gem's archival

You watched with a knowing smile as he pushed through his fatigue with the same gentle determination he always had when it came to causes that mattered to him. He even paused for a few fan interactions, signing posters and offering words of encouragement—giving everything he had left. 

You’re exhausted yourself—the good kind. The kind that comes with pride, with the quiet satisfaction of knowing you did your job well. You’ve been Michael Jackson’s personal assistant for nearly a year now—your first job in the industry—and somehow you’d managed to keep pace with the whirlwind of the tour for the biggest star in history. 

You’re good at this job, better than you had expected. Frank DiLeo had told you more than once that you were “a natural,” and Michael himself thanked you every chance he got for keeping things running smoothly. You still don’t quite believe it, but you love the work you’re doing—even when it pushes you to your limits. Especially when it pushes you to your limits.

You clutch your clipboard to your chest as you step toward the arena’s back exit, your coat half-buttoned, mind already shifting into travel mode. 

Pushing open the heavy door, you brace for the usual bite of early spring in Colorado. Instead, bitter cold hits you like a physical blow. The air claws at your cheeks, sharp and metallic, and the ground is already buried under a fresh layer of white. Snow pours from the sky in thick, relentless sheets, causing the entire parking lot to look blurry and unreal.

Bill stands near the SUV, talking urgently with the other security guards as you approach. Michael stands a few feet behind you, hands stuffed into his pockets. His thick winter jacket is zipped all the way up to his neck, the furry hood pulled over his head, making him look smaller than usual. A small smile graces his lips as he watches the snow swirl under the streetlights with childlike wonder.

You shuffle toward the men, your boots crunching in the snow. “Are we good to go?” You ask, breath fogging in the air.

Bill turns toward you, his expression tight. “We’re not going to the airport.”

“What? Why not?” You ask, although the reason is obvious.

”It’s a really bad storm,” he says. “Even by Colorado standards. They’ve halted all flights. Nothing’s going out tonight—private or not. They’re saying maybe noon tomorrow, once the weather clears.”

His words hit you, causing your stomach to drop.

Noon. Nearly a half a day behind schedule.

You immediately start mentally rearranging everything—rehearsal times, load-in windows, Michael’s rest schedule, the press commitments waiting in Hartford. You can practically see the calendar in your mind: the carefully-arranged blocks of time shifting, overlapping, collapsing. You’re already calculating how early Michael will need to wake up tomorrow, how quickly you can get him fed, dressed, transported, boarded—

You sigh in reluctant acceptance. You’ll make it work, you always do, but that doesn’t stop you from cursing the weather for screwing up your plans. You mutter under your breath, irritated: “It’s late March, for God's sake… we should be well past snowstorms and blizzards.”

Michael hears you—because of course he does—and he chuckles softly at your petulant griping. Storms don’t rattle him the way they rattle you. He steps closer, voice gentle but slightly strained. “Is everyone else already on their way?” 

You nod. “They left a couple hours ago, they should be landing soon.”

The majority of the crew—the dancers, the band, technicians—had left soon after the show had ended, boarding their flights and leaving only a small group behind: Michael, Bill, a few security members, and you.

Bill nods in confirmation. “I already checked, they beat the storm. Everyone’s safe, joker. No need to worry.”

Michael exhales, slow and heavy. He’s relieved that everyone is safe, but you know him well enough by now to recognize the tension behind it. He hates being late. He hates not being there when the crew starts setting up—a control freak in the most endearing way; he’s a perfectionist, overseeing sound checks and checking lighting angles himself.  He likes to walk the stage, to feel the space. To become the Michael Jackson, not only in body, but in spirit, ready to perform his soul out for thousands of fans. Being delayed, even by a few hours, twists something tight inside him.

Bill turns to the SUV, pulling open the back door. “We’re gonna head back to the hotel. Let’s move before it gets worse.”

Michael steps aside and lets you climb in first—something he always does, a gesture that feels strangely intimate despite you reminding yourself that he’s just being polite. You slide into the middle row, and he follows, settling beside you so closely that your thighs press against each other. 

The warmth inside the vehicle is immediate, the windows fogging with every breath. The wipers drag across the windshield in slow, strained arcs, barely keeping up with the onslaught of ice and snow. The moment the vehicle starts moving, the tires spin on the ice, and your body tenses immediately. Michael notices, nudging you lightly with his elbow. “You’re jumpy.”

”I’m not,” you mutter, even though you absolutely are.

“You sure about that, girl?” He drawls out, poking you in the side, pressing hard enough for you to feel his pointy finger through your thick coat.

You swat his hand away, trying not to smile. “I grew up on the West Coast. This kind of weather isn’t natural.”

He giggles in response, his arm draping casually behind you against the car seat, around your shoulder. “Well, I’m used to it. Gary got storms like this all the time. And touring with my brothers all over the place… I’ve seen worse.”

You roll your eyes, but his teasing does settle something inside you, despite the shiver that rolls through you as he scoots closer to you—subconsciously, you tell yourself. Probably just huddling for warmth. 

He’s always been flirty and touchy with you—little nudges, soft teasing, gentle brushes of his hand against yours when he hands you something. That’s just how he is, though. He was like that with everyone—it was in his nature. 

You’ve always remained professional—he’s your boss, after all. But you’ve spent so much time together—late nights and early mornings, getting to know one another, talking for hours about things that have nothing to do with schedules or checklists or responsibilities—that you like to think he’s become your friend, too. 

Still, you’d be lying if you said you never thought about it—about him—like that. That you hadn’t dreamt about his damn smile, or about the way he looks at you sometimes like you’re the only person in the room. 

But you love your job, and he’s Michael Jackson. You’re just… you. His employee. He’s your boss, you remind yourself again. So you push your thoughts down, ignoring your stupid feelings—burying them under professionalism and responsibility.

Another skid jolts the SUV, and you tense again. Michael leans in, voice softer now. “Hey. Stop stressin’.”

“I’m not stressing,” you lie, letting out a shaky breath.

”You are,” he insists, smiling. You can feel his warm breath against your ear as he speaks. “The next show isn’t for a few days. It’ll be alright.”

You know he’s trying to make you feel better, despite being stressed himself. He can’t stand being away from his crew while they need him. But you appreciate the comfort anyway, especially with the storm raging outside. 

The drive stretches on endlessly, tires spinning occasionally on hidden ice and the wipers continuing to fight a losing battle against the snow. Finally, the SUV pulls up to the hotel—a luxury tower in the heart of downtown Denver, the same one that you had been staying at for the past week—snowdrifts already pile against the entrance. You watch as even Bill struggles to open the door against a strong gust of wind. 

You shake the snow from your coat and hurry to the front desk, Michael and the security team close behind. The concierge looks frazzled as you approach him—cheeks flushed, tie crooked. 

“Good evening," he says, even though it’s clearly anything but. “How can I assist you?”

You clear your throat, slipping immediately into professional mode. “Hello. We checked out this morning. We were scheduled to fly out tonight, but our flight was canceled due to the storm. We need new rooms for Mr. Jackson and his team.”

The man behind the counter winces, swallowing loudly. “I’m very sorry. Because of the concert tonight bringing in tourists—and now the weather—we’re nearly at capacity. We have very limited availability.”

Your pulse quickens. “How limited?”

”The penthouse is occupied. No suites left. Not a single one…” he says apologetically. “But perhaps I could ask another guest to give up their room for Mr. Jackson. I’m sure someone would be willing—“

Michael tunes into the conversation then, stepping forward immediately. “No. Please don’t do that.”

You knew he would never accept that. He would never take a room from a fan—he’d sooner sleep in the lobby.

The concierge nods quickly, looking relieved to avoid an awkward interaction with another guest. “We do have two standard rooms available—one with a king-sized bed, another with two queens.”

Two rooms. For all of you. You sigh—it would have to do.

”We’ll take them.” You nod, sliding the company credit card in his direction.

Keys in hand, you turn back to the group. Michael stands closer than you realized, and he catches you as you nearly bump into him, hands landing on either side of your shoulders. Snow clings to his curls, the flakes beginning to melt slowly. Tiny droplets remain on his lashes. You force your gaze away, blushing, and gesture toward the elevators. “Let’s head up.”

The group moves as one—the four security guards flanking you and Michael on all sides. You fall into step beside him, hyperaware of his presence.

Inside the elevator, a soft chime marks your ascent to the eighth floor. It’s not as private as you would prefer—typically reserving the penthouse for Michael, or an entire floor. Not simply for comfort, but for safety. Anything to ensure his privacy and protect him from the unpredictable energy of crazy fans—

No—spirited fans. You correct yourself with a wince. You knew better than to refer to Michael’s fans like that, even in your head. He made that rule clear on your first day—to treat his fans with love and respect. They’re not ‘crazy’; they’re passionate, devoted, and overflowing with love. And he loves them back with equal intensity. 

Admittedly, you had grown to love them, too. Even the ones who pushed boundaries from time to time. They meant well… usually. Besides, up until a few months ago, you were one of them, admiring your favorite singer and performer from the sidelines.

Still, you’re glad to have security guards there. Four of them total, including Bill. You steal a glance at them as you step off of the elevator, and your heart tightens. They’re clearly exhausted—faces drawn, shoulders slumped, eyes heavy. They had been working since early morning; transporting Michael safely to and from the venue, managing crowd control and backstage access, keeping him safe. They should have been on a plane by now, asleep and recovering. 

You swallow the guilt, knowing there was nothing you could do to change the circumstances, short of being able to control the weather. 

The elevator doors glide open, spilling warm light into the hallway. Bill takes the lead with his team, assessing the two rooms quickly. “We’ll take the one with the two queens. Shifts as usual—first team, get some sleep. I’ve got point for now.”

Bill gives instructions to the other guard taking the first shift, and gives you a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Y’did good, kid.”

You smile back, grateful—growing warm at the praise. Over the past few months of working so closely, Bill had become one of the few constants you relied on throughout the whirlwind of the tour, and he had quietly taken on something of a “work-dad” role—always offering advice, checking in, nudging you toward confidence as you learned the ropes of the job. His approval felt like a small victory.

You turn back to Michael, who waited patiently a few steps away, his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. You gesture toward the second room. “This one’s yours.”

He follows you inside, the door swinging shut behind him. You take in your surroundings, and you almost laugh. It’s a “standard” room, technically—but it's still a luxury hotel. 

To you, a “standard” room meant a Holiday Inn room containing two double beds with stiff floral comforters (hopefully without bedbugs), and a complimentary breakfast buffet, if you were really splurging.  This room, though, was nothing like that. A king-sized bed sat against the far wall, crisp white linens tucked perfectly, pillows fluffed to maximum softness. (Bedbug-free, you’re sure.)

A small seating area faces the floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooks the city—although the view tonight was nothing but swirling white. A mini-bar sits on the other side of the room, stocked with neatly arranged bottles and snacks that you know Michael won’t touch. A large-screen TV sits opposite to the bed. The carpet is thick enough that your boots sink in slightly as you step.

“I’ll call room service,” you say, completing a mental checklist as you scan the room for anything he might need—extra blankets, bottled water, towels. “Have them bring up some orange juice for you. And dinner. Don’t even try to lie to me, Michael Jackson—I know you have barely eaten today.”

You hear Michael snicker quietly at your accurate assessment and drop his duffel bag onto the floor. You continue looking around, making sure everything is perfect. You check the thermostat settings. “I’m really sorry it’s not a suite. If I could’ve—“

“Wait,” he interrupts. You turn toward him with a raised brow. “There were only two rooms. Where are you staying?”

Your stomach sinks. You’d hoped—foolishly—that you could slip away before he had a chance to ask. You hadn’t made a plan for yourself yet, wanting to get everyone else settled first. That’s your job. That’s what you do.

You try to skirt around the question, waving dismissively. “Oh, that. Don’t worry about me. I’ll figure something out.”

Michael plants his hands on his hips, giving you a look that is so perfectly, unintentionally mother-hen that you almost laugh, biting the inside of your cheek to hold it in.  He doesn’t say anything—simply waits with an expectant look on his face that says ‘explain yourself.’

You sigh, defeated. “I was… probably going to try to crash in the lobby. Or maybe sleep in the SUV if they give me a blanket. Or I think I saw a motel next door—“

Michael’s horrified reaction is immediate. Appalled, he cuts you off, the words coming out so fast and firm they catch you off guard. 

“Absolutely not.” He steps toward you, shaking his head in exasperation. Before you can sputter out a defense, he reaches forward and practically yanks your bag off your shoulder, setting it on the floor beside his own. 

“That is a ridiculously stupid plan,” he continues, incredulous. “You’re not staying in a lobby. You’re not sleeping in a car. You’re not going out in this weather. Absolutely not. Over my dead body.” 

You open your mouth to argue—even though you already know that you’re not winning this one. It was a dumb plan, and you knew it. (Even dumber to think he might let you get away with it.) He cuts you off with a single look.

”You’re staying in here. With me.”

You stare at him, stunned. He crosses his arms, doubling down on his mother-hen posture. You almost giggle at how serious he looks. Michael Jackson—global superstar, beloved icon, standing there like a stern parent scolding you for trying to sleep in a car. The spitting image of Katherine Jackson herself, right then. It would be funny if you weren’t so irritated. 

”Michael,” you sigh. “I can’t just—“

”You can,” he says simply. “And you will.”

You stand in front of him, your arms now folded tightly. Your foot begins tapping in a steady rhythm that betrays your irritation. Michael mirrors you instantly—arms crossed, his own foot now tapping, chin tilted upward—determined to match your stubbornness beat for beat. It’s ridiculous, and childish.  You narrow your eyes at him, trying to look stern, but his soft bambi-eyes make the attempt very difficult. 

“You’re my boss.” You remind him, weakly. “I can’t share a room with you.”

It’s a flimsy argument and you know it. You’d spent months practically living together—working side by side, eating meals together, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder, traveling the world. You had yet to share a room, granted—but the line between professionalism and something else was already blurry.

Michael raises a single eyebrow—the cocky one that you try so hard to hate—and suddenly he looks every bit like the superstar the world views him as. “Then don’t make me play the boss card.”

“The boss card,” you repeat, deadpan.

He nods, leaning into the spiel with almost theatrical confidence. “That’s right.”

You stare at him, wholly unimpressed and unsure where he’s going with this. He stares back, absolutely delighted with himself.

”I’m your boss,” He continues, voice smooth and authoritative. “And I’m ordering you to stay in this room for the night.”

Your jaw drops, and you sputter—caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. He’s never ‘ordered’ you to do anything. “That—that is… so not fair, Michael.”

