeatedly. Publicly. Unapologetically. And nobody could understand why.
(Name) stared at her reflection in the mirror for a long moment before finally setting the lip gloss down.
Three months ago, Michael Jackson had walked into the club looking so hopelessly out of place she had almost laughed. Most men arrived wanting something. Sex. Attention. Validation. Fantasy. Michael had wanted conversation. Somehow, against all logic, that remained true. He never asked for dances. Never asked for private rooms. Never pushed. Never demanded. Instead, he sat with the earnest patience of a man entirely unaware of how absurd the situation looked from the outside, talking about books heโd read, songs he was writing, movies heโd watched, childhood memories heโd suddenly remembered. Sometimes he brought flowers. Sometimes gifts. Sometimes money. Always because sheโd mentioned something in passing weeks earlier that heโd somehow remembered or just for the hell of it.
It should have made her feel special but it made her uneasy.
Michael was too kind.
Too sincere.
Too sweet.
The world had spent years teaching (Name) that generosity came with strings attached. Michael seemed to have missed that lesson entirely. Which was precisely why she wanted nothing to do with him. Looking at him sometimes felt like looking at a puppy that hadnโt yet realized cars existed. And she wanted absolutely no part in whatever fantasy he seemed determined to build around her.
Michael Jackson was, without question, one of the strangest men any of them had ever encountered.
Not creepy or sleazy.
Just.. strange.
Strange that showed up to a strip club carrying roses and wanted to discuss Peter Pan. Strange that tipped like a millionaire but flirted like the homeschooled church boy he is.
Jasmine slapped the vanity again. โHello? Heโs been sitting out there for twenty minutes.โ
(Name) closed her eyes briefly.
Of course he had.
Because Michael never seemed bothered by waiting for her. And somehow, after all these months, that fact still irritated her more than it should have.
(Name) stared at her reflection for another moment before pushing herself to her feet. She didnโt bother reaching for her cover-up hanging beside the mirror ot bother adjusting her costume. If Michael wanted to spend his evening lurking outside the back entrance like a smitten fool, then he could deal with the reality of interrupting her in the middle of a shift. The stool scraped loudly against the floor as she stood. Jasmine shifted just enough to remain in her path but (Name) didnโt alter her course. Their shoulders knocked together on her way past hard enough to make her point, casting a glance at her over the shoulder. She heard Jasmine mutter something beneath her breath as the dressing room door swung shut behind her.
The back end of the club seemed to part around her as she crossed through the dark hallways. Music pounded through the walls and floorboards, vibrating through her Pleasers with every step. Conversations faltered. Eyes followed. They always did now. Everyone knew where she was going. By the time she reached the employee exit, even the security guard stationed by the door looked amused. He offered her a sympathetic look that somehow felt more insulting than outright laughter before pulling the door open for her.
Chilly night air rushed over her skin the moment she stepped outside and the noise of the club dulled behind the heavy metal door, leaving only the faint hum of traffic and the light of neon spilling across the pavement. A sleek black car sat parked along the curb.
Bill stood beside it. Michael stood beside Bill.
The second she appeared, Michael straightened. A subtle shift that wouldโve gone unnoticed by anyone who didnโt know to look for it.
Dark aviators concealed his eyes despite the late hour, the lenses catching reflections of streetlights and neon signage between the two clubs. Between the sunglasses, the tailored jacket, and the mysterious air that seemed to follow him everywhere these days, he looked every bit the superstar splashed across magazine covers.
Then he saw her, and a smile appeared slowly and softly.
The corner of his mouth lifting first before the rest followed.
Bill noticed her at roughly the same time. More specifically, Bill noticed the fact that she was wearing approximately the amount of clothing expected from a woman halfway through her shift. And, being a far more intelligent man than his employer, his gaze shot somewhere toward the skyline, then the pavement, then the car.
Anywhere but directly at her.
โMiss (Stage Name),โ he greeted politely. โIโll give you two a moment.โ And with that, he disappeared toward the front of the car.
(Name) looked back at Michael. He was holding flowers.
A bouquet of pale pink peonies and white roses rested comfortably in the crook of his arm, wrapped in expensive paper that probably cost more than some peopleโs dinner. The arrangement was beautiful. Thoughtfully chosen. Excessive in exactly the way everything Michael did seemed to become excessive without him realizing it.
โMichael.โ
His smile remained.
โWhat do you want?โ The question should have sounded harsher than it did and perhaps it wouldโve worked on someone else.
Michael only stepped forward and offered her the bouquet. โI got these.โ The words were accompanied by a small shrug, boyish despite everything else about him. โFor you.โ
(Name) stared at the flowers before reluctantly taking them. The moment her fingers closed around the bouquet, something in Michael's expression softened further. Relief.
As though some small hope had been rewarded because he had spent the evening wondering whether she would accept them.
โWhy?โ
Michael glanced down at the peonies and his smile turned almost shy.
โThey reminded me of you.โ The answer arrived without hesitation. โI saw them earlier," He said quietly. โAnd I thought they were pretty.โ
A brief pause followed, then: โAnd then I thought about you.โ
The simplicity of it made it difficult to respond because Michael never seemed embarrassed by his affection for her. He never tried to disguise it or attempted to make himself seem less invested than he was. He simply handed her flowers because they reminded him of her.
Remembered things she liked because he cared enough to remember them.
Showed up because he wanted to see her.
The sincerity should have felt childish but it was very disarming.
โYou like pink,โ He continued after a moment. โAnd peonies.โ He smiled, adjusting his aviators. โI remembered.โ
Yeah. Michael remembered everything.
