#offthewall!michael

[nevergettingl4id]

untitled

chapter 15!! now we’re moving along heh :p also i hope yall caught that i was describing michaels amas outfit last chapter- ik timeline isn’t right but let’s just vibe w it </3 but as always happy reading :)

1979

manhattan, new york

‧₊ ♪˚⊹

"You know him?"

The question hit harder than it should have.

You looked away from the crowd.

"What?"

Roger stared at you.

"You just looked like you'd seen a ghost."

"I didn't."

"You absolutely did.

You adjusted your camera strap, suddenly finding it very interesting.

Roger narrowed his eyes.

"Who is he?"

"Michael Jackson."

"I know who he is."

"Then why are you askin'?"

"Because that's not the face someone makes when they recognize a celebrity."

Weeks ago, he'd been standing only a few feet away from you in a crowded club,

No security.

No reporters.

No carefully managed entrance.

Just a smile and a simple,

Hi.

Somehow, seeing him here felt stranger than recognizing him that night.

Roger was still staring at you.

"Okay."

You sighed.

"Okay what?"

"Nobody thinks that hard after recognizing a celebrity."

"You'd be surprised."

"No."

"Roger–"

"Did you meet him, or something?"

The question caught you off guard.

"What?

"Did. You. Meet. Him."

You looked back toward the crowd.

Michael had almost reached the center of the ballroom now.

Security moved with him.

Reporters followed.

Camera flashes lit up the room every few seconds.

It was ridiculous.

The man standing across the ballroom looked nothing like the one you'd met at the club.

And yet he looked exactly the same.

"Maybe."

Roger nearly dropped his coffee.

"Maybe?"

"Keep your voice down."

"You met Michael Jackson and never told me?"

"It wasn't exactly planned."

"When?"

"A few weeks ago."

Roger stared.

"A few weeks ago."

"Yes."

"And you just forgot to mention that?"

"It wasn't important."

Roger stared at you for three full seconds.

"I'm sorry."

He held up a hand.

"I just want to make sure I heard you correctly."

You groaned.

"Roger."

"A few weeks ago, you met Michael Jackson."

"Technically."

"Technically?"

"We talked for like, all of ten minutes."

Roger looked horrified.

"TEN MINUTES?"

"Would you stop yelling?"

"No!"

"People are staring."

"Good."

You rolled your eyes.

Roger pointed an accusing finger at you.

"You had a whole conversation with one of the most famous people on the planet right now, and didn't tell me."

"It never came up."

"It never–"

Roger stopped—

"You're impossible."

"I've been told."

He narrowed his eyes.

"Wait."

Your stomach immediately sank. That tone never led anywhere good.

"What?"

"That's not all, is it?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about."

Roger glanced between you and the ballroom.

"Because this reaction?"

He pointed toward the crowd where Michael stood surrounded by reporters.

"This is not a 'we talked for ten minutes' reaction."

You opened your mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

Roger's eyes widened.

"Oh, no."

"What?"

"You can't even come up with a lie."

"I wasn't going to lie."

"That's somehow not any better."

You looked away.

Roger pointed at you.

"There it is!”

"There's what?"

"The avoidance."

"I'm not avoiding anything."

"You are literally looking everywhere except at me."

You sighed.

Unfortunately, he wasn't wrong.

Across the ballroom, another wave of flash bulbs erupted around Michael.

The crowd sifted again.

Reporters called his name.

Security attempted–and failed–to create more space.

Weeks ago, he'd been laughing at the bar while Stella nearly lost her mind beside you.

Now it looked like half of Manhattan was trying to get his attention.

"It wasn't a big deal," you said.

Roger barked out a laugh.

"The way you just said that tells me it was absolutely a big deal."

"Roger."

"Did he ask for your number?"

"What? No."

"Did you ask for his?"

"No."

"Did you kiss him?"

"Roger!"

A nearby couple glanced over.

Roger lowered his voice immediately.

"Fine. Fine."

He paused.

"But something happened."

You hated how confident he sounded.

Because something had happened.

Not much.

Just a conversation.

A smile.

A name.

A moment that should have been forgettable.

Yet somehow, weeks later, you still remembered exactly how he'd looked at you across a crowded room.

Roger studied you for a second.

Then another.

Then he pointed his coffee cup at you.

"See? That right there."

"What?"

"That look."

"I don't have a look."

"You absolutely have a look."

You groaned.

"I'm leaving."

"You can't leave."

"I can and I will."

"We're working."

Unfortunately, he had a point.