A wide grin stretches across his stupidly handsome face—triumphant and boyish. He knows he’s won. He knows you know he’s won. And he’s enjoying every second of it. 

You roll your eyes and scoff, muttering something unflattering under your breath—something about egotistical pop stars—before crouching down to pick up your bag and shuffle toward the couch. Michael clears his throat. “What do you think you’re doing?”

You gesture vaguely at the couch, confused. “I’m taking this.”

He looks at the piece of furniture like it personally offended him. “No, you’re not.”

”It’s fine.” You insist, not sure you have any more fight left in you. “Seriously, Michael. I’ll take the couch. You need the bed. You just performed for forty thousand people and you have a packed schedule tomorrow as soon as we land. You need to rest.”

He shakes his head immediately, having absolutely none of it. “You’ve been working all day, too.”

”That’s different.”

”It’s not.” He counters.

You glance at the couch again, helplessly. It’s… not great. Not terrible, but definitely not meant for sleeping. It’s one of those decorative pieces hotels use to make rooms look fancy, but certainly not meant for comfort. The kind of furniture that says ‘look, we’re pretty and expensive’, but absolutely does not say ‘please relax here for eight hours’.

You wince. “I’ll be fine.”

”No.”

”Michael, please—“

He cuts you off with a decisive shake of his head.

”I’m a gentleman.” He says, voice firm. “Do you know what my mother would say to me if she found out I let you sleep on the couch? I’d never live it down. I can’t deal with all that.”

You snort—you can’t help it—because the image of Katherine Jackson scolding her grown son for poor manners is both funny and entirely believable.  Still, you can’t bring yourself to accept. “Michael, seriously, I can—“ 

“No.”

”But—“

”No.”

You huff, crossing your arms again. Your track record of winning arguments against him was already abysmal, and clearly tonight was no exception. 

“We’ll share it.” He gestures toward the bed with yet another grin. You briefly consider smacking it away. “It’s king-sized. There’s plenty of space. It’s the only option that makes sense.”

You nod shyly, biting your lip as heat rises to your cheeks at the implication of sharing a bed with him, even for one night. At that, he notices your hesitation—the way your arms are folded tightly, and how you can’t quite meet his eyes. Suddenly feeling guilty for pushing you, his cocky expression fades into something gentler.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “We can put up a pillow wall, I won’t touch you. It doesn’t have to be weird. I just want you to get some rest… you’ve been runnin’ around all day taking care of everything—taking care of me. Let me take care of you a little. Okay?”

Your heart flutters—traitorously—at his sincerity. You shove the feeling down. Hard. He doesn’t mean anything by it, you remind yourself. He’s just being kind. He’s just… being Michael.

Still, it melts the last of your resistance. “Okay. Fine.” You sigh, long and resigned.

His smile returns—wide and toothy.

”But,” you add quickly, pointing a single finger at him. “You get first dibs on the shower. That’s my final offer.”

He laughs then—bright and genuine. Relieved. “Deal.”

Michael turns, disappearing into the bathroom with a skip in his step—far too pleased with himself for winning yet another argument. 

You watch as the door closes behind him, shaking your head in amusement. You let out a soft laugh despite yourself. He’s impossible. Absolutely, utterly impossible. And yet… you wouldn’t trade him for anything.

You finally allow yourself a moment to relax—your body sinking onto the couch. You grunt as the cushions barely give beneath your weight. You would never admit it out loud, but the couch really is uncomfortable as hell. You wouldn’t have gotten ten minutes of sleep on it, let alone a full night. You’re very glad Michael isn’t there to witness your discomfort, it would only make him more insufferable. 

Still, it’s the first time you’ve sat down all day—the relief washing over you immediately. Your shoulders throb, your legs ache, and your feet feel like they’ve fused to the insides of your winter boots that are still on—wet and cold from the snow. You toe them off one at a time and let out a relieved groan as you stretch out.

You hear the shower start—the rush of water muffled by the door—and then you hear him. Humming at first, low and gentle, before a soft melody lifts into quiet singing. He knows full well he’s supposed to rest his voice between concerts, but he just can’t help himself. Music lives in him the way oxygen lives in everyone else. 

You giggle softly. You briefly consider tapping on the door, reminding him to be quiet, to save his voice, to follow his doctor’s orders. But you don’t—you love hearing him sing. 

You hear him perform nearly every night and still never get tired of it. For a single moment, you let yourself pretend you have him all to yourself—his voice, his presence. Him. 

You instantly scold yourself as that familiar flutter in your chest returns—He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your boss. 

You repeat the words like a mantra—attempting to smother the feeling before it grows into something unmanageable. Something dangerous. 

You have to be okay with boundaries, with that invisible line drawn between you. Tonight is no exception, even if you’re sharing a bed with him. Because if you let yourself acknowledge your feelings, for even a moment, it will only hurt. You don’t want to lose him—That is… your job. Yes, that’s all—your job, nothing more. Surely having him as only your boss is better than not having him at all. Right?

You shake your head, forcing your thoughts into something practical—something safe. Work. Work always helps. 

You pull your clipboard out and begin flipping through the pages. The familiar columns ground you as you begin rearranging the next days’ schedule, calculating how early you and Michael will need to wake up once flights resume. 

You jot down notes, arrows, reminders. You plan out when you’ll need to call the venue manager, when to check into the next hotel, and a reminder to confirm transportation. You make a note to yourself to make sure Michael eats breakfast in the morning, not to let him skip it again.

At that thought, your stomach growls, a reminder that you hadn’t eaten much today, either. Hunger hits you all at once, sharp and insistent. He was right about one thing: you had spent all day taking care of everyone else. 

You reach over to the phone on the endstand and call for room service. You order orange juice for Michael—his favorite, you learned on day one—and something light for him to hopefully eat, as well as your own dinner.

You hang up the phone with a soft thanks and your gaze drifts toward the duffel bag he had dropped earlier. His coat was crumpled on the carpet beside it, having been shrugged off and dumped unceremoniously on the floor at some point during your argument. 

You stand, walking toward the pile and pick it up, your fingers brushing softly over the material. It’s still warm from his body heat, his scent wafting from it. You bite your lip, about to make a dumb decision. 

You glance around the room nervously, as if making sure no-one was watching, and bring the coat to your face, inhaling deeply. The scent of his cologne mixed with sweat, stage smoke and something uniquely him fills your nostrils, and you close your eyes—allowing the sensation wash over you for a single, stolen moment. 

Your heart flutters again, harder this time, and you quickly pull the coat away, forcing yourself to come to your senses. Your cheeks warm with embarrassment as you realize what you just did. You scold yourself again—

He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your boss!

You repeat the words in your head until they lose meaning, a useless rhythm in your mind.

You walk over to the wall hook and hang the coat neatly—trying to pretend the gesture is purely professional. You’re still adjusting his coat on the hook, softly smoothing the fabric down when you hear the bathroom door open with a soft click. You jolt, jumping away from the coat hook like you had been burned.

Guilt flashes through you, even though you’re sure he didn’t see anything—that is, didn’t see you sniffing his clothes like an absolute crazy person.  But your guilt is short-lived, evaporating instantly as it is replaced by something else entirely. Something far more overwhelming. 

Steam billows out into the room like a gentle fog, and Michael stands there, wearing nothing but a white towel slung low around his hips. Droplets of water make slow paths down his skin, glistening under the warm lamplight. His curls are darker when wet—a few strands falling across his forehead, the damp ends trailing along his shoulders and collarbones. He looks like a scene from a movie—effortless, magnetic, and entirely unaware of how devastating the sight is.

Your face heats instantly—the rush of warmth so sudden it makes your cheeks sting. You nearly choke as you try not to stare, but your eyes betray you, drinking in the unexpected sight before you.

The two of you freeze in a startled standoff, like deer caught in each other’s headlights. Michael clears his throat softly, one hand adjusting his grip on the towel as his gaze flicks away, suddenly shy. The tips of his ears are tinged pink, and he looks endearingly human—caught off guard and a little flustered at your gawking. 

“Uh… my bag. I left it—“ he gestures vaguely behind you, where the duffel sits at your feet.

“Oh!” You squeak, voice embarrassingly high. You feel like an awkward teenager, nearly tripping over the bag in your scramble to move out of his way, giving him a wide berth so you don’t accidentally brush against one another.

He blushes, avoiding eye contact. He nods toward the bathroom. “I’m done, if you wanna go ahead. I can change out here.”

You manage a jerky nod, eyes fixed on the carpet as you grab your bag with stiff, robotic movements. You shuffle past him into the still-steamy bathroom. The moment the door closes behind you, you slump against the wood, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. You press your hands against your burning cheeks, heart still racing.

He’s. Your. Boss. You repeat it again and again, desperately hoping it will erase the image of him standing in front of you wearing nothing but a towel. (It doesn’t.)

You pull open your overnight bag and pull out your pajamas—an oversized Bad Tour Crew shirt, and a pair of old sleep shorts. You groan internally, suddenly wishing you had packed something cuter, something less… practical. 

You shake the thought away. It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. He’s your boss. You’re only sharing a bed for practical reasons. That’s it. And that's alright.

You shower quickly, letting the hot water melt away the lingering tension from your shoulders. You towel off as quickly as possible and get dressed in the oversized shirt and shorts. You take one last steadying breath, repeating your mantra once again before stepping back into the hotel room.

Michael is already settled onto the bed, now fully clothed—thank god—sitting cross-legged with the phone pressed up against his ear. He twirls the cord absent-mindedly around his fingers as he speaks, his tone soft and affectionate. You’re pleased to find him at least picking at the food you ordered him, the orange juice sitting half-finished on the nightstand.

He looks up as you enter the room with a startled expression, his cheeks turning slightly pink as if hoping you hadn’t overheard his conversation. He wraps up the call almost immediately. “Okay, yeah. Goodnight, Mother. Love you too.” 

He hangs up and offers you a sheepish smile. “That was Mother. She heard about the storm and was worried. I let her know that we’re okay. She says hello… and to thank you for everything. She adores you, you know.”

Your cheeks warm again. You had only met Katherine a handful of times, but her grace and kindness had left a deep impression. Michael had certainly inherited so much of that from her. 

“Well, that's my job.” You murmur, trying to sound casual, hoping he doesn't notice your blushing. You sit on the edge of the bed and chuckle softly at the sight—he really did set up a pillow wall. A neat line of pillows divide the bed into two clear halves like a fluffy barrier of professionalism. 

”Eat,” he says, gesturing toward your food tray, and you don’t hesitate. Michael turns on the TV, flipping the channels before settling on an old Hollywood movie you don’t recognize as you dig into your food.

Neither of you speak for a while, both lost in your own thoughts, contemplating everything that had happened that evening—the concert, the storm, the canceled flights, the unexpected closeness of sharing a hotel room. Despite that, however, the silence isn’t awkward—it’s warm and familiar. An easy quiet that can only exist between two people that had spent months learning each other’s rhythms.

You finish the last few bites of your dinner, replacing the lid and wiping your hands on a napkin. The movie continues to play quietly in the background, but neither of you are really watching it. You’re too aware of his presence beside you, and you can sense him mulling over something—one of his legs hangs off the edge of the bed, bouncing nervously as he begins to anxiously run his palms up and down his thighs, a nervous tic you’d come to recognize.

“Michael? Everything okay over there?”

He bites his lip—deep in thought as he gathers his words. Finally he clears his throat, eyes fixed on his hands. “I just… wanted to say thank you.”

“You already thanked me,” you remind him gently. “And I was happy to do it.”

You’re about to add that it’s your job—that you’re his assistant, and that taking care of him is quite literally what you’re paid to do—when he interrupts you. Not rudely, but urgently. 

”No,” he says, voice soft. “I mean… For staying with me.”

You blink, letting the words hang in the air between you. His cheeks color slightly, and he looks away, rubbing his palms together nervously. His leg bounces faster, nervous energy radiating off him in waves.

Before you can respond, he rushes to explain—words spilling out quickly like he’s afraid to lose his courage. “It’s nice. You know… to have someone here. With me.”

You soften immediately, heartstrings being tugged. 

“I don’t sleep well after shows,” he murmurs. “You know that.”

You nod. You do know—his chronic insomnia was explained to you when you were hired—as if it were some small detail to be aware of when scheduling travel and appointments. But you had never talked about it with him personally, much less heard him say it out loud. 

“…It’s not just the adrenaline. Or jet lag.” He hesitates. “I just… I don't like being alone after a show.”

Your chest tightens, and you try not to interrupt as he continues. He avoids your gaze, looking down at his fidgeting hands. “I usually call my Mother. Or talk to Bill. But most nights, when they’re busy or asleep, I just… stare at the wall. For hours. Or I practice choreography. Or write. Or read. Or watch movies. Or—“ He swallows, shaking his head. “Anything to take my mind off how alone I am.”

His voice cracks a little at the end, and he winces, like he hadn’t meant to let that much vulnerability—that much honesty—slip out. 

Instinctively, you shift closer, reaching across the pillows to place a hand on his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me? I’m almost always just a hotel room away.”

“You work all day.” He shrugs. “I’m not gonna bother you with something as stupid as…” He trails off.  He really believes that, you realize. He really thinks he’s a burden. Your heart aches, eyes stinging with sudden tears.

“It’s just nice to have you here.” He says. “Even just for the night. I know I’m your boss. I do know that. I would never expect more than… I know we’re not… I just wanted to thank you, that's all.“

You bite your lip, watching him closely as you consider his words. Suddenly, he’s not your boss, and he’s not Michael Jackson. Right then, he’s a very lonely man pouring his heart out to you, desperate to be heard. To be seen.

“Alright,” you exhale, making a decision. “Right now, for the rest of the night; I’m not your employee, and you’re not my boss. I’m off the clock.”

He looks up, surprised at the declaration. Then, something in him melts—his shoulders relax, and the smile that spreads across his face is so genuine that it makes your heart skip a beat.

”Okay?” You grin, nudging his shoulder playfully.

”Okay.” He nods, the word coming out as a relieved chuckle. “I’m glad. Because… Well, th’truth is, I haven’t viewed you as just an employee for a while now.”

Your heart stutters. And you try—desperately—to push the feeling away, to remind yourself that he doesn’t mean anything by it, that he views you as a friend. That’s all. He needs a friend.

But right then… you swear he’s looking at you like you’re something more. Much more. 

And you’re looking back at him like you wish you could be.

Outside, the storm churned on—relentless and wild. Inside, though, the room felt suspended in time. Minutes melted into an hour. Then two.