Every passing comment. Every preference. Every insignificant detail most people would've forgotten before the conversation even ended. And it wasnโt calculated. That was the problem. If it had been calculated, she could have dismissed it. Instead it came from a place so genuine that it left her with nowhere to direct her irritation.
Standing dressed for work and already late for her set, (Name) found herself confronted once again with the same impossible reality sheโs been avoiding for three months.
Michael Jackson looked at her like she was something worth protecting. Something worth remembering.
โYou canโt keep doing this,โ she said finally. It came out steadier than she expected, more final than she felt.
Michael didnโt react immediately, he rarely did. There was no offense in his expression, no shift into defensiveness. Just a small pause, as if he was turning the sentence over carefully in his mind, trying to understand where it led.
โDoing what?โ he asked.
And there it was again: a calm confusion because the rules everyone else lived by had simply never been explained to him.
โShowing up,โ She said. โHere. At my job.โ
โMhn.โ
โYou know Iโm working,โ she continued.
โI know.โ A second passed and Michael adjusted the sleeve of his jacket slightly. โI just wanted to see you.โ
The simplicity of it made her jaw tighten. โMichael.โ
His head tilted slightly, his attention. He was trying to follow her logic carefully, step by step, without missing anything.
โYou wonโt let me see you any other time.โ The words landed softly but his tone wasnโt accusatory. Just observed, observing a conclusion he had reached after a long period of trying and failing to understand the rules she was setting.
โI ask,โ he continued, voice still soft and even, โAnd you say no.โ
Silence stretched between them for a moment.
Traffic passed somewhere on the street over as the club door opened and closed in the distance, spilling a flicker of bass into the night before swallowing it again.
Michael didnโt move. Didnโt push. Didnโt soften the point or dress it up. He just stood there in it.
Then, more quietly: โSo I come here.โ The honesty of it should have been frustrating.
And it was.. but not in the way she expected because there was no calculation behind it.
No strategy. No manipulation.
Just a man who wanted to see her, repeatedly, and had run out of ways to do it that she wouldnโt refuse. (Name) shifted slightly, the flowers in her grip suddenly too present.
โThatโs not how this works,โ She said.
Michael looked at her still hidden behind the sunglasses, impossible to read fully. But his voice softened when he spoke again.
โSo, how does it work then?โ He wasnโt challenging her. He was asking her to explain something he genuinely didnโt understand.
As if there was a version of the world where wanting to see someone required permission from every angle except the one he was standing in.
As if rejection was a rule he hadnโt learned yet, not a boundary he was choosing to ignore.
And worse than that he looked like he would follow whatever answer she gave him.
She opened her mouth to speak but whatever she had been about to say didnโt make it out. Michaelโs attention shifted first, just slightly, his gaze dropping past her face to her shoulders observantly, making it hard to pretend he wasnโt noticing everything.
โAre you cold?โ He asked.
โHuh?โ
He looked at her a little more directly, as if the question was already settled in his mind. โYouโre cold.โ
โIโm notโโ
But he was already moving.
Michael shrugged out of his jacket, the fabric sliding from his shoulders and revealing the line of his shirt beneath. For a moment his hands disappeared into the sleeves as he adjusted his grip, and when they reemerged.
He stepped in close, too close for the conversation she had been trying to maintain.
The jacket lifted between them and settled over her shoulders before she could argue further. It was warm. Noticeably so, still holding the heat of him. The weight of it sank into place, just as oversized as it was on him than it was her.
He adjusted it carefully, tugging it into alignment with small motions. One hand brushed near her shoulder as he smoothed the fabric down, the other guiding the front edges together before pausing at the zipper.
Up close, there was no ignoring the details.
His hands were steady. Long fingers moving with an ease that made everything look so elegantly pretty. There was something disarming about how gentle they were for someone who lived so publicly, contact with him was something he still treated with care.
She noticed faint irregular patches along his forearms. Subtle, uneven shapes of pigment that broke up the skin tone. Michael didnโt notice her noticing, he only finished the motion of zipping the jacket up until it sat properly against her.
And then there was the smell.
Clean, soft, him. Something warm underneath itโfabric, skin, a trace of cologne. It lingered where the jacket closed faintly, settling into the space between them and making her more aware of how close he had just been.
Michael stepped back half a pace, looking at her as though heโd completed a task.
โThere,โ he said quietly. The night, the argument, and her refusal had all been briefly irrelevant in the face of making sure she wasnโt cold.
(Name) held the bouquet loosely in the crook of her elbow, the earlier irritation fading into something she didnโt fully consent to. She looked at him for a long momentโaviators still on, posture relaxed, that faint satisfaction sitting at the edge of his mouth.
Then he lifted a hand and removed his sunglasses.
It changed him immediately, harder to ignore because heโsโwell, he was so pretty. His eyes were steady when they met hers, focused on her and only her. It made everything else feel secondary, like she was the only thing he was actually tracking in the space between them.
There was a small shift at the corners of his mouth. It was shy and didnโt match the ease of everything else about him. It seemed like he was briefly aware of himself in a different register and didnโt entirely know what to do with it. The sunglasses protected him in that way.
But he looked pleased to see her regardless, quieter about it now.
โThank you, Michael,โ She said, though.. her tone was spent.
He nodded once, still holding that softened expression, the words had landed exactly where he expected them to.
โYouโre welcome.โ He shifted his weight slightly, sunglasses dangling loosely from one hand now, the other lifting halfway before stopping like he was checking himself before speaking.
He asked anyway. โCan I have a little more of your time?โ The same steadiness that hadnโt changed no matter how many times sheโd pushed back against it.
