🌼Before the world took you 🌼
Mj x reader // friends to lovers // Chapter one
Michael Jackson x Female Reader
Pairing: Michael Jackson x Fem!Reader
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, Romance, Drama, Angst, Comfort, Emotional Healing, will eventually progress into 18+ content in later chapters. Mentions of verbal and physical abuse
Era: Begins during the early Thriller era (1982–1984) and follows Michael and Reader through multiple stages of his career.
Reader Background: Female Reader (Y/N), childhood friend of Michael and close to the Jackson family since childhood.
They were best friends long before he became Michael Jackson.She was there for the tears, the dreams, the fears, and the moments no one else ever saw. For years, their friendship survived everything life threw at them. Until fame changed the rules.
As the world demands more and more of Michael, the distance between them slowly grows. What begins as an attempt to protect their friendship may force them to confront feelings neither of them is ready to admit.
Having grown up alongside the Jackson family, she becomes Michael’s closest confidante, his safe place, and the keeper of his deepest secrets. But as his fame explodes, staying close to him comes at a price.
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Before the world took you // Chapter one
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The sharp scent of antiseptic hit you the moment you stepped into the room. Eventhough it was raining, a bit sunlight spilled through the curtains in long golden stripes, painting the floor in warm patches of amber. Michael sat curled into the corner of the oversized sofa, knees drawn close, dark curls falling over tired eyes. To anyone else he was already becoming a star, the boy with the dazzling smile and impossible talent, but to you he was simply Michael. The same Michael who had built blanket forts with you as a child, who stole your fries when he thought you weren't looking, who whispered his fears into the darkness during sleepless nights. You knew every version of him. The one the world applauded, and the one who sometimes sat trembling with tears in his eyes after another cruel word from his father. There were no masks here. No stages. No screaming crowds. Just the two of you, surrounded by years of secrets, loyalty, and a friendship that had become as natural as breathing.
For a second, you simply stared. Michael was sitting propped against a mountain of pillows, White bandages wrapped across the center of his face, disappearing beneath dark curls that looked as though he had been running his fingers through them all day. The sight stopped you cold.
“What happened?” you asked.
He immediately looked away. A bit embarrassed and shameful.
“Nothing.”
"Michael." You kept staring.
“It's not a big deal.”
You let out a disbelieving laugh.
“Not a big deal? You're covered in bandages.”
His jaw tightened.
You had known him long enough to recognize every defense mechanism, every attempt to retreat into himself. Most people would have backed off. But not you. You never did.
“You couldn't even tell me?” you pressed. “I had to hear from your brothers that you had surgery?”
The hurt in your voice surprised even you as his eyes flickered toward yours before dropping again.
“I didn't want anyone worrying.”
“Well, guess what? That's not your decision to make.”
Silence settled between you. Outside the window, rain tapped softly against the glass. You folded your arms.
“I don't understand.”
His shoulders stiffened.
“You don't have to.”
“Yes I do Michael. I need to understand”
The words came out sharper than intended.
“Because I've known your face my whole life, Michael.”
He froze. You immediately regretted the way it sounded, but the confusion had been building inside you since Jackie told you Michael had surgery on his face.
“Why would you do this?” you asked quietly. “You were handsome before. You know that, right?”
For a long moment he said nothing. Then his laugh came out small and bitter.
“That's easy for you to say. You don’t have a big nose”
Something about those words made your irritation falter.
You watched him stare at his hands. The room suddenly felt much quieter.
“I've been looking at myself differently than everyone else does for a long time.”
His voice was barely above a whisper.
“And sometimes when people tell you something often enough…” he swallowed. “You start hearing it even when they are not there anymore”
The anger drained out of you. Because suddenly you weren't looking at the bandages. You were seeing the little boy who used to cry in your arms after harsh words had cut deeper than anyone realized. The little boy who had spent years being told exactly what was wrong with him. The little boy who never seemed able to believe the compliments that came later. Your eyes burned.
“Oh Michael”
For the first time since you arrived, he looked at you. And beneath all the embarrassment, defensiveness, and pain, you could see it. Fear. Not fear of the surgery. Fear that when the bandages came off, the person who knew him better than anyone else might look at him differently.
Slowly, you moved across the room and sat beside him.
“I am just angry you didn't tell me, we never keep secrets from eachother” you said softly.
His lips twitched.
“I noticed.”