As the time slips by, your conversation drifts effortlessly from one topic to another. He tells stories about his brothers and sisters—the mischief of their early touring days, about the places he’s visited, the people he’s met. You share quirks from your own childhood—your family, the places you lived growing up. You discuss your favorite Disney movies, and debate playfully about whether Disneyland or Disney World was better—his eyes lighting up as he insists the original park “has that special energy, you know?” You tease him mercilessly when he gets worked up over it, and the sound of his laughter—bright and boyish—makes something warm bloom deep in your heart.

He talks about his music—lighting up as he does so. You could listen to him talk about his work for hours, his passion transforming him—getting excited, hands moving fast as he talks and voice raising an octave as he tells you about everything he’s working on, and his plans for future projects. 

He makes you laugh—really laugh. The kind of laughter that shakes your shoulders and leaves you breathless. You can’t remember the last time someone made you laugh that hard. 

At some point, without either of you noticing, the pillow barrier began to gradually fall apart. One pillow ended up tucked beneath your head, another propped beneath his knees. A third is kicked aside entirely, forgotten on the floor.

Without realizing, you’ve inched closer and closer, drawn together by the warmth of conversation, by the storm outside that makes the hotel room feel like its own little world. Suddenly, your legs brush. The contact sends a quiet spark up your spine and you freeze—just for a heartbeat—but neither of you pull away.

You begin thinking. Too much—about him, about him opening up to you. About the way your heart fluttered when he said he wanted to take care of you—and how badly you wanted to let him. 

You’re mid-sentence when he reaches over, lithe fingers brushing against your cheek to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You forget what you were saying, words evaporating on your tongue as everything narrows in on the warmth of his fingertips and the softness in his eyes.

He realizes what he’s done a second too late—eyes widening and breath catching—but he doesn’t move his hand. His gaze drops to your mouth for a beat before flicking back to your eyes.

Your pulse thunders so hard you’re sure he can hear it. You stare at one another for a long, suspended moment, and in your head the familiar mantra begins again—

He’s your boss. He’s your boss. He’s your—

But the words crumble—fluttering uselessly in your mind before disappearing entirely, lost somewhere in the snowstorm outside.

And him? He looks at you as if you had personally hung the moon and stars.

He leans in—slowly, instinctively—his forehead resting against yours, your noses brush. He’s close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath fan across your lips, shaky with restraint. 

“Tell me to stop.” He whispers, voice low and pained. It’s not a demand—it’s an offering.

He’s giving you out, and you should take it. You know you should. You should tell him to stop, roll over, go to sleep, and never speak of this again.

But you don’t. Instead, you lean in—choosing to throw caution to the wind. Choosing to accept the feelings you’d been trying so hard to bury. Choosing him. 

You close the gap, pressing your lips against his—impossibly soft and tasting like orange juice. His hand slides to your jaw, thumb stroking gently, as if afraid you might pull away. 

He pulls back for the briefest second—just long enough to take a shaky breath—before kissing you again like he physically cannot stop himself, as if months of careful restraint have finally snapped and he would rather drown in you than come up for air. 

He kisses you deeply—a soft, needy sound escaping from his throat as his lips move against yours, hungry and insistent—tongue sliding in to taste you fully. 

His hand moves to cradle the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he pulls you in. The other trails down your side, mapping the curve of your waist. You melt into the sensation, hands sliding up his chest, feeling the rapid thud of his heart beneath your palm. 

“I meant what I said earlier…” He grunts out between heated kisses, voice rough and low against you. “I haven’t seen you as just an employee for a long time now.”

His lips trail down, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses along your jaw before moving to the sensitive skin of your neck. “I want more with you… so much more.”

A helpless moan escapes from your lips as he bites a sensitive spot behind your ear, soothing it instantly with his tongue. He’s half on top of you now—your hands sliding under his shirt, palms gliding along the smooth, warm expanse of his broad back, feeling every flex of lean muscle as he moves over you.

He groans when you touch him, the sound vibrating against your throat and sending shockwaves straight to your core. 

“Tell me you feel the same,” he begs, voice strained from months of longing, of holding himself back. “God, please… I need to hear it, baby.”

You nod furiously, heart hammering in your chest. “I’ve been trying to ignore it for months,” you respond breathlessly. “How much I wanted—want you. I couldn’t stop it.”

You can feel his smile curve against your skin before he kisses you again. He moves so he’s fully on top of you, his weight a warm, delicious pressure that sinks you deeper into the soft mattress.

His large, warm hands caress your sides, your waist, your hips—any inch of skin he can reach, while he rolls his hips against you, grinding his unmistakable hardness right against your core. The friction drags an involuntary moan from your throat as heat pools low in your belly. He knows it, too—rocking against you again in a slow and deliberate circle.

”Michael,” you whimper, the single word trembling with need.

He doesn’t hesitate, his fingers finding the hem of your shirt and pulling upward. You lift your arms to help him and he pulls it the rest of the way off—flinging it carelessly across the hotel room. 

The cool air hits your bare skin for barely a second before his mouth is on you, hot and eager as he captures one nipple between his lips. He sucks gently, tongue swirling around the sensitive peak before trading it for the opposite side. He kisses and licks his way down your torso, worshipping and memorizing every inch, before reaching your sleep shorts.

His palms possessively squeeze the soft curves of your hips before hooking his fingers into the waistband and dragging your shorts and panties down your legs in one smooth motion, leaving you completely bare beneath him.

He settles himself between your thighs, pressing slow, worshipful kisses on your sensitive skin, working his way closer and closer to your dripping center. Your glistening cunt is fully bared to his gaze, and the intense, raw hunger in his expression makes your breath hitch.

Shyness washes over you suddenly. You try to close your legs instinctively, but his large hands wrap firmly around your thighs, holding them open. “You don’t have to—“ you start, voice small.

He cuts you off, voice low and rough with want. “Please, baby…. Please let me taste you. I need it, honey.”

The sweet endearment sends a sharp, involuntary spasm straight through you, fresh heat flooding between your legs. He looks up at you then, eyes desperate and pleading, silently asking for permission. You nod, unable to deny him—or yourself—any longer.

That’s all he needs before diving in—a hungry, animalistic groan escaping as he tastes you for the first time. His tongue drags slowly up and down your slick folds, savoring every last drop of your arousal before circling your clit with devastating precision. 

The wet heat of his mouth is overwhelming—soft lips sucking gently, tongue exploring every sensitive inch as if he’d been starving for your exact taste. He moans against you, unable to help it, the deep vibration traveling through your body and pulling a broken cry from your lips.

Your hand flies to the top of his head and threads into his hair, gripping the damp curls as your hips rock helplessly against his face. 

He keeps you spread wide with a bruising grip while he devours you with slow, relentless devotion. Every lick, every suck, every gentle graze of his teeth builds your pleasure higher, coiling tight until the world narrows to nothing except for the feeling of his mouth on you and the sounds he’s making—like he could stay there forever. And you would let him. 

You can hear how embarrassingly wet you are as he slides one hand down, teasing your entrance before slipping a single finger deep inside you. The wet, obscene sound of it fills the room, and it doesn’t take much effort for him to add a second one, curling them against that perfect spot inside of you. You clench around them instantly, arching off of the mattress with a loud cry. 

You couldn’t hold back the sounds spilling from your lips if you tried—his name nothing more than a broken echo that grows louder and louder with every stroke of his fingers. Your mind is blissfully empty except for one repetitive thought: Michael, Michael, Michael.

It had never felt like this with anyone else—the way he touched you, the way he tasted you as if trying to memorize you—you’re absolutely sure he had ruined you for anyone else.

He pulls his mouth away just long enough to look up at you, the bottom half of his face glistening with your slick, fingers continuing to thrust in and out at a steady pace. “Come for me, baby,” he practically begs, voice hoarse and desperate. “I want—I need you to fall apart for me.”

You’re so close, teetering right on the edge, but not quite there yet. 

”Look at me.” He commands. You obey instantly, watching as he leans back down, wrapping his lips around your clit, sucking firmly while his fingers keep that perfect, effortless rhythm. He looks up, meeting your gaze with dark, wide eyes. At that, the coil inside you snaps.

You cry out his name, thighs trembling uncontrollably as your walls clamp tightly around his fingers. He doesn’t stop for a single second—doesn’t even consider slowing down as he works you through every pulsing aftershock, drawing your orgasm out of you until you’re shaking and gasping for breath.

It’s not long before it becomes too much, inching into overstimulation. You push against his shoulder and he pulls away finally—pupils blown and eyes glassy. He looks completely drunk—instantly addicted to you. 

”You taste so good,” he slurs, voice completely wrecked. He withdraws his fingers from your fluttering heat and lifts them toward you, like an offering of sweet wine. Without hesitation, you grab his wrist and wrap your lips around the wet digits, tasting yourself on his skin.

Michael lets out a deep, guttural moan at the sight, his hips twitching pathetically against the bed. You can only imagine how hard he has become—his cock straining painfully inside his clothes as he watches you suck his fingers clean. 

You shoot up, grabbing the collar of his sleep-shirt and yanking him upward toward you, crashing your lips against his. The taste of yourself lingers on his tongue, tangy and intimate—intoxicating. It sends another rush of heat through your body. 

You want more. You want everything—every touch, every sound, every piece of himself he’s willing to give you.

Your fingers fist tighter into the fabric before you tug it over his head, throwing it somewhere into the abyss. You’re on him instantly—pressing your mouth against his bare skin, trailing hot, wet kisses down the column of his neck and across his sharp collarbones. You can feel his pulse racing under your lips, his whole body trembling with barely-held restraint.

“Don’t stop,” He pleads, voice husky and ragged, tilting his head back to give you more access. He moans softly when you begin to nip at the sensitive skin. “God—I’ve waited so long for this, girl… dreamt about it. I’ve been so damn patient. You have no idea what you do to me.”

”Show me,” you respond, placing a kiss at the center of his chest, right above his heart. “I need more, Michael. Please—“

He pulls back enough to cradle your face in his hands, eyes burning with sincerity. 

“I’ll give you everything,” he promises. “Anything—everything you want, mama.”

In one fluid motion he pushes his pajama bottoms down his hips. His cock springs free, slapping heavily against his toned abdomen. He’s thicker than you would have imagined, given his lean frame—flushed dark, the tip glistening with precum. The sight makes your mouth water and your core clench with fresh need. 

You reach for him eagerly, fingers wrapping around the warm, velvety base. He hisses sharply through his teeth at the contact, and he gently pulls your hand away, lacing his fingers with yours.

”Not yet,” he rasps, squeezing your hand. “I swear to god, I’ll bust if you touch me like that right now… and I’m not done with you yet.”

”But… I want to taste you,” you admit softly, feeling shy and girlish. “I want to make you feel good too.”

He shakes his head, a smile curling his lips. “I want that too, more than anything. And I’ll let you… next time.”

Next time. The promise settles warmly in your chest and makes your heart skip a beat. You know what that means—there will be conversations tomorrow, heavy ones. Things between you and him will never go back to the way they were. You should care. A smart, professional person who values her career should care deeply. But you don’t. 

You’re so utterly consumed by him—by the pleasure humming through your veins, by the way he’s looking at you like you’re everything he’s ever wanted. 

Consequences be damned. You’ve been good. You’ve been patient. You’ve done everything right for so long. And he—Michael Jackson himself—wants you just as badly as you want him. 

You nod, surrendering to him completely. A wolfish grin spreads across his face as he reaches down and slides his fingers through your soaked folds and pushes them back inside of you. A third finger joins soon after, stretching you open with slow, careful thrusts. Pleasure sparks through your body as he once again curls them perfectly against your g-spot.

His mouth stays close to your ear, whispering praises between the soft kisses along your neck. “That’s it, pretty girl. Let me hear those sounds. You’re so beautiful like this.” His thumb brushes against your clit in steady rhythm with his fingers. “So wet for me… only for me. Just like that, yeah? Right there?”

His dark, expressive eyes lock onto yours as he pumps three fingers deep inside of you, hitting that perfect spot over and over again. Your second climax of the night builds fast, your breath coming out in short, needy gasps. You’re right on the edge when he abruptly pulls his fingers out—popping them into his own mouth this time, sucking on them greedily. 

You let out a needy, petulant whine at the devastating loss, your hips chasing the orgasm that he ripped away from you. He coos in your ear, pressing a wet kiss against it. “Shh, baby… I’ve got you. Gonna make you feel so good.”

Michael finally shifts above you, bracing his weight on his forearms, and you feel the head of his cock nudging insistently against your slick entrance. His eyes lock onto yours, silently searching—begging—for permission. In answer, you wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer, guiding him home.

”Baby…!” He moans out, the sound half ecstasy, half relief as he pushes forward. He enters you slowly, inch by thick inch, stretching you open. There’s a slight sting despite his earlier care—a sweet, delicious burn that makes your breath hitch. It had been too long since anyone had touched you like this—since anyone had made you feel this full, this wanted. 

You’re ruined, you accept with startling clarity. No one else would ever come close. He knows it too—you can see it in the way his eyes flutter shut, in the slight tremble of his body as he holds himself back from thrusting too fast. Nothing and no one would ever compare. 

A loud, broken moan spills from both of you as he finally bottoms out, buried to the hilt so deeply you can feel him in every part of you. He stays there for a long moment, perfectly still, savoring the feeling. He presses his forehead against yours, ragged breath mingling with your own. 

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again, then he begins to move—long, deep thrusts drag against every sensitive spot inside you. His hips roll with that signature, graceful rhythm he brings to the stage every night, now edged with raw desperation. His fingers dig into your hips, grip tight and bruising, making certain you will feel him for days.

You cling to him—nails scoring down the smooth skin of his back, heels digging into the small of his spine as you meet his every thrust. The lewd, wet slap of skin on skin and your shared moans fill the hotel room.

He angles his hips higher, hitting your spot again and again until you’re gasping and shaking beneath him. “M-Michael—oh, oh god I think I’m—“

”Come for me,” he begs—voice straining, his breath hitching as you begin to clench around him. His thrusts grow faster, more frantic. “I want—I need to feel you.”

At his words, your orgasm crashes over you like a blinding tidal wave. A sharp cry tears from your throat as your walls clamp hard around his member. Your vision goes white around the edges, every muscle trembling as you release. His name pours from your lips like a mantra.

He’s close too—you can feel it in the way his hips begin to stutter—but he’s holding himself back, just barely. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, a broken moan escaping him.