The club door opened and shut behind her, spilling faint bass into the alley before swallowing it again.
Michael waited, still and composed.
And (Name), wrapped in his jacket, holding his flowers, found that she didnโt answer immediately.. for the first time.
ยฉ michaeldiary. 2026. do not copy, repost, translate, or feed into ai.
Summary: Michael and you go to a diner, marking the beginning of your friendship.
Warnings: A slightly insecure Michael (I love the miscommunication trope, so I might explore it in later chapters). Two very lonely souls finding comfort in each other.
Word Count: 3.0k
Part 1 | Part 2
Every single one of his brothers had stared at him as he left, and the looks alone had been enough to tell him exactly what they were thinking.
Michael Jackson had willingly left a rehearsal early. Not only that, but he had done so knowing perfectly well that there would be consequences waiting for him back at Hayvenhurst. Marlon had opened his mouth, undoubtedly ready to make some comment about it, while Randy looked seconds away from laughing himself sick. Michael, however, had refused to give either of them the satisfaction.
He had grabbed his jacket, ignored the teasing that followed him out of the room, and left before anyone could stop him.
The ride itself had been pleasant enough. Conversation came and went naturally, flowing far more easily than either of you had expected. At some point, Michael admitted that he hadn't seen you around the company in quite some time, a confession that seemed to surprise you more than anything else.
"You noticed that?" you asked with a small laugh.
Michael immediately looked out the window, suddenly interested in the passing traffic.
"Well... maybe."
The second the words left his mouth, he ducked his head slightly, as if he regretted admitting it. His fingers fidgeted with the sleeve of his jacket while he refused to look in your direction.
You couldn't help a giggle out.
"The truth is, I'm barely there most days. They don't really need me unless I'm recording something."
You explained gently, noticing the way he suddenly seemed very interested in everything except looking at you
That made Michael turned his attention back to you.
"Really?"
You nodded.
"Most of the album is already planned out, you know? The writers write, the producers produce, and I show up whenever somebody needs vocals."
There was no bitterness in your voice, but something about the answer made Michael frown slightly.
He knew what that felt like.
"So what do you do when you're not there?" he asked.
You shrugged.
"Honestly? Not much. Rehearsals. Home. Sometimes I come into the city. Sometimes I come here."
You pointed ahead, toward the diner that was slowly coming into view.
The conversation drifted elsewhere after that, interrupted every now and then by comfortable silences.
Through the car window, Los Angeles moved around you in a blur of traffic lights, storefronts, and pedestrians hurrying down crowded sidewalks. Michael seemed content simply listening whenever you spoke, occasionally asking questions that made it obvious he was genuinely paying attention.
Still, by the time Bill finally pulled into the parking lot, however, you found yourself feeling slightly embarrassed.
The diner wasn't particularly impressive. Its sign had faded with age, some of the paint peeling away after years beneath the California sun, and the building itself looked as though it had been standing there forever. As the car came to a stop, you glanced toward Michael apologetically.
"I'm sorry. It probably took longer to get here than it was worth."
Michael's gaze immediately lifted from the window.
"What do you mean?"
You adjusted the strap of your bag before gesturing toward the building
"I usually take the bus when I come here. It's usually a long-ish ride, but I like it because it helps me relax."
The answer seemed to catch him completely off guard. Michael reacted as if you had just told him about some great adventure, his eyes widening slightly as he processed it.
"The bus?"
You nodded.
"Yeah."
Then, after a brief pause, you look out the window.
"It's my favorite place."
Michael's eyebrows lifted before he could stop himself. His gaze moved slowly across the small old diner.
"Really?"
The reaction escaped him before he had the chance to hide it.
You laughed.
"I know, it does not look like the great thing."
You looked toward the diner.
"And if I'm being honest, it's not even the food that keeps bringing me back."
"No?" Michael tilted his head slightly, clearly intrigued now.
You shook your head.
"It's the desserts."
Your eyes lit up at the thought.
"They have the best desserts I've ever had in Los Angeles."
The excitement in your voice made Michael smile.
He found himself looking at you rather than the building.
You were already climbing out of the car before he realized Bill had parked.
As you reached for the entrance door, Michael quickly stepped forward, closing the distance between you in a single movement. Before your hand could even touch the handle, he stretched past you and caught it first.
You paused, caught slightly off guard, turning your head just enough to look at him.
Michael pulled the door open properly this time, holding it steady instead of letting it swing back. A small, slightly nervous smile tugged at his lips as he glanced at you.
"Please," he said, his voice soft but certain. "After you."
You stared at him for a second longer than necessary before stepping aside with a small nod.
"Thank you," you murmured.
The cool air inside the diner hit you immediately as you stepped in, a contrast to the warm weather outside.
The diner looked almost empty. A handful of customers occupied a few scattered booths and stools, most of them truck drivers taking a break from the road thanks to the diner's convenient location near one of the main highways. None of them seemed particularly interested in what was happening around them. One man sat alone with a newspaper spread open in front of him. Two others occupied a booth near the windows, discussing something in low voices.
Somewhere behind the counter, a radio played quietly enough to be ignored but loudly enough to fill the spaces between conversations. The smell of fresh coffee lingered in the air, mixing with the scent of warm pastries and food that had been cooking all morning
Without really thinking about it, you started walking ahead, instinctively guiding him toward your favorite booth as if it were second nature. Halfway there, you glanced over your shoulder to check if he was still following, silently asking without words if the spot was okay.
Michael simply nodded, already observing the space around him with quiet curiosity.