[nevergettingl4id]

untitled

chapter 8 :p decided to upload this one rn since it’s pretty short </3 but yay more michael pov!!! also i just realized that whenever i figure out a title- i’ll have to edit all my posts. help. anyways goodnight everybody, happy reading <3

1979

encino, california

‧₊ ♪˚⊹

The studio smelled like coffee, tape, and equipment that cost more than cars.

Michael liked it that way.

He wasn't really planning on recording anything.

He just felt inspired and needed to get his ideas out of his head.

Ideas had a habit of showing up at inconvenient times.

In the middle of dinner.

Halfway through a movie.

At two in the morning.

And if he didn't do something with them, they stayed there.

So here he was.

A legal pad sat open beside him, filled with half-finished lyrics, random phrases, and notes written quickly enough that even he struggled to read them later.

Michael tapped his pencil against the page.

Once.

Twice.

Then a rhythm started forming in his head.

He immediately reached for the tape recorder before it could disappear.

"Wait, wait, wait..."

He hummed the melody under his breath, fumbling for the record button.

Inspiration was annoying like that.

It never arrived when it was convenient.

It just showed up and expected to be accommodated.

Michael leaned closer to the recorder.

"No, no, not like that."

He stopped the tape.

Rewound it.

He listened.

Made a face.

"That's terrible."

The melody had sounded perfect thirty seconds ago.

Now it sounded like three different songs fighting each other.

He scribbled another note in the margin of the pad and tried again.

This time he started with the rhythm instead.

A beat against the tabletop.

Then another.

Slowly, the pieces began fitting together.

Michael paused when the phone rang.

He groaned. Then debated on whether or not he should let it.

The phone rang again.

Michael stared at it.

Maybe if he ignored it long enough, whoever it was would give up.

The phone rang a third time.

Apparently not.

With a dramatic sigh, he set down his pencil and reached for the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Please tell me you're not hiding in the studio again."

Michael immediately smiled.

"Quincy."

"That's not an answer."

"Maybe."

"Michael."

"Okay, yeah."

A laugh cracked through the phone line.

"I knew it."

Michael leaned back in his chair, twirling the pencil between his fingers.

"How?"

"Because every time you disappear, somebody eventually finds you sitting in front of a tape recorder talking to yourself."

"I'm working."

"You're always working."

Michael glanced down at the legal pad covered in scribbles.

Quincy wasn't exactly wrong.

"Did you need something?" he asked.

"Just checking in."

"Nobody calls just to check in."

"You getting suspicious now?"

"I've met you."

Quincy laughed again.

"Fair point. But no, man. I just wanted to ask what you're working on?"

Michael looked at the tape recorder.

"Nothing."

"Uh-huh."

"Seriously."

"Michael."

"It's just an idea."

"That's what you said last time."

Michael smiled.

"Okay, maybe it's a little bit more than an idea."

"There it is.”

Michael laughed.

"I knew it was coming.

"So what you got?"

Michael glanced toward the recorder.

"Honestly? I'm still trying to figure that out."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning it sounded great in my head."

"And?"

"And now it sounds like me and Marlon arguing, but in song form.”

Quincy burst out laughing.

"That's usually a good sign."

"No, it isn't."

"For you, it is."

Michael shook his head, smiling despite himself.

"I don't know. There's something there."

"Then keep chasing it."

Michael looked down at the pages spread across the desk.

That's what he always did.

"I'll talk to you later," he said.

"Don't stay in there all night."

Michael smiled.

"No promises."

Quincy laughed.

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

The line clicked dead.

Michael returned the receiver to its cradle and sat quietly for a moment. The studio settled back into silence.

Well.

Relative silence.

He glanced at the legal pad again. Then at the tape recorder. The melody was still there.

Not complete.

Not even close.

But there was something hiding inside it.

Something worth finding.

Michael picked up the tape and pressed play.

The rough melody filled the room.

Michael listened carefully this time. Maybe Quincy was right. It sounded messy.

Unfinished.

But underneath it all, there was something there.

A rhythm. A feeling. Something he hadn't quite caught yet.

The possibility of finding it was enough to keep him in the studio for another hour.

Then another.

And as far as Michael was concerned, that was how most good songs started.

When he finally glanced at the clock, nearly two hours had disappeared.

Michael blinked.

"Already?"

He looked back at the tape recorder.

One more try.

Just one.