“W-where?” He grits out, sounding almost pathetic with need. “Please—tell me where. I’m so close—I can’t—“

”Inside,” you answer immediately, wrapping your legs tighter around him, locking your ankles behind his back. “I’m on the pill. I’m safe, I promise. Please, Michael—fill me up. Please, please, I need—“

That’s all it takes. 

He buries himself inside of you with a loud cry, hips snapping forward as he comes hard. He doesn’t stop thrusting, not even for a second, grinding deep as he spills inside you, filling you with pulse after pulse of hot seed. The head of his cock presses insistently against your cervix as he paints your walls, whining your name over and over again like it’s the only word left in his vocabulary. 

Even after he finishes, his hips continue moving in shallow, desperate thrusts, as if he can’t bear to stop. Soft, pathetic whimpers escape him as overstimulation takes hold—body shaking as his pleasure clouds everything else. He’s lost in you, completely and utterly gone. You hold him close through every second of it, arms wrapped tight around his trembling frame.

You stay locked together for a long moment afterward, trembling and slick with a messy blend of sweat and release. The air around you is thick, smelling like sex and the faint trace of his cologne and the shampoo you used in the shower. Your heartbeats thunder against each other in the quiet hotel room, gradually slowing as the intensity of the moment fades into something softer.

Eventually, he shifts with a shaky, reluctant sigh, as if it physically pained him to have to separate from you. He slips out of you slowly, the wet drag sending a shared shiver through both of you. You can feel the warm trickle of your combined fluids leak obscenely out of you, soaking into the sheets. Michael barely moves away—immediately settling back down against your body, skin to skin. 

Soft, worshipful kisses begin to trail across your flushed, sweaty skin. He brushes his lips to your temple, to your cheeks, your jaw, and then finally your lips. He kisses you as if he can’t quite believe you’re real—willing and here with him. Each one lingers, gentle and reverent, as though he’s afraid that if he pulls away completely you might vanish, like the whole night could still be a dream. 

He finally settles his head against your chest, and your hand drifts up to rest at the back of his neck, fingers slowly threading through the damp curls at his nape. You play with them absentmindedly, still trying to catch your breath. That’s when you hear it—his voice, shaky and barely above a whisper, tumbling out in a frenzied, unconscious litany: “Thank you… thank you, thank you, thank you—“

The words spill from him like a prayer he doesn’t even realize he’s saying, raw and desperate. Your chest tightens with a fierce tenderness. You don’t speak or shush him. Instead, you pull him closer, holding him gently against you. 

You press slow, reassuring kisses to the top of his head: silent promises that reveal everything you can’t yet put into words: I’m not going anywhere. I’ll still be here in the morning, and every morning after that.

You love him, you realize. The thought settles over you undeniably, blooming deep and real in your chest. You don’t say it out loud, not yet—but the words echo in every gentle stroke of your fingers through his hair, in the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his.

The world outside has ceased to exist. The snowstorm, the complicated travel plans, the endless chaos of the tour—none of it can touch you here. There is only this bed, only his warmth against yours, only the quiet certainty that everything has changed. For the better.

His whispers gradually fade into slow, even breaths, and his body grows heavier as exhaustion finally wins over, slumping fully against you. His entire weight presses you deeper into the mattress in the most comforting way imaginable. His face is tucked into the curve between your neck and breasts, warm breath fanning steadily across your skin. He succumbs to sleep completely—probably for the first time in days—safe, spent, and wrapped in your arms.

You hold him there, one hand still cradling the back of his head, and listen to the quiet rhythm of his breathing until your own eyes grow heavy. You surrender to sleep yourself, choosing to not worry about the next day and its complications. For tonight, nothing else mattered.

a/n: if you’ve read this far, thank you from the bottom of my heart! any and all feedback is greatly appreciated. please enjoy and be kind ❤️

Soft, doe eyes circle around to meet yours. His dark curls bouncing slightly at the movement, "Any luck on finding the map Commander Bog gave us?"

There it is.

The gentle voice that worms its way into your every fantasy.

Captain EO.

Leader of the Electric Crew, dance-fighter extraordinaire, and sole pilot of the Moonwalker.

The man of your dreams – who just so happens to be your boss.

It’s not your fault, per say.

He was, and still is, your saviour.

From what, you ask?

Saviour from eternal boredom back on your home planet; where you’d be forced to wed a man who couldn’t care less about you (other than the fact you possess the correct equipment to reproduce), and tend to a home that serves as a prison for the rest of your measly life.

You can somewhat recall pledging your loyalty to the captain during your first meeting – but over time, it seems that you have continuously given him more and more of yourself, under the innocent guise of admiration and trust.

You know better now.

Blinking the remnants of affection glistening in your eyes away, you find yourself responding – rather dumbly, “It appears that Hooter has eaten it, sir.”

Hooter was the crew’s designated comedic-yet-frustratingly-annoying relief; an elephant-like creature that wreaks havoc whenever he finds the chance, and whose stomach has a never-ending appetite.

The man tilts his head, jet-black brows nearly kissing each other in bewilderment, “What?” Quiet rustling accompanies his question, the metallic embellishments on his outfit knocking against each other with every step he takes.

Defying the usually-cold temperature of space, heat begins to rise from your neck, a sudden explosion of shyness overtaking you.

Clearing your throat in hopes to rectify whatever mistake you think you made, you try again, “He- Hooter, um, has eaten the map, sir.”

The captain has an aura about him that seems to render you entirely useless. Merely meeting his gaze melts your mind, making you more accident-prone than one would assume.

Your clumsiness earned you the nickname, ‘Space Brain’ - a childish tease the rest of the crew concocted when you were caught spacing out on multiple occasions.

Not that Captain EO ever participated.

You try not to overthink that particular choice of his.

“And you didn’t feel the need to tell me?” Your admission elicits a sigh of frustration from the captain, running a hand down his face all the while. “We’re already the laughingstock in the eyes of the Command – the ones who always, without fail, mess up – and now, this!”

Pushing several stray wisps of glossy hair, exposing his forehead, EO’s disbelief of how quickly things turned sour is dreadfully obvious, “That map was our only hope of finding the homing beacon. Without it, well…” He throws himself into the Moonwalker’s command chair, “I don’t know what we’ll do.”

Captain EO snaps his head back to lean against the neck rest, wide eyes falling shut, craving for a moment of peace on this trialling journey – dropping a hand on the centre console, fidgeting with the knobs to alleviate some stress.

“If I may, sir,” you begin, left foot twitching forward half an inch, “is it not possible for us to use the ship’s navicomputer? I’m sure it would prove a lot simpler and far more efficient.”

Ending the suggestion with a timid smile, you watch as the captain slowly opens a single eyelid – the other too tired to do the same. His squint sweeps over your figure, sensing the anxiety buzzing through you. Letting out a low sigh, EO pushes off his thighs to stand.

“With the disaster that was our last mission, the navicomputer has been malfunctioning non-stop – and I have not found the time nor the right mechanic to repair it.”

Unbuckling the clasps of his jacket, he slides it off his arms, revealing a white shirt with a lopsided rainbow spanning from his hip to above his shoulder. He places it on his chair with the tenderness of a child with their favourite stuffed animal; the garment holding many a memory of past travels.

It was unusual, and quite unexpected to witness the captain in such a casual state – as he believes that looking the part is just as important as playing the part.

The rare sight of his toned forearms makes a flush of heat gather on your cheeks; feeling both pleasantly surprised at his comfortability when in your presence, and flustered at his lack of formal attire.

Captain EO takes a lap around the bridge, a habit you’ve noticed he partakes in when pondering – losing himself in his thoughts, using his nimble fingers to pinch the soft skin of his lips, concentration glazing over his eyes.

Breaking the intangible silence, you find the courage to ask, “Why don’t I give it a try?”

His head whips back at a speed that rivals that of a starfighter, a piercing glare looming over his features – and suddenly, his voice descends to a lower register.

“What?”

The question fills you with familiarity; déjà vu from just minutes before. But this time, scrutiny lingers in his expression instead of confusion.

As if setting yourself up for failure, your tongue decides to twist itself, lessening the impact of your statement, “I-I said, I could maybe, potentially, take a… crack at it? At fixing the navicomputer? Sir?”

‘Who says crack? Idiot!’ You scream into the void of your psyche, wincing at the phrasing. Talking to a captain in such a way should be warrant for suspension.

Well, that could likely be an overreaction on your part, but it was embarrassing, nonetheless.

To your astonishment, EO levels you with a blank stare, once again stuck in the palace of his mind, conjuring a response for such a ridiculous proposition. How could you, a lowly - but beloved - crewmate restore such complex machinery such as a navicomputer?

Sweat beads at your temples, fingers slipping against one another when balled in a fist – gulping, you anticipate his reaction.

EO’s head shifts subtly, seemingly returning to himself, “And just how do you suppose to do that?” Chocolate eyes initiating contact with yours, the darkness of the room causing them to dilate – creating the illusion of having no sclera at all. The intensity of his stare is alike to a tiger about to pounce on its prey, but you see no reason to be afraid.

His lack of faith is understandable, as you’ve shown no skill or talent in tinkering, but it weakens your spirits a noticeable amount.

“As you know, my home planet is famous for its renowned mechanics,” not wanting to come across as arrogant, you flick your line of sight to the floor, “and growing up surrounded by that culture, I’ve got a handful of knowledge up my sleeve. If you would only give me the opportunity to repair the navicomputer, sir, maybe then you could forgive me for withholding information?”

You finish the rant with a pained grimace, wondering if you were speaking over your station, until-

A muffled snicker echoes throughout the room.

Lifting your head, you’re met with the vision of Captain EO hastily covering his mouth to prevent more laughs from escaping.

“Sir?” You feel your heart drop to your feet, “What’s so funny?”

The man only shakes his head in response, a boyish grin plastered on his face, “I just find it kind of silly how you think I’m the type to hold a grudge.”

Marching towards you until your toes nearly touch, EO reaches for your hands – engulfing them in his own, and whispers, “You were forgiven the moment I saw that guilty look on your face.” He tilts your head up with his index, reinforcing his words with an equally forceful action.

“You never have to worry about that with me. No matter what happens, no matter how many maps Hooter eats, and no matter how many times we ‘fail,’” he exaggerates with air quotes, “I will always find it in my heart to forgive you. That, I promise. Understood?”

You fight the urge to weep at his words, voice wavering as you settle for, “Yes, sir.”

A playful roll of his eyes ensues at your answer, the stoic façade from before washed away by his childlike nature. Mischief dances in his expression as he asks, “How ‘bout this? You do your darndest – and I mean, darndest – to fix the navicomputer, and I’ll allow you to drop the honorifics.”

As if drenched with ice water, colour disappears from your face, horror taking its place.

“But-!”

The captain tuts at your interruption (his greatest pet peeve), slotting a pointer finger against the plump of your lips, “At-tut-tut! No buts. Consider this an order. Or a punishment. Whichever you feel suits best.”

Huffing, you mutter, “Definitely a punishment.”

And, it was the perfect excuse to introduce them all to Jaafar, who had tagged along on your hometown trip. He’d always been utterly helpless when it came to you, always willing to join you on whatever adventure or help out with any task.

What had started as a casual dinner with some of your closest high school friends soon ballooned into invite-everyone-we-know-and-see-who-shows-up. Surprisingly, most of the people you remember from high school put in an appearance even just for a few minutes. There are some who never left your hometown, some who live close enough to drive in for the night, and some like you, who just happened to be in town.

At first, everyone was having a good time. Jaafar stood with his hand wrapped around your waist, chatting with some of the girls that had been in your class since kindergarten. He got along well with all of your old friends, content to just stand by your side and listen as you all caught up and reminisced. 

“I can’t believe so many people showed up!” You exclaim, looking around the space at the swarms of people. There’s a can sweating in your hands, condensation beading against the aluminum in the residual heat of the afternoon, even as the sun begins to set.

“Everyone’s bored here,” one of your friends quips, and you all laugh. It’s been nicer than you thought, this whole mini-reunion. While you’ve certainly outgrown some of your old friends, it makes you happy to be able to catch up with everyone, to fill in the gaps that you don’t get from Instagram posts or yearly birthday texts.

And it’s even better that you get to share it with Jaafar. The two of you have created a perfect little life together, and you couldn’t have imagined ever feeling so content with your life. Getting to show him this, your hometown and your friends who’ve known you since birth, just feels right.

“Oh, God,” one of your friends says, looking over your shoulder in the fading sunlight. 

“What?” You whip your head around, eager to know what she’s talking about. 

“It’s David.” She says it in such a voice of disgust that Jaafar really doesn’t need to know anything more about the man. You make a fake gagging noise beside him, rolling your eyes as you turn your attention back to your friends. 

In high school, David had been something of a playboy. You always thought he was something of a sleazy jerk, even though you could admit he was quite attractive. He dated his way through the school, and while he was often nice enough to you, every interaction with him seemed to leave a bad taste in your mouth, like he was only being charming with the intention of getting in your pants.

Which, really, wasn’t too far off.

By the way everyone greets him with smiles and hugs, it seems like he’s started to age out of that phase of his life, and you’re thankful for it, if only so you don’t have to deal with him. No matter how many times you laughed his advances off, he came back stronger than ever, with compliments and kind words that you could see right through, even in high school.

David was the type of guy that parents and friends and anyone with more life experience than you always warned you to steer clear of. You’d known plenty of guys like him during college, and some of your friends were dating guys like him now. You, though, managed to somehow avoid dating the Davids of the world, and had found the best guy around just when you thought to swear off dating forever.

“He and May dated for, like, a year,” your friend Sydney says in a conspiratorial whisper, just loud enough for your group to hear. You find your gaze drifting over towards May, who’d always been sweet to you, and then back towards David. He keeps getting closer and closer, like a shark.

You tipped your can towards your mouth, hoping to take a long drink and instead finding the can empty. You sigh, squeeze the aluminum in your hand until it dents slightly. If David’s coming over, you’re going to need a drink.

Beside you, Jaafar squeezes your hip gently before stepping away, reaching for the empty can in your hands.

“I’ll be right back,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before walking away, towards where the coolers have been set up.

“Where’d you find him?” One of your friends asks in wonder as you turn over your shoulder to watch Jaafar disappear into the growing darkness of the night, a small smile on your face. 

“Yeah, and where can I get one?” The whole group erupts into laughter, and you go right along with them. It’s been so nice to catch up, to get to introduce Jaafar to all your old friends, like you’re connecting your past with your future. 

As the laughter fades, Sydney looks over your shoulders and grimaces.