A few moments later, you both settled into the booth across from each other. From there, you noticed Bill already comfortably seated at the counter, leaning slightly as he spoke with a waitress.
You placed your purse beside you and let out a small breath you hadnโt realized you were holding.
"Please tell me I didn't pull you away from a rehearsal or a recording session," you said, half joking, half genuinely concerned.
Michael immediately shook his head, as if the answer had been waiting for him.
A crooked smile pulled at his mouth as he leaned back slightly in the booth.
"Not at all."
His fingers intertwined loosely on top of the table, his gaze drifting to the table, as though the next words suddenly felt more difficult to say.
"I actually really appreciated the invitation."
"Oh please, it's the least I could do afterโฆ" You let out an embarrassed laugh, briefly licking your lips as you searched for the right words. "โฆthe way I introduced myself."
The moment the words left your mouth, Michael's hands landed on the table with a soft thud. The reaction was so immediate it almost made you laugh. He leaned forward in his seat, a bright laugh escaping him before he could stop it, as though you had accidentally opened a conversation he had been waiting weeks to have.
"You have no idea how long I've been thinking about that."
The confession made you raise your head, blinking in surprise.
He had been thinking about your first meeting?
You tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
"I've had hundreds of first meetings with people," Michael continued, leaning back slightly in his seat. "Lawyers, managers, musicians..." He shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Everyone always does the same thing, you know? The same handshake. The same boring introduction."
His expression brightened as the memory came back to him. For a moment, he looked almost excited, like he had finally found an excuse to bring up something that had been sitting in the back of his mind for weeks.
"But you just..."
The words trailed off.
Only then did he seem to realize how animated he had become. The smile on his face softened, and the tips of his ears slowly turned pink. His attention dropped to his hands resting on the table, suddenly finding them much easier to look at than you.
"You just..." he tried again, letting out a small laugh under his breath. "I don't know."
It wasn't until he heard your laughter that he finally looked back up, his embarrassment easing almost instantly.
"I was so confident when I walked over there," you admitted, leaning forward slightly and clasping your hands together on the table. "I saw you and thought, 'Oh, someone my age.'"
You narrowed your eyes playfully.
"I just didn't realize you were... you, you."
"Me, me?" Michael repeated, amused.
"Yes, you." A laugh escaped you once again. "I saw you, but then my brain finally caught up and suddenly it wasn't just some guy anymore. It was Michael Jackson."
Michael immediately ducked his head with a quiet laugh.
"And by then I couldn't exactly back out and..."
"You threw yourself onto that couch and nearly launched me across the room."
You gasped.
"Now you're just making things up."
A quiet laugh escaped Michael.
"Maybe a little."
"It was just a little high" you corrected.
"A little high..." he repeated thoughtfully.
For a moment, the conversation settled into comfortable laughter. Then he shifted in his seat. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and closed it again, clearly unsure of how to say what was on his mind.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was much softer.
"Were you disappointed?"
The question caught you completely off guard.
Your laughter faded as you searched his face, trying to understand where it had come from. A moment ago you had been teasing each other about the couch. Now Michael wouldn't even look at you.
You were beginning to notice that habit of his.
Every now and then, Michael would allow himself to relax completely. During those moments, conversation flowed easily, his laughter came naturally, and it almost felt as though you were simply talking to another teenager your age.
For a few precious minutes, it was just Michael.
But then something always seemed to pull him back. A thought, a memory, a sudden awareness of himself. Whatever it was, it would settle over him without warning, softening his voice and making him retreat into a more careful version of himself.
You shifted slightly in your seat, now fully aware of the change in tone. Whatever had prompted the question, it clearly wasn't a joke.
A small smile appeared on your face, an instinctive attempt to reassure him even though you didn't entirely understand where the question had come from.
"I don't understand," you admitted gently.
Michael nodded, but his gaze remained fixed on the table between you. His fingers rubbed absentmindedly against one another as though he was trying to organize his thoughts before saying them out loud.
"You said you wanted to talk to me," he began quietly. "Then you came closer and realized who I was."
He paused for a moment, carefully choosing his next words.
"You said you saw me, and then you saw Michael Jackson."
The name sounded oddly distant coming from his own mouth.
One shoulder lifted in a small shrug before falling again.
"And after that, you wanted to back out."
His eyes remained lowered for another heart beat before finally lifting toward yours.
"Were you disappointed?" he asked again, his voice barely above a murmur.
The insecurity behind the question was subtle, but impossible to miss.
Suddenly, you had the feeling that this wasn't the first time Michael had wondered that about someone.
"Oh, Michael, of course not," you quickly said, your hands moving closer to his without fully thinking about it, as if you needed him to understand you were still there, still present. "I wanted someone to talk to about how upset I was with..."
You hesitated, swallowing the frustration as it resurfaced.
"With my team," you continued, your voice tightening slightly. "About the lack of creative involvement in my own album. I barely get to be part of it anymore, it's mostly justโฆ me showing up and singing when they tell me to."
Your fingers brushed his hand briefly as you spoke, grounding yourself in the moment.
"I was upset, and I just needed someone to talk to. And then I realized it was you," you admitted, letting out a small, embarrassed breath. "I thoughtโฆ Weโve never even really talked properlyโฆ I mean, we hadnโt even been introduced," you added softly, looking down before forcing yourself to meet his eyes again. "I thought I would just be wasting your time."
Michael frowned slightly at that and leaned in a little closer.
"Why?" he asked, so softly it was almost a whisper.
You hesitated, your gaze dropping for a second before you forced yourself to meet his eyes again.