[nevergettingl4id]

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chapter 13! a bit of a short one </3 this story wont have a title atp, nothing fits gughfhfhf anyways happy reading yall <3

1979

manhattan, new york

‧₊ ♪˚⊹

A few days later, you were leaving work, saying your goodbyes to Scott and whoever else you happened to bump into on your way out of the office.

You weren't heading straight home.

Instead, you were making your usual trip to the photo lab.

The late afternoon rush had already started outside, people spilling onto the sidewalks as the city shifted from workday to evening.

You adjusted the strap of your camera bag and started walking.

The route had become familiar enough that you barely had to think about it anymore.

Left at the corner.

Past the coffee shop with the perpetually broken neon sign.

Across the intersection where nobody seemed particularly interested in traffic laws.

Just another trip to the lab.

Opening the door, you saw Roger and Susan behind the counter.

Susan was sorting through a box of film canisters.

Roger appeared to be losing an argument with the register.

"I'm telling you," he said, pressing a button. "It worked five minutes ago."

The register didn't respond.

"It's against you personally," Susan replied.

Roger looked up as the bell above the door rang.

"Oh good. A witness."

"To what?" you asked.

"My suffering."

"You're trying to use the cash register."

"Exactly."

Susan rolled her eyes.

"Ignore him."

"You always say that."

"Because it's good advice."

You laughed and set your camera bag on the counter.

For a moment, everything felt pleasantly ordinary.

Then Roger snapped his fingers.

"Actually, I almost forgot."

Susan immediately looked suspicious.

"Whenever you start a sentence like that, I get nervous."

"That's fair."

Roger turned to you.

"You busy Friday night?"

You narrowed your eyes.

"Why?"

"Hypothetically."

"Roger."

"Okay, not hypothetically."

Susan groaned.

"There it is."

Roger reached behind the counter and pulled out a folded sheet of paper.

That immediately made you more suspicious.

"Why is there paperwork involved?"

"Because it's a job."

"That's not reassuring."

He handed over the paper.

You unfolded it.

Event details.

Location.

Time.

Media credentials.

The usual.

"Somebody dropped out," Roger explained. "They need an extra photographer."

You scanned the page.

"And your first thought was me?"

"My first thought was Susan."

"Honest."

"My second thought was me."

Susan looked up.

"Also honest."

Roger pointed at the paper.

"My third thought was you."

"I'm touched."

"You should be."

You looked back down at the details.

It wasn't the kind of job you normally took.

Not exactly.

A media event.

Guests.

Press.

Performers.

Lots of people standing around pretending they weren't being photographed.

"Who's going to be there?" you asked.

Roger shrugged.

"No idea. Famous people, probably."

"Helpful."

"I try."

Susan snorted.

"He doesn't."

Roger ignored her.

"So?"

You glanced at the date again.

Friday night.

It wasn't like you had plans.

And if you said no, Roger would probably spend the next week reminding you.

"Fine."

Roger grinned immediately.

"Smart choice."

"That's concerning."

"Nah."

He took the paper back and glanced at the details.

"Should be interesting."

You narrowed your eyes.

"That's not a reassuring thing to say either."

Roger's grin didn't fade.

Somehow, that was even worse.

[nevergettingl4id]

untitled

chapter 16!! this is a bit of a long one (whole times it’s just 1.3k words) anyways i hope you guys enjoy this one!! i have so many ideas to move the plot forward and idk how to fit them all together #crying but as always, happy reading <3

1979

manhattanhh, new york

‧₊ ♪˚⊹

Michael was halfway through an interview when he stopped listening.

Not intentionally.

At least, not at first.

The reporter was asking something about touring schedules.

Or recording.

Or both.

Michael wasn't entirely sure anymore.

Because across the ballroom, he had just caught sight of someone familiar.

For a second, he thought he was imagining it.

The room was crowded.

Camera flashes were going off every few seconds.

People moved constantly.

But then he saw her again.

Camera slung over one shoulder.

Talking to someone beside her.

And suddenly the ballroom didn't feel quite so crowded.

"...Michael?"

He blinked.

The reporter was looking at him expectantly.

"What?"

"You were saying?"

"Oh."

Michealy smiled apologetically.

"Sorry."

The reporter laughed.

"No worries."

Michael answered the question automatically.

Years of interviews had made that easy.

But part of his attention remained elsewhere.

Across the room.

The photographer had turned away now, adjusting something on her camera.

For a moment he considered the possibility that it wasn't actually her.

Then she laughed at something the man beside her said.

And he knew.

Because he remembered that laugh.

Which was ridiculous.

He'd met her once.

One conversation.

Maybe ten minutes.