“But I'm not angry because of this.”
You carefully reached for his hand.
“You're still you.”
For a moment neither of you spoke. Then his fingers tightened around yours, and some of the tension left his shoulders.
Not all of it. But just enough to let him breathe again.
The conversation lingered in the air long after the words had faded. Michael was still holding your hand. Not tightly anymore. Just enough. As though letting go might somehow bring all the walls back up again.
You glanced toward the bandages. Then back at him.
“Can I see?”
Immediately, his expression changed.
“No.”
“Michael. Come on”
“No.”
You couldn't help smiling.
“You know saying no just makes me more curious.”
“I'm serious.”
“So am I.”
His eyes narrowed. You had seen that look before. Usually right before he lost an argument.
“You'll make fun of me.”
The accusation was so ridiculous that you actually laughed.
“I have never made fun of you.”
“You called my new jacket ugly in 1978.”
“Because it was ugly.”
“It was fashionable.”
“It looked like a couch”
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. There he was. The Michael you knew.
“You really want to see?” he asked quietly.
You nodded.
After a long hesitation, he slowly reached up and began loosening part of the bandaging.
You watched carefully, suddenly feeling guilty for pushing. The bruising was obvious. His skin looked swollen and tender. Everything was still healing.
Your heart sank immediately. Not because of how he looked. Because of how uncomfortable he must have been.
“Ouch”
Michael instantly looked away. You could practically see him bracing himself. But instead of shock, all you felt was sadness.
“That looks painful.”
His eyes flickered back to yours. Painful. You did not say ugly nor strange. But painful.
“It is,” he admitted.
You swallowed.
“Then why are you sitting here acting like you're fine?”
A soft laugh escaped him.
“I don't know.”
“You're terrible at letting people take care of you.”
“I know.”
“Good. At least we're making progress. You at least admit you’re terrible at letting people take care of you”
For a few moments, neither of you spoke. The afternoon light had begun to soften, casting long shadows across the room. Somewhere in the house, a record was playing quietly, barely audible through the walls.
Michael stared down at his hands.
“I wanted everything to be perfect.”
You sighed immediately.
“There it is again”
His brow furrowed.
“What?”
“That word. Perfect. Why does everything has to be PERFECT?”
A small smile appeared on his lips.
“You always hate that word.”
“Because you're obsessed with it.”
“I'm not obsessed.”
You gave him a stern look.
“Michael.”
“Okay, maybe a little”
“ A little?” you laughed. “You work harder than anyone I've ever met. Most people finish one thing and celebrate. You finish one thing and immediately start worrying about the next.”
He looked away, unable to hide the smile that crept across his face. You reached over and nudged his shoulder.
“You're allowed to be proud of yourself, you know.”
“I am.”
“You don’t act like it”
His gaze drifted toward the window. For a moment, he looked thoughtful.
“I am proud.”
The words came quietly.
“I worked hard for everything.”
You nodded. Because that was true. You had watched it happen. The endless rehearsals. The shows. The recording sessions that stretched into the early hours of the morning. All the pressure and the expectations. And the criticism.
Most people only saw the success. You had seen the cost.
“So what is it this time?” you asked softly.
His eyes brightened immediately. And there he was again. The artist. The dreamer. The part of him that came alive whenever he talked about music.
“I'm working on a new album.”
You smiled.
“I know that.”
“No, I mean...” He leaned forward slightly. “I think this one could be different.”
His excitement was contagious.
“Different how?”
Michael hesitated, searching for the words.
“Bigger.” His eyes sparkled. “I want every song to matter.” He gestured with his hands as he spoke. “I want people to hear it and feel something. I want it to be cinematic. Like every track belongs in its own world.”
You smiled.
“That sounds ambitious”
“It is.”
“What's it called?”
A grin slowly spread across his face.
“Thriller.”
You raised an eyebrow.
“Thriller?”
“I know, I know.”
“It's dramatic.”
He laughed. His laughter filled the room, and for a moment he looked excited and happy. Then the smile faded into something more serious. Something vulnerable.
“I think this album could change everything.”
The words hung between you. You studied him carefully.
“What does 'everything' mean?”
Michael looked down. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter.
“It means maybe people will finally stop seeing me as just a Jackson.”
Your heart squeezed. The room suddenly felt smaller. Because underneath all the talk about records and songs and success, you knew what he was really saying. He wasn't talking about music. Not entirely.