"How could I bother you with something as mundane as an argument with my manager the first time we met? It just didn't seem fair," you said quietly.
Unbeknownst to you, that had landed somewhere deeper than expected in Michaelโs chest.
"I wouldโve listened," he said simply, after a pause. "I want to listen."
The sincerity in his voice made your chest tighten in a way you couldnโt quite explain.
"And I'm sorry," you added quickly, rushing the words out before he could interrupt. "All I meant by wanting to walk away was that I didn't want to overwhelm you. I know you're a person, just like everyone else. I never wanted you to think I was treating you any differently."
Michael didnโt respond right away.
Youโre a person, just like everybody else.
He was looking at you now, really looking at you. His eyes didnโt blink for several seconds, as if he was afraid to miss anything you were saying. He was still listening, you could tell, but there was something in the way he held your gaze.
"You must have your own struggles and goals," you added. "And the need to talk to someone about them too. Iโm sure you know what I mean..."
Yeah, he had completely lost track of the conversation. Now he was openly staring at you, studying your face as if trying to hold onto every detail.
He wasnโt a bother to you.
You had wanted someone to talk to, and you had chosen him for that.
"But now I know you're here," you continued softly, "that you'll listen; and I promise I will also be here to do the same thing for you."
Something opened in his chest then, a warm, unfamiliar feeling that caught him completely off guard. He couldn't quite name it, only feel it settling somewhere deep inside him.
Michael finally blinked and nodded. Then he slowly lifted his hand, offering his pinky.
"Promise?" he asked softly.
You looked at him, then at his hand, and a laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.
It had been years since someone had asked you to promise something like that.
Smiling, you gently hooked your pinky with his.
โPinky promise,โ you confirmed, still laughing quietly.
And Michael didnโt let go right away.
A waitress finally arrived and looked between you and Michael, her expression completely neutral, as if nothing about the situation was unusual.
Michael raised his eyebrows slightly, almost expecting some kind of reaction; surprise, recognition, maybe even a request for an autograph or a photo.
โAre you guys ready to order, or do you need more time?โ she asked, letting out a barely disguised sigh as she stood there.
Michael blinked a couple of times, then turned to look at you, his expression clearly saying Are you seeing this?
A laugh threatened to escape you.
You had spent the entire drive hoping for something like this.
For the first time since arriving, Michael looked genuinely caught off guard.
And for a moment, he looked happy about it.
You smiled softly, glad he was getting to experience a little of the normality you had hoped to share with him when you invited him to your favorite diner.
As you moved your hand away from his, he hesitated for a moment before glancing down at the menus, just realizing they had been there the entire time.
Oh.
They really had been there this whole time.
โIโll get the cheeseburger with a side of fries,โ you said easily, not even needing to open the menu. The waitress placed it down before you had even finished speaking.
โSo... your usual,โ she replied flatly, already used to you.
Then her attention shifted back to Michael.
Michael straightened slightly, suddenly more animated, intertwining his fingers with a small spark of excitement as he leaned forward just a bit.
โWhat do you recommend for dessert?โ he asked.
The question caught you off guard.
โAre you starting with dessert?โ
โWhy not?โ he replied simply.
โWell, usually my father wouldnโt let me-โ
โWell, our fathers arenโt here,โ Michael interrupted gently, a smile forming. โCome onโฆ you said that was your favorite part. Show it to me.โ
You let out a small laugh and nodded.
โCan I just get my burger for last?โ you added, turning back to the waitress. โAnd can we get a key lime pie and a caramel apple cake, please?โ
The waitress left with their order, disappearing back toward the counter with the same indifferent pace she had arrived with, not lingering a second longer than necessary.
The bell above the diner door rang softly as someone entered, but the sound barely reached their table, swallowed by the low hum of the diner and the distant clatter of plates.
Michaelโs presence felt quieter now, less guarded than before. He leaned back slightly in the booth, no longer tense, his attention no longer pulled in a hundred different directions at once.
Just where he already was.
Just you, right in front of him.
Across from him, you watched him without really meaning to. You wanted to give him space, not make him feel flustered or watched, but you couldnโt quite help it; you kept smiling anyway, small and quiet.
Reader trying to make Michael feel seen and human, validating him.
I am craving for some angst and I was wondering if you could write a fanfic where Michael and the reader are married. The reader dies in 1996, and her death is what sends Michael into a spiral of insomnia.
Thank you๐ค
Trust, let me lock in for you.
๐พ๐๐๐ ๐๐๐
Michael Jackson x Wife!Reader
Synopsis: You were Michaels entire world, his whole life wrapped up in one person. He never thought he would have to live in a world without you, the thought was unbearable. And then that thought became his reality.
Content/Warnings: Angst, death, insomnia, depression, anxiety, swearing. This is another really sensitive topic, so please please please take care of yourselves if you choose to read.
W.C. 1.5k
Masterlist
Michael was waiting anxiously by the phone all night. He had called you at least 50 times to no avail. You never didn't pick up his calls, especially while he was away. It had been like a ritual of yours, if he was in another state for a speech, conference, or show, he would always call you at exactly 10 PM your time. It didn't matter if that was 3 in the morning for him, he always called and you always answered.
He hadn't even wanted to go on this stupid trip, he didn't want to be on the other side of the country from you. Especially not with you being due to give birth any waking moment. His mind was racing, what if you were at the hospital giving birth and had no way to contact him? What if you had gotten hurt again? All these terrible ideas running through his head were killing him. It was late, too late. He should've been asleep, but he was so worried about you.