Yet somehow he recognized her immediately.

"Michael?''he looked back toward the reporter.

"Sorry."

The reporter smiled.

"You got somewhere else you'd rather be?"

A few people nearby laughed.

Michael smiled politely.

"If I did, I probably shouldn't say that out loud."

More laughter.

The interview continued.

But now he kept catching himself glancing across the room.

Not often.

Just enough.

Like he was checking to make sure she was still there.

The interview finally ended a few minutes later.

Michael smiled for photographs.

Shook hands.

Thanked people whose names he immediately forgot.

The usual.

As soon as there was a break in the crown, he took a step backward.

Then another.

Creating space had become a skill.

Not disappearing entirely.

Just enough room to breathe.

Quincy spotted him.

"There you are."

Michael glanced over.

"Here I am."

"You look distracted."

"I'm not distracted.

"You answered a question about touring by talking about studio equipment."

Michael blinked.

"I did?"

"Yes."

"Huh."

Quincy stared at him, then a quick glance towards Bill, and back to him.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing."

"When has that ever convinced me?”

Michael laughed softly.

"I'm serious Q."

"Michael."

"What?"

Quincy folded his arms.

"You get that look whenever you're thinking about something."

"I have a look now?"

"You've always had a look."

"You just made that up."

"I didn't."

Michael shook his head.

Across the ballroom, movement caught his eye.

The photographers were gathering near the stage.

Including her.

His gaze lingered a second too long.

Quincy followed it.

Then immediately back at him.

"Ohh."

Michael frowned.

"Oh what?"

"That's what's going on."

Michael looked away.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Ain't she," he squinted to get a better look, "the chick from the club?"

Michael nearly choked.

"What?"

Quincy's grin widened instantly.

"Oh, it is."

"It is not."

"Yeah you got mad when I said it was time to go.'

Michael stared at him.

"I did not get mad.”

"You absolutely did."

Bill looked up from the notes he'd been pretending to read.

"You kinda did."

Michael pointed at him.

"Don't encourage him."

"I'm not encouraging him," Bill replied. "I'm remembering."

Quincy nodded enthusiastically.

"Exactly."

Michael looked between them.

“You two are unbelievable."

"No," Quincy said. "You just thought nobody noticed."

"Noticed what?"

Quincy gave him a look.

"The fact that you've brought her up how many times, since that night?”

Michael immediately frowned.

"I have not."

"You asked if we'd go back to that club soon."

"That's not bringing her up."

Quincy looked at Bill.

"See? This is why detectives get frustrated."

Bill nodded.

"Fair."

Michael pointed between them.

"Why y'all acting like I committed a crime?"

"Becasue," Quincy said, "you remember a random conversation from six weeks ago."

"It wasn't six weeks."

"That is not the part you should've corrected."

Michael immediately looked away.

Quincy laughed.

"Oh, wow."

“What now?”

"You know exactly how long ago it was."

"I do not."

"You absolutely do."

"Quincy."

"You just proved my point."

Michael rubbed a hand over his face.

"This conversation is ridiculous."

"Then answer the question."

"What question?"

"Why do you remember her?"

Michael opened his mouth.

Then stopped.

Because he honestly didn't know.

Or maybe he did.

He just didn't have a good explanation for it.

Across the ballroom, another burst of camera flashes lit the room.

The photographers near the stage shifted positions.

She moved with them automatically.

Checking angles.

Adjusting her lens.

Focused entirely on the job.

Not once looking toward the crowd gathered around him.

Quincy noticed.

Of course he noticed.

"See, that's the weird part."

Michael frowned.

"What is?"

"She doesn't care."

Michael looked at him.

"What?"

Quincy gestured vaguely toward the room.

"Everybody else in here is trying to get five seconds of your attention."

Michael sighed.

"That's not true."

"It is a little true," Bill admitted.

"A lot true," Quincy corrected.

Michael rolled his eyes.

But neither of them backed down.

Quincy pointed toward the photographers.

"Meanwhile, she's over there acting like you're just another guy at this event.'

For some reason, that made Michael smile.

Just slightly.

Unfortunately, Quincy caught it.

"There!"

Michael's smile vanished immediately.

"There what?"

"That."

"What?"

"The smiling."

"I always smile."

"Not like that."

Michael groaned.

Bill laughed.

Quincy looked entirely too pleased with himself.

"You know what's funny?"

"No."

"I bet you liked her before you knew who she was."

Michael blinked.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Quincy shrugged.

"Most people meet you and already know everything."