“I want something that's mine,” he admitted. “Not my father's.”
The silence that followed felt heavy. You remembered the tears. And the fear. The years of Michael trying desperately to earn approval that never seemed to come.
Michael swallowed. “I don't know if I'll ever really get away from him.”
The confession was barely audible. You moved closer.
“Michael.”
His eyes remained fixed on the floor.
“What if I never do?”
You shook your head.
“You will Michael. You will”
His gaze lifted.
“You just don't see it because you're standing in the middle of it.”
A small frown appeared on his face.
“You're not that scared little boy anymore.” The words made him look away.
“You've built something incredible. You’re doing it and I’m so proud of you” You squeezed his hand gently. “And one day people are going to hear your name and think of you. Not Joseph. Not the Jackson Five. Just you. Michael”
His eyes met yours again. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then a shy smile appeared on his face. The kind of smile he only showed when he actually believed you. Even if it was only for a second.
“I hope you're right.”
You smiled back.
“I know I am.”
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And before you realized it, your mind drifted backward. Years backward. To a house filled with music. And fear.
You remembered how confusing it had all seemed when you were younger. One moment there would be laughter. The next, complete silence. The kind of silence that made everyone stop breathing. The kind that warned you something bad was coming.
You remembered hearing Joseph's voice from another room. Loud and Sharp. And angry. Cutting through walls like a knife. You remembered the cusses and the namecalling. The harsh criticisms. The impossible standards. The way Michael would shrink into himself whenever he heard footsteps approaching. Even as a child, you had noticed it. How quickly Michael’s smile disappeared eventhough you both would be laughing and giggling just seconds before. How carefully he measured every word when Joseph was appraoching. How hard he worked just to avoid making any mistake.
You had wanted to help. But you had been scared too. Everyone had been scared. And you were just a young girl. The memory hit you with startling clarity. You were thirteen. Maybe fourteen. Standing frozen in the hallway. Michael was on the receiving end of another lecture.Only this time it wasn't just yelling. You remembered the belt. The sound of it. The way your stomach had twisted. The way nobody moved. Because nobody wanted the attention turned toward them.
Your heart had been pounding so hard you thought you might faint. You still remembered gripping the wall beside you. Telling yourself not to move. Not to interfere. Not to make things worse. You wanted to run out of the house and back home to your mummy and daddy. Then Michael had looked up. Just for a second. And you had seen something in his eyes. It was not anger. Not even sadness. It was defeat. As if he had already accepted it. As if this was simply how life worked.
Something inside you had snapped. Before you could think about what you were doing, you had marched forward and straigth toward father and son. Straight between them. The memory still felt unreal.
You remembered Joseph staring at you as though you had lost your mind. You probably had. Because somehow your shaking hands had reached out and grabbed the belt. Actually grabbed it.
For a second nobody moved. Not Joseph. Not Michael. Not anyone.
You had been terrified. So terrified that tears filled your eyes. But you hadn't let go.
“Stop it.” You yelled
Your voice had cracked. You remembered that. You were scared to death.
“Stop it,” you'd repeated.
The room had gone completely silent. Joseph had looked genuinely stunned. As though the possibility of someone standing up to him had never crossed his mind. Especially not a teenage girl.
“What did you say?”
You remembered your knees trembling. All you wanted to do was run. Instead, you tightened your grip on the belt.
“He didn't do anything wrong.”
The words had flown out before you could stop them. The silence afterward had been deafening.
You had expected Joseph to yell. Expected him to throw you out. Instead, he had simply stared. Then looked at Michael. Then back at you. And for the first time in your life, you had seen uncertainty flash across his face. Just for a moment. Long enough for Michael to slip away. Long enough for the moment to break.
That evening you found Michael sitting on the porch crying. You sat beside him without saying a word. After nearly ten minutes of sobbing he had finally whispered,
“Why did you do that?”
You had stared out at the darkness.
“Because you are my best friend, Michael.”
You remembered the look on his face. As though the idea had never occurred to him. As though he genuinely couldn't understand why anyone would risk getting in trouble for him.
The memory made your chest ache. Back then he had been so young. He was convinced he had to earn love.Earn protection. Earn kindness. As though those things weren't supposed to be given freely.
The movement beside you pulled you back to the present. Michael was watching you.
“What are you thinking about?”
You blinked. A small smile touched your lips.