Eventually he couldn't take it anymore and threw on a robe and crossed the hall of the hotel to Bill's room. He knocked on the door fiercely, practically banging on it. He could feel his head pounding. Bill opened the door with a sorry look.
"Bill, we need to go home, I think there's something wrong with Y/n. How fast can we get on a plane? I need to go home now." He gripped Bill's shoulders tightly.
Bill frowned and led him back to his own room, "Mike, you need to sleep. You've been awake almost 48 hours." He helped Michael out of his robe.
Michael looked at him like he was crazy, "I can't sleep, my wife and child are in trouble! Listen to me, we need to go home!" Bill grabbed Michael's shaking figure.
"Mike, they're gone." Bill said it steadily, just like the doctors instructed him.
"What?" Michael paused, reality settling back into his bones.
"You're having another episode, buddy. You got to go to sleep so this doesn't keep happening. Remember, the doctor told you those meds were going to help you sleep better."
Michael slumped onto the bed, eyes distant as he remembered the truth.
You were gone, you had been for almost 6 months now.
๏น๏น๏น๏น๏น๏น๏น๏น๏น๏น
The accident had happened while Michael was in New York for some award show. You had been driving home from your parents house, the weather was nasty.
Your parents had told you to stay the night, to wait until the storm cleared up, but you had refused, saying that you needed to be at home when Michael called.
Michael wished more than anything that you had listened to your mom. He wished you hadn't gotten in the car, he wished you hadn't gotten on the highway when it was dark and you could barely see two feet in front of you because of the rain. And he wished more than anything in the world that the man who t-boned your side of the car was the one to die, not you, and not the baby in your belly.
Michael was rushed out of the award ceremony and onto his private jet the second your mother called. He didn't care that it would take him hours to get to you, he truthfully didn't care that the conditions weren't good enough for the plane to take off. He needed to be there for you.
By the time the plane landed and he had gotten to the emergency room it was too late. He saw your parents holding each other in the waiting room, and he knew the worst had happened.
You were gone. His darling angel, the light of his life, was gone forever.
People said that the day you had left was the day Michaels soul left too.
๏น๏น๏น๏น๏น๏น๏น๏น๏น๏น
Things never really got better for Michael. It didn't matter how many hit songs he made, how many tours he went on, how many fans loved him, everything felt empty.
The following month of your passing, Michael was put under close surveillance by his doctors. He barely spoke, let alone do anything else. He moved around like a ghost.
When Janet came to visit she would find him sitting silently on the couch, holding one of your shirts. Other times she would find him sitting at the dining room table writing feverishly. She asked him what he was doing and he would say he was writing letters to you.
The entire family was worried, so they got him a doctor that specializes in grief. They quickly and quietly put him on a combination of different medications, trying desperately to find ones that worked. They were looking for the medicine that would lock away any and all parts of you.
But Michael didn't want to lock you away, he didn't want the feeling of your touch to fade away, he didn't want your scent to just be another smell in the world.
You took his days, his nights, his hopes, his dreams, his life, his world. All of it taken away with you.
He started having episodes the longer he went without sleeping. But he couldn't sleep. He couldn't fall asleep because you weren't holding him, and when he took enough medicine to finally knock him out cold he had violent dreams about you.
His dreams taunted him, showing him the life that he should've been living with you, forcing him to see what could've been.
๏น๏น๏น๏น๏น๏น๏น๏น๏น๏น
It was growing closer to being a full year without you. Some people used the word anniversary, but Michael couldn't. That word made him think of happy occasions, and your death date was anything but that.
He went longer stretches without sleeping, his episodes getting worse. Once, Bill had found him sitting alone in the nursery he had refused to get rid of. Michael sat in the rocking chair with a book, reading it aloud to the baby in his arms as you smiled from across the room at the adorable sight. Except there was no baby, and there was no you. Only Michael.
Janet came over to stay with him the week of that terrible day. She didn't want him to be alone in the house with nothing but doctors and security. She couldn't take it anymore, she couldn't stand to see him in so much pain, and no one was doing anything real about it. So she gathered all the letters he had written to you and put them on the coffee table before dragging Michael out of his room and sitting him down in front of them.
"Michael, this has to stop. You're driving yourself into the ground and I can't sit here and watch it happen anymore." She grabbed his hands.
He was silent for a moment, staring at the letters before speaking, "The first doctor told me that grief that continues past 6 months is pathological and should be medicated. 6 months for the life of my wife and child." His eyes glossed over.
Janet didn't know what to say. She just wanted her brother back, "Michael, it's like she took everything with her. Like she took you with her."
"She did." He answered simply.
"But you let her. Michael, we both know she wouldn't want you living like this. You know that she's worried sick watching over you. And I know as badly as you want to be with her, she doesn't want that yet. It's not your time, and you can't keep trying to speed things up to get to her. She's always going to be waiting for you, she has the patience of a saint, I mean she had to in order to be with you." Janet squeezed his hand.
Michael let out a small laugh, a real laugh. He looked at Janet, "I can't sleep, it's like every time I close my eyes I see everything that I'm missing. You can't possibly ask me to move on from her."
"I'm not asking you to move on, I'm asking for you to live for her."
Michael slowly looked at Janet, something soft in his eyes. For the first time in a year, Janet felt like she had finally seen a small glimpse of her brother.
๏น๏น๏น๏น๏น๏น๏น๏น๏น๏น
Michael did as Janet said, he tried to live for you. And he did so for a long time. But his sleeping never really got better. He stopped having visions of you still being alive, but it still pained him to close his eyes at night.