His gaze drifted toward the photographers.

"She met Michael first."

For the first time all conversation, Michael didn't have a comeback.

And that silence told Quincy everything.

"Man," Quincy said, shaking his head. "You are in trouble.

"I'm not in anything."

"Sure."

"I'm serious."

"Mhm."

Michael looked across the ballroom again.

And, despite himself-

His eyes found her immediately.

‧₊ ♪˚⊹

Across the ballroom, you were doing your best not to think about him.

Which would have been easier if Roger would stop looking at you like he'd uncovered a government conspiracy.

"You know he's looking over here, right?"

You nearly missed your shot.

"What?"

Roger grinned.

"Oh, so we're pretending that didn't happen."

"Roger."

"I'm just saying."

"You are saying entirely too much."

Roger looked delighted.

Before he could continue, the lights near the stage dimmed slightly.

A voice echoed through the ballroom microphone.

"Good evening, everyone..."

The crowd immediately shifted.

Conversations quieted.

Photographers began moving toward their assigned positions.

And thank God for that.

Work.

Work was something you understood.

You adjusted your lens and moved closer to the stage.

Behind you, Roger called out:

"This conversation is not over!"

"Yes it is."

"It absolutely is not."

You ignored him.

Mostly because you had to.

Partly because if you stopped moving, you might accidentally look across the room again.

And you were trying very hard not to do that.

‧₊ ♪˚⊹

Michael watched her disappear into the crowd of photographers.

Quincy noticed immediately.

"Uh-huh."

Michael sighed.

"Leave me alone."

"I didn't say anything."

"You don't have to."

Quincy looked offended.

"That's hurtful, man."

"It was supposed to be."

A publicist appeared beside them before Quincy could continue.

"Michael? They're ready for you."

Saved.

Immediately.

Michael stood.

"I gotta go."

Quincy laughed.

"You runnin' away now?"

"No."

"Looks like it."

Michael shook his head and followed the publicist toward the stage.

But not before glancing back one more time.

Just once.

Unfortunately, that happened to be the exact moment she looked up.

For half a second, their eyes met across the ballroom.

Then somebody stepped between them.

And the moment disappeared.

Michael looked forward again.

Quincy's grin somehow widened.

"Wow."

Michael didn't even ask.

He already knew.

[nevergettingl4id]

untitled

chapter 14 :p i hope yall enjoy this one bc i kept going back and forth with it </3 had to make sure it was perfect ogmmgmgmg!! happy reading yall <3

1979

manhattan, new york

‧₊ ♪˚⊹

Michael was stretched across the couch in his hotel suite, staring at the ceiling.

Across from him, his manager sat in an armchair with the determined expression of someone who had already decided how this conversation was going to end.

Unfortunately, that usually meant Michael lost.

"It'll be good publicity.”

Michael didn't bother looking up.

"You say that about everything.”

"Because everything is publicity."

"That’s exhausting."

"That's because you're the one generating it."

Michael let out a sigh.

Rain tapped softly against the windows overlooking the city.

He'd been in New York for less than a week and somehow every hour of it had already been scheduled.

Interviews.

Meetings.

Rehearsals.

More interviews.

"It's one event," his manager continued.

"That's what you said about the last one."

"And you survived."

"Debatable."

His manager ignored that.

"Photographers. Press. Industry people. The usual."

Michael finally turned his head.

"You really know how to sell these things."

"Friday night."

"I heard you the first six times."

"So you're going?"

Michael stared at him for a moment.

"Do I have a choice?"

His manager smiled.

"Not particularly."

Michael dropped his head back against the couch cushion.

"Thought so."

"You'll be there for an hour."

Michael glared at him.

"Ninety minutes, tops."

"There you go."

His manager checked his notes.

"Local press. A photography collective. Some gallery people."

Michael frowned slightly.

"A photography event?"

"Among other things."

"Interesting."

"That's not a word I expected you to use."

Michael shrugged.

"Most of the photographers I meet spend the entire time trying to get my attention."

"Occupational hazard."

"I know."

He stared at the rain-streaked window for a moment.

"The good ones usually don't."

His manager looked up from his notes.

"The good photographers?"

"Yeah."

"And how many of those have you met?"

Michael considered it.

"Not many."

"Well, maybe you'll get lucky."

Michael looked back toward the window.

Outside, the rain continued falling over the city.

Friday suddenly felt a lot closer than it had a few minutes.

‧₊ ♪˚⊹

Friday arrived faster than expected.