“David’s coming over here,” she announces, and everyone around you makes various noises of varying levels of disgust. Some of your friends had been unlucky enough to fall for David’s charms, dating him for a few weeks before he got what he wanted and left them in the dust. 

“He reminds me of bed bugs,” you joke, “you can never get rid of him.”

You and your friends are still laughing when David saunters up to you, walking over like he’s gracing you with his presence. He smiles, and you resist the urge to scowl. He hasn’t done anything to warrant that response yet though, so you just smile back. He says your name in amazement, shaking his head to himself. 

“Wow, you look great.” He clearly hasn’t changed at all. Right out of the gates and laying it on thick, obviously thinking that now’s his chance to do what he couldn’t in high school. 

“Oh, thanks,” you say, watching over his shoulder and hoping to see Jaafar returning, and sighing internally when you see him still over by the coolers, chatting to someone you’d introduced him to earlier. You curse his kind nature, his inability to stop himself from getting roped into conversations because he’s always too nice to just brush past someone.

“I always thought you were so pretty in high school,” he tells you and you laugh, because you’re really not sure what else to do. David, apparently, takes it as a good sign because he grins at you. He’s laying it on thick, clearly thinking he’s in with a chance.

Really, it just shows how much he doesn't know you. Not only is he either unaware or doesn’t care that you’re here with Jaafar, these little tricks have never worked on you. Even in high school, you were never swept off your feet by a generic compliment and an easy smile.

“Feels like so long ago, huh?” You’re desperately trying to make him get the hint, but he’s oblivious. You wish you had a drink, if only to have something to do with your hands.

“Only a few years, really.” He pauses, takes a long pull from the bottle in his hands. “How long you in town for?”

“Just a couple days, we’re going home tomorrow.” You put emphasis on the we, hoping that gets your point across. At this point, you just want to end this conversation, want to go back to reminiscing on your crazy teachers from high school and rehashing childhood memories that always made you laugh.

“We?” He asks, arching an eyebrow and looking around theatrically, as if someone was standing beside you the whole time. You finally catch sight of Jaafar coming back, your drink of choice in hand, and your shoulders deflate in relief. Seeing how well Jaafar knows you, how he’s always able to bring back a drink or a meal and know you’ll like it, always manages to make you fall a little more in love.

“Me and my boyfriend,” you point over David’s shoulder, towards Jaafar getting closer and closer. 

David scoffs softly at the sight of him, turning his attention back towards you. Jaafar smiles at you as he gets closer, and you can’t help but smile back. In front of you, though, the smile that had been plastered on David’s face has turned into a scowl of sorts. It almost makes you want to laugh, how obviously childish he’s being, as if you’re not all adults, as if he’s entitled to your time or attention.

And it makes little flares of anger start to go off in your chest, at the fact that David could ever think he holds a candle to Jaafar. It’s not even the looks, although Jaafar runs laps around him in that department, it’s his disposition and his personality and the way he treats you. Jaafar’s kindness is endless, not only to you but to everyone who crosses his path, and you’re never left second guessing when it comes to the way he feels about you.

You highly doubt that the manchild in front of you has ever held a door open for a date, has ever given a girl flowers without serious prompting. It enrages you to no end that he thinks he can laugh about Jaafar.

“Seriously?” He crosses his arms across his chest as if he’s all that, “Isn’t he a little old?”

“We’re all adults here,” you say, still trying to defuse the situation before he pushes you over the edge. “You never could take a fucking hint, huh?”

Your voice raises in volume ever so slightly, and you’re trying hard not to let David get the better of you. It’s one thing to flirt shamelessly with taken girls, that doesn’t make him any different from a majority of guys you meet in bars. But coming after your relationship, after Jaafar, is taking things way too far.

“What’s your fucking problem?” David spits, his own anger bubbling over as you make it clear that he’s never had a chance with you, and never will. In the blink of an eye, Jaafar has made his way back over to you, standing by your side like he’s never left.

“My problem?” You ask incredulously, still trying to keep yourself from becoming absolutely fuming, thinking about the consequences of simply decking him in the face. Beside you, Jaafar is steady, a warm palm coming to rest on the small of your back as he hands you your drink.

“I was just being nice,” David raises his hands, as if trying to escape culpability, “just stating the obvious.”

“I don’t know how I could possibly be any clearer,” you laugh and it sounds absolutely unhinged, like you’ve been pushed past the point of no return, “leave us the hell alone. My relationship is none of your business.”

David opens his mouth to argue again, to try and paint himself as the good guy and make it seem like you’ve been the one overreacting.

“C’mon, leave it alone.” Jaafar’s voice is even, controlled, although the bite to his words is unmistakable. There’s a coldness there, a tone that leaves no room for argument. He knows you can stand up for yourself, he’s seeing it with his own eyes, but he can’t stomach the thought of anyone talking to you like that. 

“Alright, fine,” David raises his hands and backs away, and it’s just the cherry on top that he listens to Jaafar and not you. “Keep your old-ass boyfriend, I don’t care. Grown fucking man, yelling at me.”

He walks away muttering curses to the both of you, and you can still feel your chest heaving with rage. You turn towards Jaafar with a heavy sigh, and you can hear your friends whispering as David retreats, no doubt spreading the message that he’s still the same sleazy guy he’s always been. Jaafar rests his hands on your waist and pulls you closer, looking down at you with a softness in his eyes that seems totally at odds with how fired up you feel.

“You alright?” He asks, just loud enough for you to hear, and you nod. “Really?”

“He always pisses me off,” you say, and Jaafar cracks a smile. “Never knows when to stop.”

“Yeah, I could tell.” It makes you laugh, more of the tension and adrenal evaporating from your body. 

“Thanks for defending my honor,” you joke, looking up at Jaafar who just huffs out a laugh in response. 

“Baby, you were defending my honor,” he retorts, “that guys never stood a chance.”

“I can get scary,” you concede, nodding sagely. 

“I know,” Jaafar’s voice is tinged with mischief, and you swat at his chest in retaliation, even as you laugh. He pulls you closer, tugs you to his chest and wraps his arms around you, laying his head on top of yours. For a few moments, you just stay like that, feeling the beating of each other's hearts and the rhythms of your combined breathing. 

Eventually, you rejoin your friends and everyone decides to ignore the whole David incident. Jaafar rests a hand on your hip the rest of the night, pulling you close and feeling the warmth of your body besides his. The next time he goes to get you a drink, no one bothers you, and he returns to find you laughing with your friends, just as you were when he left.

When he smiles over at you, fingers brushing as you accept the can from his outstretched hand, you grin back. No one ever stands a chance against you, especially not where Jaafar is concerned. It makes him happier than it probably should, the fact that you’re so willing to stand up for him.

He dips down to press a kiss to the top of your head, affection rushing through his body when you press yourself closer to him. He’s never been happier to be by your side.

yay yay yay age gap jaafar i loooooove writing these hehehe, shoutout to @doe-eyedtenshi for this wonderful spectacular idea, i hope you enjoy <3

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ January, 1994.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ An Undisclosed Location - Los Angeles, California.

Two weeks after the divorce papers arrived, (Name) found herself standing in the back corner of a Rite Aid, lingering near the pharmacy counter with a basket hanging loosely from one arm. Nothing particularly special in it; a little bottle of ibuprofen and some pads. Things that made this visit feel a little more normal. She was wearing a baseball cap pulled low over her eyes and a pair of oversized sunglasses, and scarf wrapped loosely around the lower half of her face.

It was funny. She’d become strangely good at blending in during the years she was with him. Michael had turned disappearing into an art form: fake noses, oversized jackets, wigs, and absurd disguises that left them both giggling in parking lots of a grocery store. She indulged him in all of it—somehow beneath all of it, they felt freer than they ever did as themselves at times. It was nice. But this visit didn’t feel that way.

Her managers would’ve insisted on sending an assistant if they’d known where she’d gone. Security would’ve cleared the counter and surrounding areas before she ever reached the pharmacy. Hell, someone else would’ve picked up the prescription, tucked it into a brown bag, and spared her the errand entirely.

But no one knew the perscription existed, and she intended to keep it that way.

Two weeks ago, a stranger in a suit had handed her a stack of papers and it felt as though something had climbed off the page, and directly into her body the moment she’d touched them. It burrowed through her the way an illness does, until it had rooted itself in places she couldn’t reach. It seeped into her bloodstream, threaded itself through her nerves, and nested behind her ribs.

The symptoms hadn’t arrived all at time, they spread slowly.

It fed on sleep and turned the simple act of hearing her own phone ring into something her heart interpreted as danger, taking several minutes to recover. Her appetite disappeared. Her pulse developed a mind of its own even when she was resting. She’d lie awake convinced something terrible was about to happen, only to realize the terrible thing already had.

It was astonishing how quickly grief could colonize a body.

She couldn’t scrub it off in the shower or outrun it. It had settled into the wiring beneath her skin, quietly rewriting instincts she’d trusted her entire life. Silence became suspicious. Even breathing sometimes felt like work.

The prescription was proof that whatever had entered her that afternoon had progressed far beyond heartbreak. A doctor had looked at her and seen something treatable. The shock of the impending divorce had lingered long enough to leave a trace in her nervous system and soil it, leaving behind disorder that wasn’t there previously.

The papers were still sitting somewhere in a drawer, she hadn’t signed a single one or read even a page. Yet somehow they were already changing her from the inside out. Truth be told, she physically couldn’t look at, touch or even be in the vicinity of the documents. Staff handled them that afternoon, locking them in a secure room because they seemed to be a trigger. Understandably so.

The woman beside her was buying children’s cough medicine and cartoon bandages. An older man stood quietly comparing two different bottles of vitamins before deciding on one. Somewhere near the greeting cards, a little girl begged her mother for a chocolate bar while the cashier laughed and told her she’d have to ask permission first. It was painfully, offensively ordinary. The world had gone on with its errands and grocery lists, with all the beautifully mundane rituals of ordinary life, as though her life hadn’t split neatly in half just fourteen days earlier.

(Name) stood among strangers holding the little numbered ticket she’d been handed at the counter and when her name was finally called, she walked forward on legs that didn’t quite feel like her own.

The pharmacist never looked up long enough to recognize her. He simply asked for her date of birth, confirmed her address, and then disappeared briefly before returning with a small amber bottle sealed inside a white paper bag. The exchange lasted less than two minutes. He explained the directions carefully, his voice slightly deadpan from saying the same sentences hundreds of times a day. Take one as needed. It may cause drowsiness. Avoid alcohol while taking this medication. Contact your physician if symptoms worsen. She nodded at all the appropriate moments, signed where he pointed, thanked him with a smile and accepted the bag with both hands.

As she turned toward the exit, her eyes drifted down to the bottle visible through the folded paper.

Twenty seven.

Twenty seven years old, and she was walking out of a pharmacy with medication because she could no longer convince her own body that it was safe. How pathetic is that? Because somewhere between her husband’s legal troubles, hospital visits, rehabilitation, to weeks upon weeks of silence, Lisa Maria, and an envelope full of legal documents meant to separate her from the love of her life, her hands shook for no reason at all. Sometimes she forgot to breathe until her lungs forced her to remember. The physician had called them panic attacks in the same exactly manner someone might use to diagnose seasonal allergies. He’d spoken gently, kindly even, explaining that her nervous system had been under extraordinary strain for a very long time. There was no shame in needing help, he’d said. Plenty of people needed help. She’d nodded then, too.

But there wasn’t a dosage for losing your husband.

There wasn’t a pill that could make her forget the sound of his laugh echoing through hallways he no longer walked. Nothing printed on that prescription label could explain how to wake up in a bed built for two people and remember, every single morning, that only one of the was laying in it. No pharmacist could fold that kind of grief into an amber bottle and slide it across a counter.

She placed the paper bag on the passenger seat beside her and drove home in silence.

That evening, after Aladdin had finally fallen asleep and the house settled into the stillness she had grown to despise, she wandered into the living room carrying a dusty cardboard box she’d pulled from the back of a closet. Inside were home videos she hadn’t touched in ages, each cassette labeled in her own pretty handwriting. Christmas. Aladdin’s birthday. Neverland. 1990. Valentine’s day. Paris. Wedding. Her fingers lingered over the last one before she carefully slid it into the VCR. The mechanical click sounded into the room, followed by the soft hiss of static before the image steadied into brilliant color.

There he was.

Happy. Smiling. Alive in a way that had nothing to do with breathing at all—it feels like watching a dream.

He turned toward the camera for only a second before looking back at her, his entire face brightening with that shy little smile she’d once believed she would spend the rest of her life watching. She saw herself laughing beside him, adjusting the sleeve of his tuxedo before he leaned down to whisper something that made her throw her head back with another laugh. The footage wobbled as the cameraman moved, catching fleeting moments no photographer ever could. His hand finding hers beneath the table. The sweet way he looked at her when he thought no one else was paying attention. The gentle brush of his thumb across her knuckles while guests applauded somewhere in the background.

On the coffee table sat three things.

The remote.

The small amber prescription bottle.

A bottle of vodka.

She stared at them as the television continued playing. Michael fed her a bite of wedding cake before laughing at something she couldn’t hear over the music. She remembered exactly how it had tasted. Sweet vanilla. Buttercream. The kiss they’d shared afterward, both of them giggling because they could still taste the frosting. She remembered believing with complete certainty that this was what her forever looked like.

Her thumb found the rewind button.

The tape whirred backwards.

She watched it again.

Then again.

Every replay felt less like remembering.. and more like searching. She thought that if she studied his face closely enough she’d find the exact frame where everything that came afterward had already been waiting. Some tiny hesitation. Some shadow behind his eyes. Some warning she’d somehow missed.

There wasn’t one.

Only a man hopelessly in love with his wife.

Only a woman who looked back at him as though nothing in the world could ever separate them.

The room grew darker as the evening wore on, lit only by the glow of the television. The prescription bottle opened, as well as the bottle of vodka. They sat side by side beneath the flickering light like two different promises, both offering relief in their own quiet, dangerous way. (Name) rested her elbows on her knees, her tired eyes fixed on the screen as tears slipped silently down her face.

She pressed rewind one more time.

Inside the television, Michael smiled at her as though he still couldn’t believe she’d said yes.

Outside of it, she couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at her that way at all.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ February, 1994.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Spago Restaurant - West Hollywood, California.