“Nothing.”
His eyes narrowed immediately.
“That's a lie.”
He laughed softly. You looked at him And you looked at the bandages and the bruising. There is still an uncertainty lingering behind his eyes. Then you saw something else. The same determination that had carried him through every obstacle life had thrown at him.
The same determination that had brought him here. To Thriller. To freedom. To becoming something entirely his own. And suddenly, for the first time, you found yourself believing your own words. One day people really would hear the name Michael and think only of him. Not because he had escaped his past. But because he had survived it.
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You did not know then just how right those words would become. Because after that, everything changed. Not all at once. Not overnight. But steadily. Like a wave that kept growing larger and larger until it became impossible to stop.
Thriller was released. And suddenly the world belonged to Michael Jackson. Everywhere you looked, there he was. Magazine covers. Television interviews. Radio stations. Billboards. Record stores.
His voice seemed to pour from every speaker in America. Then every speaker in the world.
At first, it felt exciting. You remembered sitting on his living room floor, grinning like an idiot while you nervously paced around during his television appearances. You remembered screaming louder than anyone when the album shattered records. You remembered calling him at ridiculous hours just to remind him that he was still the same dork who once wore the world's ugliest jacket. And somehow, despite everything, he never forgot to call you back.
But fame was hungry, and it wanted more. More appearances. More interviews. More performances.More travel. More Michael.
The world seemed determined to take every second it could from him. As if not enough, Joseph had forced the brothers on a joint tour. Days became weeks and weeks became months.His schedule became impossible.
You still talked. There would be late-night phone calls and quick conversations between rehearsals. Sometimes messages left on the answering machine.
However the friendship never disappeared. But it changed. Because life changed.
You attended concerts whenever you could, very often from backstage. . Sometimes from the wings. You loved watching thousands upon thousands of people scream his name. Watching grown adults cry simply because he looked in their direction. Watching entire stadiums move as one whenever he stepped onto a stage.
It was surreal.
Because no matter how loud the crowd became, part of your brain still remembered the shy boy sitting on a couch covered in bandages, worrying he wasn't good enough.
The world saw a superstar. You still saw Michael.
One evening after a sold-out show, you found yourself standing beside him near the backstage exit. Security guards surrounded the area. Fans were pressed against barriers outside.Photographers waited near the cars. The moment Michael stepped outside, flashes exploded. The crowd erupted. People screamed. Some even cried. Many reached toward him.
You were overwhelmed by the crowd and the blitz flashing all around you. You couldn’t even see. His hand found yours automatically. The way it always had. It was a familiar gesture. Nothing more, nothing less. And firmly he guided you towards the awaiting car. The next morning, your phone wouldn't stop ringing. Apparently the tabloids had a narrative ready.
"Michael Jackson's mystery girlfriend."
You stared at the headline in disbelief. Then laughed so hard you nearly spilled your coffee. When you finally got Michael on the phone, he was laughing too.
“I told you.”
“You told me what?”
“People think we're dating.”
You could practically hear him smiling.
"I think one magazine said we secretly got engaged”
You groaned. “Oh, that's my favorite one. This means you owe me a ring right?”
His laughter echoed through the receiver. The sound instantly made you smile. It always had, even after all these years. But when the laughter faded, the familiar ache returned. Because the call ended. Like they always did now. Too soon.
There’s always another interview. Another flight. Another rehearsal. Another obligation. Another piece of Michael claimed by the world.
You stared at the silent phone after hanging up. The apartment suddenly felt much emptier than before. And that frightened you. Because you missed him.
Not the celebrity. Not the performer. Not the global phenomenon. You missed your best friend. You missed movie nights. You missed spontaneous conversations that lasted until sunrise. You missed being able to find him whenever you needed him.
Sometimes it felt like the entire planet had gained Michael Jackson at the exact moment you had started losing him.
That thought made you feel guilty immediately. Because how could you possibly resent his success?
You were proud of him. No one was prouder. You had watched him fight for every inch of it. Watched him endure things that would have broken most people. You have witnessed him transform himself into something extraordinary. He deserved every standing ovation, and every award. Every screaming crowd.
And yet..sometimes, when you sat alone after another rushed phone call, you found yourself wishing the world would let him belong to himself for just one day.
Or selfishly, let him belong to you for one day.