By six-thirty, you were standing outside the venue with a camera bag slung over your shoulder and a press badge hanging from your neck.

The line of black cars already stretched halfway down the block.

Which usually meant one thing.

Someone important was expected to show up.

Walking into the building felt exactly like every other media event you'd ever worked.

Security.

Publicists.

Reporters comparing notes.

Photographers claimed they weren't competing with one another.

They were.

The ballroom buzzed with conversation and camera shutters.

Flash bulbs popping.

Staff hurried between tables making last-minute adjustments.

Cigarette smoke lingering.

Somewhere near the entrance, a publicist was already having what looked like the longest night of her life.

In other words, everything was running normally.

You checked your settings out of habit.

Across the room, Roger appeared with a cup of coffee in one hand.

"You made it."

"Against my better judgement."

"That's the spirit."

Roger glanced toward the entrance.

"Crowd's getting antsy."

"Why?"

He shrugged.

"Couple musicians. Some actors. Somebody from television, I think. Word is, they've got a few big names coming through."

"That narrows it down."

He took a sip of his coffee as he shrugged again.

You bumped his shoulder.

"Well I should probably start doing my job."

Roger saluted with his coffee.

"Try not to have too much fun."

"I'll do my best."

You headed deeper into the ballroom.

People were already gathering near the stage.

Reporters drifted between clusters of guests.

Camera flashes sparked every few seconds.

Just another event.

At least, that's what it felt like for the first twenty minutes.

A ripple passed through the crowd.

The kind that had nothing to do with announcements and everything to do with somebody important arriving.

Three photographers abandoned their conversations mid-sentence.

Another nearly backed into a table trying to reposition himself.

"Professional behavior," Roger muttered.

"From who?"

"Nobody in this room."

You lifted your camera and continued shooting.

Whatever was happening at the entrance would still be happening in a minute.

Probably.

You finished photographing a conversation near one of the sponsor displays before finally glancing toward the entrance.

That turned out to be a mistake.

The crowd had doubled.

Reporters were jockeying for position.

Publicists were attempting–and failing–to create an orderly path through the room.

Camera flashes erupted in rapid bursts.

"Well," Roger said beside you. "That answers that."

"Answers what?"

"Whatever everyone's been waiting for just walked in."

"Your powers of observation are remarkable."

"Thank you."

You adjusted the lens on your camera.

Through the shifting crowd, you caught only fragments.

A dark suit. A flash of something too expensive to be subtle. Dark hair.

A security guard attempting to look invisible.

Then the crowd shifted again and the person disappeared entirely.

"Did you actually see who it was?" you asked.

"No."

"Then why are you standing here?"

"Because everyone else is."

You tried to reposition for a clearer angle, but the crowd shifted again.

Someone stepped directly into your line of sight.

You clicked the shot anyway.

"You seeing anything?" Roger asked.

"Not yet."

"That's what everyone else is trying to do."

Another wave of movement rippled through the room.

Security tightened near the entrance.

That was new.

Publicists stopped smiling entirely.

A man near the stage whispered something into his headset and immediately turned away like he regretted being the one to say it out loud.

Roger leaned slightly closer.

"Okay," he said. "This is definitely not just 'someone famous.'"

"You don't say."

You lifted your camera again.

Through the gap in the crowd, just for a second, you caught him properly this time.

Not a full view.

Just enough.

Dark hair. Calm posture. A face that looked like it belonged somewhere quieter than this room.

Then someone stepped between you again and he was gone.

Roger glanced at you.

"You get that?”

You hesitated.

"...Yeah."

"Who is it?"

You lowered the camera slightly.

"Couldn't tell. Too much movement."

Roger didn't look convinced.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

You lifted your camera again, adjusting slightly to the left.

The crowd shifted just enough to give you a better angle.

This time, there was no doubt there was someone there.

Security had formed a loose corridor through the room.

People were being gently–but firmly–redirected out the way.

"Okay," Roger said. "That's new."

"What?”

"They don't do that for just anybody."

You didn't answer.

Because you were already looking again.

And this time–you got a clearer frame.

A strange sense of familiarity tugged at you.

Not from magazines.

Not from television.

Something else.

Dark hair.

Brown eyes.

A way of moving through the room that somehow looked effortless despite every eye being on him.

He turned his head slightly.

Not toward you.

Just enough.

For a second, the noise in the ballroom seemed to disappear.

Your stomach dropped.

Your finger slipped from the shutter button.

"Oh my God." 

Beside you, Roger blinked.

"What?"

You hadn't realized you'd said it out loud.