It had taken nearly three weeks before anyone managed to convince (Name) to leave the house. Not for a recording session, an interview or for a rehearsal. Just lunch. Her manager had called it a ‘change of scenery’, speaking as though she were balanced on the outside of a twenty story window ledge, and they were all desperately pretending the conversation was about the weather. He’d gently suggested that four walls and perpetually drawn curtains weren’t doing her any favors anymore. Elizabeth had agreed immediately, squeezing her hand across the kitchen table and telling her that the world hadn’t ended just because it felt like it had. A few other members of her team quietly echoed the sentiment, though no one pushed very hard. They’d all learned over the past few weeks that this situation had made her extremely fragile. One wrong sentence and she’d retreat upstairs for the rest of the day, emerging only to check on Aladdin before disappearing behind another closed door. Eventually, more out of exhaustion than willingness, she’d nodded. Arguing required energy she simply didn’t have anymore.

Getting dressed felt very odd considering for the past few weeks, she’d only changed clothes out of basic necessity, and even then, it usually took gentle encouragement from one of the older women on the Neverland staff. She’d knock softly before letting herself in, lay out fresh clothes, and patiently coax (Name) through the motions of showering and getting dressed. The same woman reminded her to eat most days, lingering at the kitchen table until she’d managed at least half of whatever meal had been placed in front of her. Somewhere along the way, she’d stopped feeling like an employee and started feeling more like the maternal presence everyone assumed was needed due to the situation at hand.

(Name) stood in front of her closet for several minutes before reaching for an oversized cream sweater that used to fit comfortably, only to watch it slip a little loosely over her shoulders now. The sleeves swallowed part of her hands which was the normal fit but the neckline rested lower against her collarbone than she remembered. She caught sight of herself in the mirror for only a second before looking away again. Her cheekbones had become a bit more angular. The gentle fullness that had always softened her face had disappeared a bit, replaced by a hollowness she hadn’t noticed was there. Makeup covered the worst of the dark circles beneath her eyes, but it couldn’t disguise the fatigue settled deep behind them. She tucked loose strands of hair beneath a baseball cap, slipped on oversized sunglasses despite the gray afternoon sky, and reached for a scarf.

As she stepped downstairs, someone offered a gentle, well meaning, ”Miss! You’re getting out? You look nice.” Someone else remarked without thinking, “Oh! ..You’ve lost a little weight..” And the room fell awkwardly silent. (Name) only smiled politely, adjusted the strap of her handbag and pretended she hadn’t heard the comment. She would be back later she said.

The restaurant had been chosen carefully, tucked away from the busiest streets behind rows of old palm trees and expensive storefronts where celebrities occasionally managed an uninterrupted meal if they were lucky. It wasn’t impossible to find, just inconvenient enough that most photographers didn’t bother waiting outside on speculation alone. For a little while, the plan actually worked. Warm afternoon light spilling across white tablecloths through tall windows, silverware clinked softly against porcelain plates and conversations drifted lazily between nearby tables without anyone paying them much attention.

It felt ordinary, getting out like this. She.. she enjoyed it admittedly. Her team made a conscious effort to avoid the subjects hanging over everyone’s heads. They talked about work, albums other artists were releasing, Aladdin’s newest words, and whether he was going to inherit her stubbornness or her sweetness—perhaps even both, he’s a taurus after all. Elizabeth carried most of the conversation herself, launching into one of her wonderfully meandering stories that somehow involved three countries, two dogs, and an actor whose name she’d completely forgotten before arriving at an absurd punchline that made the entire table laugh. Against her own expectations, (Name) laughed too. It startled her more than anyone else. The sound felt rusty, like something her body remembered doing even if her heart hadn’t caught up yet.

For one fleeting hour, she almost believed she’d survive this.

Then somebody recognized her.

She never found out who it was. Perhaps another customer quietly excused themselves to make a phone call. Perhaps a waiter mentioned her name to someone outside. Perhaps word simply spread the way it always seemed to whenever famous people tried to exist in public. It hardly mattered anymore. Fame had long since taught her that privacy leaked away in tiny, ordinary moments exactly like this one until suddenly there was nothing left.

(Name) noticed the shift before anyone said a word. Her head of security, who until then had been standing comfortably near the entrance pretending not to watch the room, suddenly pressed two fingers against the earpiece hidden beneath his jacket. His expression tightened imperceptibly as he listened, eyes drifting toward the front windows where flashes of movement had begun gathering beyond the glass. Another member of security quietly stepped away from the wall to reposition himself closer to the table. Her manager stopped mid sentence, following their line of sight without turning his head too obviously. Even Elizabeth noticed, her smile fading as she reached instinctively for (Name)’s hand beneath the table, giving it one reassuring squeeze.

“They’re outside,” The head of security said quietly.

The words settled over the table like the forecast of an approaching storm everyone had secretly been hoping would pass them by. Conversation dissolved almost immediately. Chairs slid softly across the floor as everyone rose, years of navigating celebrity life taking over without discussion. (Name) lowered her gaze, adjusted her sunglasses with fingers that suddenly felt clumsy, and drew a slow breath that caught somewhere halfway inside her chest. The scarf was pulled a little higher. Her baseball cap lowered a little further. None of it would matter. It never really did. She fell naturally into the middle of the group as they began walking toward the entrance, surrounded by security without feeling particularly protected.

The restaurant door hadn’t even finished opening before the noise—her name hit her before she even saw the cameras.

It came from every direction at once, shouted over itself until it no longer sounded like her name at all, just noise. The moment her foot crossed the threshold, the sidewalk erupted into movement. Photographers surged forward as one body, camera shutters firing in relentless bursts that sounded almost mechanical, flashes exploding even beneath the overcast sky until the world dissolved into violent pulses of white. For a split second she couldn’t properly see where the curb ended or where her security team began. People jostled shoulders, stepping into one another’s paths in a frantic effort to get closer, lenses stretching over heads, microphones thrust forward like weapons. The air itself felt crowded.

“(Name)! Over here!”

“(Name), is it true Michael left you?”

“Were you blindsided by the divorce?”

“Is the marriage beyond saving?”

“Who’s getting custody of Aladdin?”

“Are the reports about your health true?”

“Did Michael cheat on you?”

“Do you still love him?”

The questions were invasive. One voice crashed into the next before she’d even understood the first, each reporter trying to shout just a little louder than everyone else, convinced theirs would be the question that finally cracked her open. Camera lenses crowded so close she could see her own distorted reflection staring back at her through polished glass, sallow beneath oversized sunglasses and thinner than she remembered. Someone stumbled against her shoulder. Another photographer leaned so far over the security barricade he nearly fell. Hands reached into her path holding tape recorders, notepads, microphones bearing television station logos.

Somewhere beside her, one of the security guards repeated, “Back up. Give her room. Back up,” in the same firm voice over and over until it blended into the rest of the chaos.

Nobody listened, but nobody ever did. There was money to be made from other people’s misery, and her nightmare had become one of the biggest stories in the world.

Her heartbreak had stopped belonging to her weeks ago. Every grocery store checkout aisle carried another magazine promising the “truth” behind the separation, each issue displaying a different photograph beneath another confident headline written by someone who had never once stepped inside their home. Anonymous friends appeared everywhere, speaking in quotations she’d never heard before, somehow claiming to know exactly what had been said behind closed bedroom doors, exactly how she’d cried, exactly why her marriage had failed.

Daytime television hosts dissected their relationship between celebrity gossip segments and cooking demonstrations, nodding thoughtfully as if they had been invited to the wedding themselves. Entertainment programs replayed years of interviews, slowing footage to half speed in search of glances that supposedly predicted the divorce all along. Fans filled call in shows arguing over which one of them deserved sympathy. Radio hosts joked about whose breakup album would sell more records. Newspapers printed diagrams of their relationship like timelines from a criminal investigation, reducing years of shared memories into neat columns of dates and speculation. Complete strangers debated custody arrangements over breakfast. Opinion columnists confidently explained why the marriage had collapsed despite never having spent a single minute inside it. Every person with a newspaper, a television, or a microphone suddenly believed they understood the most intimate years of her life better than she did.

Everyone had an answer, but no one had been there.

She kept walking because there was nothing else she knew how to do. Her shoulders curled inward beneath the oversized sweater, she thought that making herself physically smaller might somehow lessen the attention. One hand clung so tightly to the strap of her handbag that her fingers had begun to ache, while the other remained tucked close against her body, hidden beneath the loose knit of her sleeve. She didn’t lift her head. She couldn’t. Looking at them felt too.. it was just humiliating. So instead, she fixed her eyes on the black sedan waiting just beyond the crowd, wishing that they parked closer. Every step seemed to take forever.

The flashes refused to stop. They illuminated every new hollow beneath her cheekbones, every collarbone now visible beneath the sweater she’d chosen specifically because it hid how much weight she’d lost in such a short period of time—the difference was noticeable considering where she was before, to where she is now. Tomorrow those photographs would be everywhere. Side by side comparisons from six months earlier. Headlines asking whether she was eating enough. Television doctors offering diagnoses they’d invented from still images.

HEARTBROKEN STAR SPARKS HEALTH CONCERNS. FRIENDS FEAR SHE’S WASTING AWAY. THE PRICE OF DIVORCE?

They would speculate about stress, exhaustion, dieting, overwork. Nobody would write that she’d begun measuring her nights by how many drinks it took to fall asleep. Nobody would know about the little amber prescription bottle tucked inside the kitchen cabinet behind the coffee mugs, or how some evenings she’d stand in front of it with a bottle of vodka in one hand, trying to decide which one might finally quiet her mind. Nobody would know she’d stopped looking into mirrors for more than a few seconds because the woman staring back looked unrecognizable every single morning.

A security guard opened the car door just as the crowd pressed forward again. She slipped inside without speaking, her manager climbing in behind her before another photographer managed to wedge a camera between the narrowing gap. The door slammed shut with a heavy thud, muffling the shouting almost instantly. For one second, there was silence. She let out a shaky breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and leaned her head back against the leather seat, closing her eyes as if the darkness behind them might finally offer somewhere to hide.

Another flash burst through the tinted window.

Then another.

Even with the door closed, even with the engine starting, even as the car slowly pulled away from the curb, they were still taking pictures.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ Early March, 1994.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ The Valley - Los Angeles, California.

The strangest part about looking for a house was that she had no idea what she was supposed to be looking for.

She knew how to stand beneath stage lights and deliver a performance perfectly timed down to the second. She knew how to walk into a room full of executives and hold her ground. She knew how to negotiate contracts, handle interviews, memorize choreography, and carry an entire career on her shoulders without letting anyone see how heavy it became. She had spent years making decisions that affected millions of people.

But standing inside a potential home with a realtor asking her what she wanted, she felt completely lost.

The woman showing her around was kind it was sickening. She had the bright, professional warmth of someone who had done this hundreds of times before, moving through each property with an enthusiasm that felt untouched by the fact that this was not an exciting new beginning for her. This was something else entirely.

“This room would be perfect for entertaining,” The realtor said, opening the doors to a wide living space with tall windows overlooking the backyard. “I can already picture family gatherings here. Holidays, birthdays…”

(Name) smiled politely.

She could picture them too.

That was the problem.

She could picture Aladdin running through the room. She could picture toys scattered across the floor, little shoes abandoned by the doorway, Christmas decorations covering every surface. She could picture a piano sitting somewhere near the windows, music filling the house in the evenings.

She could picture a life, but she just couldn’t picture herself living it.

The first house was beautiful.

So was the second.

The third had a kitchen larger than her first apartment and a backyard big enough for Aladdin to spend entire afternoons outside. The fourth had everything people dreamed about when they imagined a perfect home: marble floors, a sweeping staircase, a pool that reflected the sky like glass. A tuscan estate, she called it.

Every realtor’s dream.

Every magazine’s dream.

None of them were hers. Because she wasn’t really looking for a house, she was looking for something that didn’t exist—the life she had lost.

The realization came quietly, somewhere between one perfectly decorated room and another. She stood in a bedroom listening as the realtor explained closet space and bathroom renovations, but all she could think about was how, when she was twenty and signing the lease for her first apartment, Michael had been there.

He had known what questions to ask.

He had noticed things she hadn’t.

He checked the cabinets. The windows. The water pressure. The little details she never would have considered because she had been too young and too excited to care about anything except making the place feel beautiful.

He had laughed gently when she admitted she hadn’t even looked at the lease terms before signing. The whole time he had sat beside her, patiently explaining everything.

Now she was twenty seven, standing in a big empty house with a stack of paperwork, realizing she had no idea what she was supposed to be looking for. It unsettled her more than she wanted to admit.

For as long as she could remember, there had always been a man standing beside her when life asked for grown up decisions. First her father, patiently explaining mortgages, insurance, and contracts but she was too young to care about. Then Michael, who she’d fallen in love with. From then on, the practical parts of life had become shared things.

And neither man believed she was incapable of these things, but they loved taking care of her. And she’d loved letting them.

Now, for the first time in her adult life, no one was reading the fine print before she signed it. No one was pointing out what she’d overlooked or assuring her she was making the right decision. Every choice landed squarely in her lap, and she found herself staring at them longer than she should have because she’d never had to make quite so many of them alone.

It wasn’t dependence she was grieving. It was the absence of the person she’d always instinctively turned toward whenever life became too large to carry by herself. No one warned her that the hardest decisions wouldn’t be the ones in front of cameras. They wouldn’t be the interviews or the performances or the moments where millions of people watched her and expected her to be perfect.

It would be this; mortgages. Insurance. Paperwork.

Choosing where her son would sleep.

The small, ordinary things that somehow felt more terrifying than standing in front of thousands of screaming fans.

After the fourth house, the realtor finally turned to her with a hopeful smile. “Would you like to make an offer?”

(Name) looked around the room. It really was beautiful. Perfect, even. She could imagine Aladdin growing up here. She could imagine birthday parties in the backyard. Christmas mornings. Family dinners. A piano in the corner.

Everything.

Everything except herself.

Her fingers tightened slightly around the folder in her hands.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. The realtor’s expression shifted, waiting. (Name) looked once more around the room before lowering her gaze. “I think..” Her voice caught for just a moment. “I’d like to keep looking.”

And the heartbreaking part was that she didn’t know what she was waiting to find.

Because no house was going to feel like home when the person who had made it one was the very person she was trying to learn how to live without.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ Late March, 1994.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Neverland Ranch, Los Olivos, California.

The closet was the worst.

She had avoided it for days, finding reasons to be anywhere else in the house whenever she walked past it. The kitchen needed organizing. Aladdin’s things needed sorting. There were phone calls she needed to make. Meetings. Interviews. A thousand little responsibilities that were easier than standing in front of the closet they had shared.