The realization stopped you cold. You stared out the window as your heart suddenly beating a little too fast. You realized that thought didn't sound like friendship.Not entirely. And for the first time in your life, that possibility terrified you more than anything
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From Michael’s POV :
The strange thing about fame was that the more people claimed to know him, the lonelier Michael sometimes felt.Everywhere he went, there were people. Managers and dozens of bodyguards and executives. And the endless numbers of journalists. Fans. Thousands upon thousands of fans.
Yet somehow the world had become quieter. Less real. Conversations felt rehearsed. Compliments felt expected. Smiles often came with requests attached. Everyone wanted something. Whether it is a photograph or an autograph. Endless requests for performance. Everyone wanted a piece of him. And Michael gave it. Over and over again. Because he didn't know how not to.
But on the rare nights when he found himself alone in a hotel room halfway across the world, staring at a ceiling he didn't recognize, there was always one person he wanted to call.
You.
It had become a habit. A necessity, really. No matter what city he was in. No matter what time zone. No matter how exhausted he felt. His first thought after something exciting happened was always, I should tell her.
When Thriller broke another record. When he won another award. When he had an idea for a song. When something made him laugh. When something made him cry. When the pressure became too much. You were still the person he reached for.
The only problem was that lately, every time he called, the conversation ended too quickly. Not because either of you wanted it to. Because somebody always needed him.
“Michael, five minutes.”
“Mike, car’s here”
“MJ, they're waiting.”
One evening he sat alone backstage after a performance, still dressed in costume. The roar of the crowd could still be heard through the walls eventhough the show ended an hour ago. Yet thousands of people were still outside. Waiting. Praying for one more glimpse.
Michael stared at the phone in his dressing room. Then picked it up. He knew you probably wouldn't answer. It was late, but he dialed anyway.
To his surprise, you picked up on the second ring.
“Hey.”
The sound of your voice instantly made him smile.
“Hey you”
“You sound tired.”
“I am. I just finished a 3 hour show”
A pause.
“Was the show good?”
Michael laughed softly. Only you would ask it like that. Not how many people attended. Not what celebrities were there. Not how loud the crowd was. Just, was the show good?
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It was good.”
“I'm proud of you.”
The words hit harder than they should have. For a moment, Michael couldn't speak. He heard praise constantly. Every day. From everyone. But somehow it never sounded quite the same. Not as much as when it came from you. Eventually he smiled.
“Thank you.”
Another silence settled between you. The kind that only existed between people who had known each other most of their lives.
“You know,” you said suddenly. “I saw another tabloid today.”
Michael groaned immediately. “Oh no.”
“They've upgraded us.”
His eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”
“Apparently we're secretly married now."
He burst out laughing. Not a polite laugh. A real one. The kind that doubled him over.
“Really? Secretly married?”
“Mhm. Now you owe me an engagement ring and a wedding ring”
Your laughter joined his. For a few moments it felt exactly like old times. No fame. No pressure. No expectations. Just you and him.
Then the laughter faded.
Michael found himself smiling at the sound of your voice. Smiling because you were there. Because after everything had changed, you hadn't. The realization lingered longer than it should have. Long enough to make him uncomfortable.
Because lately he had started noticing things. How much he missed you. How every event felt a little better when you attended. How he looked for you automatically in every crowd. How he saved stories specifically because he wanted to tell you about them later. How his day somehow felt incomplete if he hadn't heard your voice.
It was ridiculous. You were his best friend. Had been for years. Nothing had changed. Nothing was different.
And yet...
When reporters asked if you were dating, he found himself laughing a little too hard. Denying it a little too quickly. Thinking about the question long after the interview ended. That couldn't mean anything. Could it?
“Michael?”
Your voice pulled him back.
“Hm?”
“You still there?”
His smile returned immediately.
“Yeah. Still here”
Always. For you, always, he thought to himself.
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Most people assumed you were part of the entertainment industry. It was a reasonable assumption. After all, you spend a lot of time with one of the most famous entertianer on Earth. You attended concerts. Award shows. Industry parties
Yet somehow you belonged to none of those worlds. And you preferred it that way.
The truth was much less glamorous. You worked as an elementary school teacher. Most of your days were spent helping seven-year-olds learn how to read, breaking up arguments over crayons, and convincing children that glue was not food. It was a life so dramatically different from Michael's that people often laughed when they heard about it.
You didn't mind. At least not at first. You loved your job. Loved the routine. Loved the normalcy.