Michael did all the things he thought you would have wanted him to do, he continued making people happy, caring for children, spreading love and joy. In the face of ridiculous accusations and horrible rumors he continued on for you.
But after 13 years, God had finally put an end to the distance. Michael went to sleep, and for the first time it was peaceful. And when he opened his eyes he felt your arms around his waist, and saw your beautiful face looking up at him. Your sweet baby laid gently on your chest as you welcomed him home.
"We missed you, darling."
A/n: this one is on the shorter side cuz it was honestly really hard to write, but I hope everyone likes it. Again, take care of yourself, this is a really hard month for everyone.
Summary: Michael hasnโt been able to talk to you in weeks after you stop showing up at the company for almost a month. So when you finally reappear, he doesnโt hesitate to go talk to youโฆ right?
Warnings: Nothing, just two awkward teenagers.
WC: 2.1k
Part 1
You weren't heavily involved in the creative development of your solo album.
Epic Records had assigned an entire team to help you give shape to your debut. You had a songwriter who was doing his best to balance your age with what the company believed could become commercial successes, You had an incredible producer, talented vocal coaches, and a manager who always seemed to give his most honest reviews.
Everyone had a role.
Everyone except you.
At first, you tried not to let it bother you; the idea of recording your own album for the company felt like a dream come true. This was everything you had worked for. Years of training, auditions, rehearsals, and sacrifices had finally led to this moment. You had a record deal. You had a chance.
Every meeting seemed to revolve around people discussing what the audience would like, what image would sell best, what songs fit the market. Your opinion was in deed welcomed, but rarely needed.
When the conversation shifted toward songwriting, things only became more difficult.
You struggled every time someone asked what you wanted to say.
How were you supposed to write about heartbreak, love, longing, or nights spent dancing and partying when you had barely lived enough to understand any of it yourself?
In your own words, you hadn't experienced anything worth writing about.
Eventually, your manager decided to rearrange the entire process.
Instead of pushing you to write material you couldn't connect with, they shifted your role. You would focus on what you did best: singing.
From then on, you mostly lent your voice whenever it was needed, only coming into the company a few days a week to record vocals, rehearse, and occasionally sit in on production meetings.
And that made it almost impossible for Michael to learn your routine. Not that he was actively trying to figure it out; he didn't want to sound like a stalker, nor did he want to act like one. The truth was much simpler than that. Ever since the day the two of you had met, he had found himself thinking about you more often than he cared to admit.
The conversation had barely lasted a couple of minutes before your manager had appeared and practically swept you away from him.
The only things he knew about you were your name, the fact that you worked for Epic, and what your manager looked like. It wasn't much. In fact, by any sensible standard, it wasn't enough information to justify the amount of curiosity he felt. Yet curiosity had always been one of Michael's greatest weaknesses. Once something managed to capture his attention, it rarely left his mind until he had figured it out.
Of course, there were ways to learn more about you. The label wasn't exactly a small company, but it wasn't impossible to ask around either.
Still, he tried not to be obvious about it.
He didn't go around introducing himself into conversations about you, nor did he ask direct questions whenever your name came up. Instead, he listened. He paid attention. And when opportunities presented themselves, he asked the occasional harmless question, hoping someone would know something.
Unfortunately, nobody seemed to know much about you or your schedule.
A few songwriters recognized your name. Some musicians remembered seeing you around the building every now and then. Others knew you were supposedly working on a solo project. But whenever Michael tried to dig a little deeper, the answers always stopped there. Nobody knew where you spent most of your time.
It was odd.
And quite frustrating, if he was being honest.
For someone whose voice was slowly becoming familiar throughout the company, you remained strangely absent.
The more he thought about it, the more he noticed how little he actually saw you around.
Epic was filled with artists, producers, executives, musicians, and staff members constantly moving from one room to another. Yet somehow, despite working for the same company, he almost never crossed paths with you.
Eventually, Michael started taking advantage of the amount of time he already spent at Epic. His father had never been particularly generous when it came to work schedules, Long hours had never bothered him; if anything, they felt familiar. Years of rehearsals, recordings, interviews, and performances had made work feel as natural as breathing.
Lately, however, he found himself choosing to spend even more time at the company's recording facilities than at the private studio back at Hayvenhurst. If he had a session that could easily be recorded elsewhere, he would schedule it at Epic instead. If he found himself with an hour or two between commitments, he spent it wandering through the halls, lingering near rehearsal rooms, or finding excuses to remain in the building a little longer than necessary.
One afternoon, after a long studio session with his brothers, Michael slipped out of the room as quickly as possible. He scarcely avoided whatever teasing, double meanings, or annoying remarks Marlon was undoubtedly preparing for him and made his escape before either of them could stop him.
The hallway felt unusually quiet compared to the noise he had just left behind.
Outside the recording booth sat a small table with a pitcher of water and a stack of paper cups left behind by the staff. Michael leaned over and poured himself a drink, grateful for a moment of peace after hours spent singing beneath hot studio lights.
He had barely lifted the cup to his lips when something caught his attention. Out of the corner of his eye, a figure moved across the courtyard connecting the different buildings.
At first, he paid it little attention.
People were constantly coming and going.
But then he paused.
His gaze lingered on the figure a second longer than necessary.
The hair.
For a brief moment, he convinced himself it was a coincidence. Plenty of people had hair like yours.
Then the figure turned slightly.
Michael immediately set the cup back down on the table.
No.
That was definitely your hair.
Before he could stop himself, he was already moving.
You were walking quickly as you crossed the small garden; Whatever destination you had in mind, you seemed determined to get there as fast as possible.
For a split second, Michael considered letting you go.