Because the closet didn’t look like their marriage that had ended. It looked almost exactly as they’d left it. As though they had simply stepped out for dinner and forgotten to come back.

His clothes were still there—jackets arranged by color because he’d insisted it somehow made getting dressed easier (a majority of his clothing was either red or black). A few empty hangers interrupted the line where assistants had quietly removed some of his things weeks earlier, but enough remained that her eyes continued filling in the gaps automatically. Her mind refused to accept absence. It kept correcting it. He’ll need that tomorrow. He always wears that one when it rains. That sweater belongs in the wash. It was astonishing how stubborn memory could be, continuing to perform little acts of love long after there was nowhere left to put them.

Those were the things that hurt the most.

She stood there for several minutes holding a sweater in her hands without realizing she had stopped moving. It still carried the faintest trace of him, his skin, his favorite perfume. It wasn’t strong enough that anyone else would notice—but she did. She had spent years knowing him in ways nobody else did. The smallest details had become part of her understanding of him. The way he smelled after a shower. The way his clothes felt softer after being washed too many times. The way he would leave things in places without realizing it because he always assumed he would come back to them.

Because he always had.

Until he didn’t.

She reached for one of his long sleeves almost without thinking. The fabric slipped easily between her fingers. Time had already begun doing what time always did, stealing little pieces first. But there was still something there. Something warm and familiar that immediately transported her to sleepy mornings where he’d wander into the kitchen wearing this exact shirt, his hair a complete mess, asking if she’d already made coffee before remembering he didn’t actually drink it. The memory arrived so vividly she had to close her eyes. When she opened them again, she caressed the material gently, honestly too tenderly. As if being gentle with it somehow meant she was being gentle with him. Even after all of this, she couldn’t help but to enately want to be careful with him.

She sat down on the floor beside the open boxes, surrounded by pieces of a life she had never imagined having to separate. Photographs. Letters. Small gifts. Things that had once represented years of love and now felt like evidence from another lifetime.

The strangest part was that she didn't know what she was supposed to take.

What belonged to her? What belonged to him?

At some point, there stopped being a difference. That was the entire point of marriage. You stopped keeping score. You stopped remembering who bought what, who brought what, who contributed which piece. Everything became theirs.

Packing was supposed to feel productive.

People packed because they were moving. Because they had accepted that one chapter had ended and another was waiting somewhere ahead of them. There was supposed to be a rhythm to it. Empty the drawers. Fold the clothes. Tape the boxes shut. Write a label. Carry them to the front door. Repeat until the room no longer belonged to you.

It wasn’t that simple with her.

By the afternoon, boxes had begun appearing throughout the bedroom in uneven little clusters. Some were half full. Others still sat open and untouched because she kept finding reasons not to decide what belonged inside them. Marriage had a funny way of blurring ownership until it barely existed. Nobody warned you about that part when you said your vows. They told you everything became ours and they neglected to mention what happened if one day someone asked you to separate it all again.

She knelt beside a lower cabinet near the back of the closet, reaching into the corner where they had spent years absentmindedly shoving things they didn’t know what to do with.

Old photographs. Ticket stubs. A disposable camera neither of them had ever developed. Then her fingers brushed against something soft.

She frowned and pulled it free.

It was a plush frog. A ridiculously oversized frog wearing a tiny sequined tuxedo and an equally ridiculous little top hat that sat crooked over one stitched eye. One arm had gone limp where the stuffing had shifted over the years, giving it the permanently exhausted appearance of someone who had simply accepted life was happening to them.

For a long moment she just stared at it. Then a giggle escaped her lips. Small. Breathless.

“Oh, my goodness..” She pressed her fingertips against her mouth, shaking her head as another quiet laugh slipped out before she could stop it.

She remembered.

They’d been wandering through a carnival years ago after insisting they were “just going to walk around.” He’d spotted the frog hanging from the top row of prizes and become completely determined to win it for her despite the teenage employee repeatedly explaining the game was nearly impossible.

Michael refused to believe him.

Twenty dollars later he’d won exactly nothing.

Forty dollars later he’d accused the game of being rigged.

Sixty dollars later she’d been laughing so hard she’d nearly fallen over.

Eventually, the poor teenager had sighed, looked around to make sure his manager wasn’t watching, quietly taken the frog down himself and handed it across the counter.

“I can’t watch this anymore,” He’d whispered.

Michael had accepted it with complete seriousness before turning to her as though he’d conquered Everest.

“For my beautiful lady,” He announced, presenting the frog with both hands.

She’d looked between him and the absurd stuffed animal. “You spent sixty dollars on this thing.”

“It was an investment.”

“In what?”

“Our future.”

Now she sat alone on the closet floor with the same ridiculous frog resting in her lap. The laughter disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. Her thumb absentmindedly brushed over the crooked little hat.

“You were so stupid, kind of looks like you too..” (Name) whispered affectionately with the kind of fondness reserved for memories that hurt because they had once been so wonderfully ordinary. She smiled through tears that had begun gathering without permission.

The smile trembled, then it broke as she folded forward slowly, hugging the ridiculous frog against her chest hoping that a hug might somehow fix the pieces of her that had been broken for months.

The gift itself was absurd.

Cheap.

Completely impractical.

By every reasonable standard, it should have been one of the easiest things in the room to throw away. Instead, she reached for an empty box, placed the frog gently inside by itself, and wrote only one word across the lid.

KEEP.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ April, 1994.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ Ashford Mediation Group, Beverly Hills, California.

The drive there felt like purgatory, honestly. The engine hummed beneath them, steady and smooth as it carried the car through late morning traffics. Buildings drifted past the window in slow succession, interrupted every so often by a red light or a pedestrian crossing. Somewhere in the front, her manager kept his voice low over the phone, discussing arrival times, entrances, making sure the press hadn’t caught wind of the meeting.

Beside her, her attorney rested a leather portfolio across his lap, turning over neatly tabbed pages as he reviewed everything one final time. Custody. Financial agreements. Property. Confidentiality. His voice remained calm and almost comforting in its neutrality, pausing now and then to reassure her that nothing unexpected would happen today. They had prepared for this. They had been over every document until he could practically recite them from memory.

She should have been listening. Instead, the words dissolved somewhere between his mouth and her ears, losing their shape before they ever reached her. She answered where she thought she was supposed to, nodding faintly, murmuring quiet acknowledgments she wasn’t entirely aware of making, her eyes fixed on the stitching of the seat in front of her until it blurred into a single uninterrupted line. Her hands rested in her lap, fingers woven together so tightly the joints had begun to ache. She loosened them forcibly and a minute later they were locked together again without her realizing.

Outside, the world continued. A florist arranged fresh bouquets beneath a striped awning. Two businessmen laughed together over paper cups of coffee as they crossed the street. A young mother stopped to kneel in front of her little girl, zipping her jacket before taking her hand and disappearing around the corner. Everyone seemed to know exactly where they were headed. Everyone still belonged to someone or something. The thought settled somewhere beneath her ribs before she could stop it. Once upon a time, she would’ve been driving toward Michael. Toward home. Toward the man who reached for the door handle before the car had even come to a complete stop because he couldn’t seem to wait the extra few seconds. Now she was driving toward paperwork that would ask her to untangle years of her life into paragraphs and signatures.

A quiet pressure began blooming beneath her sternum. It was so faint at first she mistook it for hunger. She straightened in her seat and drew in a deeper breath, holding it for a second before letting it out slowly. It helped, until it didn’t. The feeling returned, just a little heavier this time, spreading through her chest like something patiently unfolding. She swallowed against the sudden dryness in her throat and reached for the bottle of water beside her, taking two careful sips before placing it back exactly where she’d found it. The relief lasted only a moment before her coat suddenly felt heavier than it had when she’d put it on that morning. She slipped the top button loose then adjusted the scarf at her neck. The air conditioning whispered steadily through the vents, yet warmth had begun creeping beneath her collar, collecting behind her ears and along the back of her neck until she wondered if she was getting sick. She crossed one leg over the other. Uncrossed it. Pressed both feet firmly against the floor instead. Nothing seemed to settle the strange discomfort growing quietly inside her.

Her attorney had stopped speaking. “...Mrs. Jackson?”

“Of course.” He offered her an understanding smile, glancing back down at the papers. “I was just saying that, if at any point you need a break, Mrs. Jackson, we can—”

She blinked. “I’m sorry,” She said, her voice quieter than she’d intended. “Could you.. could you repeat that?”

For a second, she simply stared at her own hands.

“Don’t call me that, please.” The words came out and silence settled over the car. She hadn’t raised her voice. She hadn’t snapped, really. But the sentence landed with enough uncomfort that even her manager looked back over his shoulder.

Then, softer this time, embarrassed by how quickly the words had escaped her, she whispered, “Please.”

No one corrected her.

Her attorney gave a small nod, closed the folder for a moment, and apologized before continuing, avoiding the title altogether. She wanted to thank him, but the lump in her throat had grown too large to speak around. She hadn’t realized how much those two words still belonged to him until hearing someone else use them.

Mrs. Jackson.

A name she’d once worn with so much pride it hardly felt borrowed anymore. A name that had come to mean waking up beside him, dancing barefoot through the kitchen with a baby balanced on one hip, signing birthday cards together, whispered “I love yous” after midnight when the house had finally gone quiet. Now it sounded like someone describing a woman who no longer existed.

Not on a television screen.

The realization struck her so suddenly it stole the breath she’d only just managed to steady: in a matter of minutes, she was going to see him.

Not in photographs.

Not through lawyers.

Not through headlines.

Him.

The pressure beneath her ribs tightened and she inhaled, the breath stopped halfway down. She frowned and tried again, slower this time, but it still wasn’t enough. Her lungs worked. She knew they did. They simply refused to feel full. Without thinking, she lowered the window an inch, letting cool air drift against her face. It should have helped, but it didn’t. And she kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead, willing the sensation to pass if she ignored it long enough. It had to pass. She wasn’t going to lose herself in the backseat of a car. Not before she’d even laid eyes on him. Not before she had to sit across from the man she’d loved since she was twenty years old and somehow pretend she knew how to discuss the end of him in legal terms.

The realization struck her all over again, fresh enough to steal the air from her lungs.

She wasn’t driving to see her husband.

She was driving to negotiate the end of him.

Her breathing changed before she realized it had.

It came shorter now, each inhale still stopping halfway down her chest like there simply wasn’t room for the rest of it. She swallowed once. Then again. The knot in her throat refused to move as more heat crept up the back of her neck despite the air conditioning humming quietly through the car, settling beneath her collar and behind her ears until she felt almost feverish.

She cracked the window some more but the rush of outside air hit her face wasn’t enough.

Her attorney noticed first, lowering the papers into his lap and studying her for a moment before speaking carefully. “Are you alright?”

The car slowed for another light and she stared straight ahead. The nausea arrived sudden without a kind warning—not the vague discomfort she’d been sitting with all morning but something imminent and violent. Her stomach lurched so suddenly she jerked forward in her seat, one hand flying instinctively to her mouth because she could physically hold herself together.

She nodded before he’d even finished asking, too quickly that movement made her dizzy. “I’m fine.” The lie came. She’d become frighteningly good at saying it these days.

“I..” She swallowed hard. “Could we..” Her voice disappeared. She tried again. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

The conversation in the front stopped immediately and her manager turned around so fast his seatbelt caught against his shoulder. “Pull over,” He told the driver.

The car eased toward the curb and before it had even come to a complete stop, she was already reaching for the handle with shaking hands.

The cool morning air hit her the second she stepped onto the sidewalk, but it did nothing to steady the awful rolling in her stomach. She bent forward, one hand braced against her knee, the other pressed flat against her chest somehow attempting to slow the frantic pounding beneath it.

Nothing came up. Only dry heaves.

Again.

Again.

Her body kept trying to rid itself of something that wasn’t there. Tears burned behind her eyes from the force of it. She hated this. Because she knew exactly why. She knew. It wasn’t the meeting. It wasn’t the lawyers. It wasn’t even the divorce.

It was him.

In a matter of minutes she would be in the same building as the man she’d spent the better part of six years loving with everything she had, and she had no idea which version of him would be waiting on the other side of that door.

The husband who used to kiss her forehead before leaving for rehearsals. Or the stranger who had disappeared without saying goodbye. For the first time since leaving the house that morning, she allowed herself to think the one thought she’d been avoiding.

What if I look at him.. and I don't recognize him anymore?

The possibility frightened her more than the divorce itself.

Her manager was beside her before she even realized the car door had opened. “Easy,” He murmured, one hand settling carefully between her shoulder blades. “Easy, sweetheart. Don’t fight it, alright? That’s it..”

She wanted to tell him she wasn’t, wanted to tell him she had stopped fighting weeks ago. Instead another dry heave bent her nearly in half, her fingers curling tighter against her knee as tears sprang unwillingly to her eyes. Still, nothing came. Nothing except the violent ache in her stomach and the humiliating sound of her own body insisting it had something left to give.

His hand never left her back. Slow, steady circles the same pace every time. He didn’t rush her. Didn’t tell her to breathe like people always did when they had no idea what breathing felt like anymore. He simply stayed there, letting her have.. whatever this was without making it feel like a spectacle.

The attorney lingered a respectful distance away, quietly telling the driver they’d need another few minutes. Traffic continued behind them. Cars rolled past. People walked by without sparing more than a curious glance. The world refused to stop.

“That's it,” Her manager said softly. “You’re alright.”

She laughed, or tried to. It came out broken, somewhere between a cough and a sob. “No,” She whispered hoarsely. “I’m really... really not.”

“I know.” Those two words nearly undid her. Because no one had said them. Everyone else had spent months asking if she was alright, telling her she’d get through it, reminding her how strong she was.

He simply acknowledged the truth.

She wasn’t.

Her breathing refused to settle. Every inhale felt jagged, stopping halfway before she had to pull another after it, her chest tightening with each attempt until it became difficult to tell whether she was breathing too much or not enough.

“I can’t..” She swallowed hard. “I don’t think I can do this.”

He waited. “I can’t look at him.” The words came quietly. So quietly she almost wasn’t sure she’d spoken them aloud.

“I know,” He repeated. “But you have to.”

“What if..” She stopped, squeezing her eyes shut. “What if he looks at me like I’m just..” She couldn’tfinish.

Just someone else.

Just another meeting.

Just another signature.

Just another chapter he’d already closed.

Her manager stepped a little closer, careful not to crowd her, his hand still resting reassuringly between her shoulders. “Listen to me.” He started, she kept staring at the pavement as he spoke. “You don’t have to be brave in there.”