In fact, none of your students had any idea that you were friends with Michael Jackson. To them, you were simply Miss x/y The teacher who always carried extra pencils. The teacher who stayed late to help struggling students. The teacher who somehow remembered everybody's birthday
Because before Michael Jackson became Michael Jackson... You had both simply been kids growing up in Gary. Your mother and Katherine Jackson had become friends long before anyone knew what the future would bring. Back then, life had been simpler. Your families borrowed sugar from each other. Shared meals. You both had run in and out of eachothers houses without knocking. You had spent so much time at the Jackson home that eventually nobody bothered asking why you were there.
You simply belonged. The Jackson brothers and sisters became part of your daily life. There were games in the yard and arguments over board games. Homework spread across kitchen tables. Music drifting through hallways.
And somewhere along the way, one particular friendship had quietly become something irreplaceable.
Michael.
You couldn't pinpoint exactly when it happened. There was no single moment. No dramatic event. Just years. Years of shared secrets. Years of laughter. Years of growing up together. Years of understanding each other in ways nobody else could.
That was why the tabloids never made sense to you. They always wanted a beginning. A headline. A scandal. A grand romance. But your story with Michael didn't have a beginning. At least not one you could remember. He had simply always been there. As familiar as breathing. As permanent as home.
And perhaps that was why you never noticed how extraordinary the friendship had become. Because when something has existed your entire life, you stop questioning it. You start assuming it will always be there. Just as you assumed Michael would always answer the phone. Always be by your aide and always remain your best friend. No matter how much the rest of the world changed.
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At first, nobody at school seemed particularly interested. Most people simply didn't know. You couldn't really blame them. The idea sounded ridiculous even if you were to say it out loud. Yes, you had grown up with Michael Jackson. Yes, he was your best friend. No, you didn't have any interesting stories to tell. Yes, he really was that nice. No, you couldn't get them concert tickets. The conversation usually ended there.
For years, your worlds remained surprisingly separate. At school, you were simply Miss x/y. The teacher.
Then Michael became impossible to ignore. Thriller happened. The moonwalk happened. And suddenly the entire world knew his name. Even your students were informed, little by little.
It started innocently. A little girl approached your desk one morning carrying a magazine.
“Miss x/y ?”
You looked up from grading papers.
“Yes?”
The child pointed to a photograph. Your stomach immediately dropped.
It was you.
Standing beside Michael outside an awards show. The picture wasn't even interesting. You were laughing at something he had said. That was all. But the headline suggested otherwise.
The little girl frowned.
“Is this you?”
Twenty tiny heads immediately turned toward your desk. You closed the magazine very carefully.
“Let's focus on math.”
That only made them more curious. By lunchtime the entire school seemed to know. By the end of the week, parents knew too. Most were harmless. They are all just curious and friendly. But curiosity had a way of growing. Questions became more personal and more invasive.
Some parents seemed fascinated. Others seemed skeptical. One mother actually requested a meeting. You assumed it concerned her son. Instead she spent the entire meeting asking questions about Michael. His house. His schedule. His life. You left the meeting exhausted. And strangely angry. Because none of it had anything to do with your work.
The real trouble started a few weeks later. A reporter called the school. Then another.Then another. They gathered outside at the school gate. The administration wasn't thrilled. Neither were you. For the first time in your career, your personal life had become a professional problem.
One afternoon the principal called you into her office. Your stomach twisted immediately. You already knew why. The newspaper was sitting on her desk. A photograph of you and Michael occupied nearly half the front page. You closed your eyes.
The principal sighed.
“It's becoming a distraction, x/y. I’m sorry, I cannot let this continue. This is afterall, a school”
The words stung more than you expected. Because teaching mattered to you. It wasn't a hobby. It wasn't something you did while waiting for your real life to begin. It was your real life. Suddenly people were acting as though your entire identity revolved around being Michael Jackson's friend, or as they thought, the mystery girlfriend.
After the meeting with the principal, you went atraight home. The appartement was quiet. Normally this place felt like a happy place. Today it didn't. You found yourself staring at the newspaper on the kitchen counter. At the photograph. At the smiling faces. A friendship that had once belonged entirely to you and Michael, now seemed to belong to everyone else.
The phone rang. You knew who it was before answering.
“Hello?”
There was a lingering silence.
“I heard.”