He could always try again another day.
Then he remembered how many weeks had passed since your first conversation.
And just like that, the decision was made.
He followed.
You were fast. Much faster than he had expected.
The distance between you barely changed as you hurried across the courtyard and toward the far end of the property. Under different circumstances, Michael could have easily caught up. Years of dancing had left him with more stamina than most people his age.
The problem wasn't speed.
It was the doubt.
Every time he considered calling your name, doubt stopped him.
What if you didn't remember him? What if you were busy?
What if he sounded ridiculous after spending weeks trying to find an excuse to talk to you again?
Those thoughts slowed him down far more than any physical obstacle could.
Soon, he followed you all the way to the exit of the building; The moment he saw you pushing open the glass door, preparing to leave, he couldn't help himself.
Your name left his lips before he had the chance to think twice about it. The sound startled even him. For weeks, your name had existed only in passing thoughts, in brief conversations, and in moments when he caught himself wondering where you had gone. Yet hearing it aloud felt strangely different. His voice carried across the reception, soft and breathless despite the urgency behind it.
You stopped immediately.
One hand remained on the door as you turned around, the urgency in the voice that had called after you enough to stop you in your tracks.
Michael was suddenly standing much closer than you expected. Somehow, he had managed to slip through the narrowing gap between the glass doors, as though the thought of missing his chance to talk to you had outweighed any concern for dignity.
You smiled, both confused and slightly embarrassed once you recognized who it was.
"Oh, hi Michael. You were calling me? Sorry, I could... I didn't hear you."
You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder, yet made no move to leave the doorway.
Michael nodded.
He already knew it was you.
Still, seeing your face bathed in the golden warmth of the California sun made something tighten unexpectedly inside his chest. The light caught the edges of your hair and softened your features, and for a brief moment, Michael found himself staring.
For a moment, he almost forgot what he wanted to say.
It took him a second to realize you were waiting for an answer.
"Yes," he said, clearing his throat. "I've been trying to get your attention since I saw you crossing the courtyard."
His fingers tightened slightly around the metal frame of the door.
"It looked like you were in a hurry." He swallowed. "I apologize. Am I keeping you from something?"
"Not at all. Well, not in the way you're thinking."
You shifted the strap of your bag higher onto your shoulder before letting out a small laugh. Your free hand immediately found its way to your hair, tucking a few loose strands behind your ear only for them to fall right back into place.
"I was just on my way to find somewhere to eat. I just got out of a meeting and honestly...
Your voice slowly faded into the background as Michael's thoughts began taking over.
He had heard the words.
You were busy.
Of course you were busy.
You had somewhere to be. Somewhere you had already been heading before he called after you. The only reason you were standing there now was because he had stopped you.
The realization settled heavily in his stomach.
Maybe he should have waited for another day.
A better day.
The thought made his chest sink too.
When all of a sudden a voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Sorry, kiddo."
Michael blinked.
A man in a suit stood directly in front of him.
For a second, Michael simply stared at the guy. From the outside, it might have looked like he had some personal issue with him, but in reality, Michael was just confused.
Then he realized he had been blocking the entrance the entire time.
Heat immediately rushed to his cheeks.
"Oh, sorry."
He stepped aside quickly, moving out of the doorway and onto the sidewalk to let the man pass.
When the stranger disappeared inside, Michael let out a quiet sigh and shoved his hands into the back pockets of his pants.
His mood had shifted completely.
Moments ago he had been excited to finally see you again.
Now he couldn't even bring himself to look at you.
He had interrupted you.
You were probably looking for a polite way out of this conversation.
You watched as Michael's gaze remained fixed on the sidewalk, his hands buried in his back pockets and his shoulders noticeably tenser than they had been moments ago.
The enthusiasm that had been written all over his face when he first called after you seemed to have disappeared entirely.
Deciding to rescue him from whatever spiral he had managed to talk himself into, you shifted your weight and spoke.
"Do you want to come with me?"
His head snapped up so quickly it almost hurt.
You tilted your own slightly, trying to catch his eyes.
"Come with you?" he repeated, almost stupidly.
"I'm honestly starving," you admitted with a small smile. "And I could really use someone to talk to."
The invitation took several seconds to register.
"You mean... with you?"
The question left his mouth before he could stop it.
You laughed softly.
"Well, I wasn't planning on inviting anybody else."
For the first time since he had begun to suspect that you were only being polite, Michael smiled.
A real smile. One that reached his big brown eyes.
"I'd love to."
Relief softened his expression almost instantly.
"But please, let me go get my wallet."
"Oh, you don't have to. My treat."
That only made him smile harder.
"No, no."
He shook his head, still slightly breathless, as if the idea itself made him uneasy.
"I don't think that's proper."
Then, much softer, he spoke your name.
"Just wait for me a little longer. I won't be long."
He turned and pushed the glass door open, but even as he stepped inside, he glanced back over his shoulder.
You were still there.
He kept walking, only to look back again once he reached the hallway.
Still there.
As if he needed confirmation, he slowed for half a second more before finally disappearing deeper into the building.
It wasn't until you lifted your hand in a small wave through the glass that he fully turned away.
And the moment he was out of sight, he broke into a sprint, disappearing down the corridor like he suddenly had somewhere very important to be.
a/n: Originally, I was going to make this chapter almost 4k words, but I decided to split it into two parts. Alsoโฆ I love angst. I really do. I kind of want to go down the rabbit hole with it, but please let me know if youโd prefer that I take this story in a different direction instead.
Comments, likes, and reblogs are very appreciated ๐ Please let me know how Iโm doing!