The sound of his voice immediately softened some of your frustration. Not all of it. But just enough.
“It's not your fault.”
The words came automatically. Because you already knew what he was thinking.
Another silence. Longer this time. Then quietly, “It feels like it is.” You closed your eyes.
For a moment neither of you spoke. Because deep down, both of you knew something had changed. Not the friendship. Never that. But the world around it. And neither of you knew how to protect it anymore.
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At first, the distance happened so gradually that neither of you seemed to notice. One missed event. Then another. Then a concert invitation politely decline. Then a charity gala. Then an awards show.
The excuses were always reasonable. And that was what made them so difficult to argue with.
The truth was that you still wanted to go. You missed those nights. Missed sitting backstage listening to Michael ramble about music. Missed watching him transform the moment he stepped onto a stage. Missed laughing with him in hotel rooms at two in the morning when neither of you could sleep. You missed all of it. But lately, every appearance came with consequences.
You have atarted a new job and the questions have already begun. Questions from parents. Questions from coworkers. Questions from strangers. Reporters calling places they had no business calling. Photographs taken when you weren't looking. Stories invented by people who had never met either of you. It had become exhausting.
You weren't angry at Michael. You never could be. But you were tired. And more importantly, you had started realizing something uncomfortable. If you wanted to keep your life your own, you needed boundaries. Not because Michael was doing anything wrong. Because the world around him had changed. And there was nothing either of you could do about it. So you began saying no. A little more often. A little more firmly. Every single time it hurt.
The first concert you missed, you spent half the evening staring at the clock. The first awards show you declined, you found yourself wondering what Michael was doing every few minutes. The first time he invited you somewhere and you chose not to go, you cried afterward.
You weren't ending a friendship. You were simply creating healthier boundaries. That was all. At least that's what you kept telling yourself.
Across the country, Michael noticed almost immediately.
At first he didn't think much of it. He understood life happened and you got busy. You had your own career and your own responsibilities. He understood that. Or at least he thought he did.
Then another invitation was declined. Then another. Then another. The phone calls became shorter. Not less warm. Just shorter. And suddenly Michael found himself checking the calendar before calling. Wondering whether you would be busy. Wondering whether you wanted to talk. Wondering things he had never wondered before.
One evening he found himself standing backstage after a performance, scanning the crowd automatically. He was looking for a face that wasn't there. The realization hit harder than expected. Because for years, no matter where he was in the world, some part of him always expected to find you nearby. Backstage. In the audience. Waiting afterward. Smiling at him from somewhere in the crowd.
Now there was only empty space
“Mikey, You okay?”
Michael blinked. Marlon was looking at him.
“Hm?”
“You seem distracted.”
Michael forced a smile. “I'm fine.”
It was a lie.
Not because anything terrible had happened That was the problem. There had been no fight. No argument. No dramatic goodbye. Just distance. The kind that couldn't be fixed because nobody knew exactly what was wrong.
Later that night, alone in his hotel room, Michael found himself reaching for the phone. His fingers hovered over your number. Then stopped.
You were probably asleep, he thought to himself. Or busy. Or out with friends.
The thought shouldn't have bothered him. Yet somehow it did.
He set the phone down. Picked it up again. Set it down once more.
He laughed at himself sadly. Because for the first time in his life, calling you no longer felt automatic. And he hated that.
Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away, you sat alone on your couch with a stack of papers waiting to be graded. The television played quietly in the background. You weren't watching it. Instead your eyes drifted toward the telephone. You wondered if Michael had enjoyed the concert. You wondered which songs he had performed. You wondered whether he missed you.
The thought lingered.
You ignored the pain in your chest and picked up your grading pen as you tried very hard not to notice how much quieter your life had become without him in it.
~<3 <3 <3 ~
Not sure what to make of this story yet, if I'm being honest. 😅 I have plenty of ideas floating around in my head, scenes, conversations, little moments, and a rough direction for where I want the story to go. The challenge is turning all of those ideas into actual words on a page.
I'm definitely not an experienced writer, so please be gentle with me. ❤️ I write because I enjoy it, because I love storytelling, and because these characters have somehow taken up residence in my brain.
This is very much a work in progress, but I wanted to share it anyway. Thank you to everyone who's reading along, leaving comments, and encouraging me as I figure things out chapter by chapter.
Hopefully you'll enjoy this journey as much as I'm enjoying writing it.