She frowned. “I feel—“

“No.” His voice remained calm, unwavering. “You just have to get through today. That’s all anyone is asking of you.”

Fresh tears slipped down before she realized they had. “I don’t know who I’m walking in to see.”

His expression softened. “Yeah, I understand that. Trust me, I do..”

“The man I married wouldn’t..” Her voice broke. “He wouldn’t have let it get here.”

Silence settled between them.

After a long moment he reached into his pocket, withdrew a neatly folded handkerchief, and held it out without a word. She took it with trembling fingers.

“I keep thinking..” She whispered, dabbing uselessly at her face, “That maybe he’ll walk in and it’ll be him again.” She hated how childish it sounded. As though the husband she’d fallen asleep beside for years had simply gotten lost and might suddenly find his way back.

Her manager looked at her for a long moment before speaking. “You’re young.” Her eyes lifted. “But.. don’t walk in there expecting the past to meet you halfway.” He gently squeezed her shoulder. “You’ve already survived every day that brought you here.”

She let out a slow, trembling breath, the first one that felt as though it reached the bottom of her lungs.

“I’l walk in with you,” He said gently. “I’ll stay until I can’t. Your attorney will handle the rest. And if you need a break, you stand up. I don’t care who’s talking. I don’t care what's being discussed. You stand up, and we’ll take one.”

She nodded faintly. And no matter how desperately she wished the car would simply turn around and take her home, there was no road left that led back to the life she’d been trying so hard to keep.

He waited until the trembling in her hands had eased enough that she could uncurl her fingers.

“Come on,” He said quietly, offering his hand instead of reaching for her. “Let’s get you sitting down.”

She looked at it for a second before slipping her own into his. Her grip was weaker than usual, cold despite the warmth lingering beneath her skin. He steadied her as she climbed back into the car, one hand lightly supporting her elbow until she settled against the leather seat once more. Before closing the door, he leaned down just enough to meet her eyes.

“You don’t have to say anything in there until you’re ready—or anything at all for that matter.”

She nodded, the door clicked shut and no one spoke for the rest of the drive. The attorney quietly returned the papers to his portfolio, deciding against continuing whatever explanation he’d been giving before they stopped. Her manager remained turned slightly toward the window in the front seat, giving her the rare kindness of not watching her every few seconds to make sure she was still holding together. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was respectful, really.

She kept her eyes on the city as it slipped past. Every block carried them closer. Every red light felt shorter than the last. She found herself counting them without realizing she was doing it.

One.

Two.

Three.

Anything to keep from counting the minutes instead.

By the time the car slowed for the final turn, the nausea had settled into something quieter. It hadn’t gone away. It had simply become part of her, resting heavily beneath her ribs like a stone she’d accepted wasn’t moving anytime soon.

The building came into view through the windshield.

Large. Modern. Too much glass. It reflected the gray afternoon sky so perfectly it almost disappeared into it. The driver eased to a stop beneath the covered entrance and for a moment, no one moved.

Her manager glanced back. “We’re here.”

The words hung in the air as she stared through the windshield at the revolving glass doors ahead of them, watching strangers pass effortlessly through them. A man in a navy suit exited while adjusting his tie. A woman carrying a briefcase disappeared inside without slowing her pace. Her attorney stepped out first. Her manager followed, circling around to open her door before she had the chance.

When she didn’t move immediately, he crouched slightly beside the car. “You alright?”

She swallowed. “Yeah.” Another deep breath, this one reached a little farther just before she stepped onto the pavement. The cool air kissed her face, carrying with it the faint scent of rain that hadn’t quite arrived yet. She smoothed invisible wrinkles from the front of her coat and adjusted her heel.

Her manager gently rested a hand on the small of her back. Together, they crossed beneath the overhang and approached the entrance. The glass doors slid open with a mechanical hum, revealing a lobby that was painfully pristine. Marble floors reflected the overhead lights in muted pools across the room. Everything smelled like polished wood, fresh coffee, and expensive cleaning products. It was immaculate in the sort of way places often were when difficult conversations happened inside them every day.

The receptionist looked up almost immediately. “Good afternoon.”

Her attorney quietly introduced them, speaking in the same composed voice he’d maintained all morning. The receptionist nodded once after checking a schedule on her desk, offering a polite smile that stopped well short of familiar.

“They’re expecting you.”

Of course they were. She hadn’t.. considered the possibility that they could had already arrived. She was under the impression that they would have been there first and she could at least prepare herself before..

The thought tightened something in her chest again.

“This way.” The receptionist stepped out from behind the desk and led them across the lobby toward a bank of elevators tucked against the far wall. The walk wasn’t long, but it felt endless, their footsteps echoing softly against the marble with each measured step. No one spoke. The only sounds came from the gentle chime announcing the elevator’s arrival and the muted conversation of strangers somewhere deeper inside the building.

The doors slid open and they stepped inside, the receptionist pressing a button near the top of the panel.

As the doors closed, the lobby disappeared behind brushed steel, leaving only the gentle vibration of the elevator climbing floor by floor. She watched the numbers illuminate one after another above the door, each soft chime settling lower in her stomach than the last. When the elevator finally came to a stop, the receptionist led them down a corridor lined with frosted glass offices and framed artwork she couldn’t have described a second later. The hallway seemed impossibly quiet, the thick carpeting swallowing almost every footstep until the only thing she could hear with any clarity was the steady beating of her own heart.

They stopped outside a closed wooden door and the rreceptionist turned toward them, offering another small, professional smile.

“They’re ready for you.” Then she stepped aside.

The hallway fell silent.

(Name) couldn’t move.

At some point it stopped being hesitation. It stopped being indecision, grief, fear, or any emotion she could neatly identify and tuck away beneath a sensible name. It became something far older than that. It was instinctive. Something buried so deep inside the part of the human body that recognized danger long before the mind had time to reason with it. Every muscle seemed to arrive at the same conclusion without consulting her first. Don’t go in there. Don’t open that door. Turn around. Leave. Run if you have to. It wasn’t a thought she was having anymore. It was a command her body had already obeyed, planting her feet so firmly into the carpet that it almost felt as though the floor itself had grown around them.

The trembling began again, just the faintest vibration in her fingertips where they’d been laced together in front of her and subtle enough that no one walking past would’ve noticed unless they were looking for it. She wasn’t herself, even. Not until she felt the tiny, involuntary quiver travel into her knuckles. She instinctively pressed one hand over the other, squeezing hard enough to leave crescent shaped marks in her skin, hoping the pressure might somehow force the shaking to stop.

It didn’t—it spread. Slowly, with nowhere else to be. From her fingers into her wrists. From her wrists into her forearms. Tiny muscles fluttered beneath her skin without permission, a low, constant vibration that made her feel strangely disconnected from her own body. Her body had long since decided it was no longer taking instructions from her and she stared at her hands with detached confusion, willing them to be still.

They refused.

A careful breath caught somewhere halfway down her chest. She frowned. Tried again. Another shallow inhale. Another unfinished exhale.

It still felt like her lungs had abruptly forgotten how much air they were supposed to hold, every breath stopping just before it became satisfying, forcing another after it and another after that, until she couldn’t tell whether she was breathing too much or not nearly enough. A dull pressure settled beneath her sternum, expanding outward until it wrapped itself around her ribs like tightening wire. She swallowed hard against the dryness gathering in her throat, but even that simple movement felt strangely difficult, like something invisible had lodged itself there.

Then came the heat but not the ordinary warmth of nerves. It crept upward beneath the collar of her blouse in slow waves, spreading across her chest before climbing her neck with alarming speed. She shifted uncomfortably, fingers instinctively reaching toward the irritated skin just beneath her throat. It felt hot to the touch. Too hot.

She looked down.

Angry red blotches had already begun surfacing across her collarbone, blooming beneath her skin in uneven patches that spread almost as she watched them, climbing toward her neck like watercolor bleeding through paper. Another appeared just below her jaw, then another.

Stress hives.

She hadn’t broken out like this since she was nineteen, and she could only stare at them strangely fascinated by hrr own body was rejecting this.

Not even metaphorically but,

Literally.

Every system inside her had reached the same conclusion at once. Her pulse had accelerated. Her breathing had shortened. Her muscles had begun shaking. Her skin was erupting in protest. She felt like an animal standing at the edge of a forest fire, every instinct screaming to flee before she could even see the flames.

Run.

The word echoed somewhere deep inside her.

Run.

Her manager noticed before she managed to hide it. His eyes drifted from her face to the spreading rash creeping over her neck, then softened almost immediately with the concern of someone watching another person come apart in slow motion.

“..Hey.”

She didn’t answer but she wasn’t sure she could.

He stepped closer, careful not to crowd her, lowering his voice until it barely carried beyond the space between them. “Look at me, (Name).”

She tried.

God, she tried. But every time she lifted her head, her eyes found the door instead.

It seemed to pull at her attention with force, everything inside her understood that on the other side of it sat the dividing line between the life she’d had and the one she would be forced to live afterward.

“I can’t,” She whispered, voice distant.

“You can.”

She shook her head before she realized she’d moved. “No..” The word barely escaped her lips. “I can’t.”

Fresh tremors rippled through her arms. She tucked them tightly against herself, folding one over the other in a futile attempt to hide the shaking, but it only made it more obvious. Her shoulders had begun trembling too.

“I can’t go in there—I can’t even..” A breathless, broken laugh escaped her, so close to becoming a sob it frightened her. “I can’t even stop shaking.”

He reached up with careful hands, gently smoothing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The gesture was so grounding it nearly undid her. “Just stay with me for a second.”

She nodded and his voice remained slow. “Can you feel your feet?”

She blinked at him, confused. “..What?”

“Your feet.”

She frowned, attention reluctantly leaving the door. “..Yes.”

“The floor underneath them?”

Another swallow. “Yes..”

“Good.” His hand rested lightly against her upper arm. “You’re here.”

Fresh tears blurred her vision almost immediately. “I don’t want to be. I want to go home.” The confession escaped before she could stop it. Raw. Childlike. Entirely honest. “I just..” Her voice cracked so completely she had to press her lips together before trying again. “I want to go home.”

His expression shifted—a flicker. Gone as quickly as it appeared. Because they both understood the thing she’d just said was nonexistent. There wasn’t a “home” waiting for her anymore. Not the one she meant. Not the one built around shared mornings and baby giggles and a man whose absence had hollowed every room he’d once occupied. There was only whatever came next.

“I wish I could come in with you,” He admitted quietly.

Her head snapped toward him so quickly the movement made her dizzy. “What! You can’t?” The panic returned with astonishing speed. Her knees threatened to give beneath her.

“No. Sweetheart, I told you that.” He hated the answer as much as she did. “They’ve only approved legal representation.”

She stared at him. “No..”

“But I’m staying right here.”

“No..”

“You’ll walk back through these doors, and I’ll still be here.”

“No!” Her voice rose just enough to tremble around the edges. "Please.. please don’t make me go in there.”

For the first time all morning, he looked completely helpless.

Helpless.

If there had been any way to walk through that door instead of her, he would’ve done it without hesitation. She knew that, and he knew she knew it. Which somehow made standing there feel even lonelier. Before either of them could speak again, her attorney’s voice drifted gently down the hallway.

“(Name).”

Neither of them turned.

“It’s time.”

The hallway seemed to narrow around her and air felt heavier. Even the lights overhead appeared suddenly too bright. Her manager’s hand squeezed her arm once, a reminder that when she came back through those doors, someone would still be waiting to catch whatever pieces remained.

She closed her eyes and drew in the deepest breath her body was willing to give her but it still wasn’t enough. Then, with legs that felt borrowed from someone else and a heart that seemed determined to escape her chest before she reached the handle—she took the first step toward the door.

One moment she was standing in the hallway, every muscle in her body pleading with her to turn around, and the next the door had already begun to swing inward beneath the quiet push of a palm.

The room was larger than she’d imagined—too bright from the large floor to ceiling windows and so sterile. A long conference table stretched through the center, polished to the point it reflected the overhead lights in muted streaks across its surface. Leather chairs sat neatly arranged around it, folders already opened, glasses of water placed with almost mathematical precision. Everything had been prepared hours before she arrived, every seat assigned, every document waiting patiently for signatures that would dismantle a life.

She felt them before she saw them.

Eyes.

They settled over her the instant she crossed the threshold, not invasive, not intentionally cruel she thinks, but impossible to ignore all the same. His team was.. ridiculously large: Lawyers who paused mid conversation. Assistants quietly setting down pens. People who had been expecting her arrival and now watched it happen in real time, each carrying the uncomfortable awareness that they were about to witness something far more intimate than legal.

She kept her gaze lowered.

One step.

Then another.

The carpet swallowed the sound of her heels, leaving only the dull rush of blood filling her ears. Halfway across the room, another sensation reached her.

Familiar.

Warm.

The faint trace of cedarwood, bergamot, and something softer she had once associated so instinctively with home that she’d stopped noticing it years ago.

His cologne.

It hung lightly in the room, barely perceptible to anyone else. But to her, it was overwhelming. The smell struck with such force that her stomach lurched before she could brace for it. Every memory attached to it arrived all at once, uninvited. Jackets borrowed on cold nights. Sleepy embraces before dawn. The hollow of his neck beneath her cheek. She had spent years breathing it in without thought.

Now it made her feel violently ill.

She swallowed hard as the nausea climbed steadily into her throat.

Don’t look up.

The thought repeated itself with quiet desperation.

Don’t look.

If she looked too soon, she was afraid everything holding her upright would simply.. stop. So she fixed her eyes on the table instead. On the grain of the wood. On the edge of an unopened folder. On her own hands, clasped together tightly enough that the faint tremor running through them almost disappeared beneath the pressure.

Someone quietly pulled out a chair for her and she thanked them automatically, though she couldn’t have said who it was.

The leather creaked softly as she sat. Her knees felt a sense of reliving beneath the table, bouncing once before she forced them still. She rested both palms against her thighs, pressing down as though she could anchor herself.

A glass of her favorite juice had already been placed in front of her and she stared at it. The condensation gathered in tiny droplets along the outside, slowly slipping toward the polished wood beneath.

It was something to look at.

Something that wasn’t.. him.

Silence settled over the room for one lingering moment, heavy enough that even the quiet rustling of paper sounded intrusive.

Then a chair shifted, a folder opened and the mediator cleared his throat: “Thank you all for coming.” His voice was carefully emptied of emotion. “We’re here today to discuss the terms that remain outstanding and, if possible, reach an agreement that serves the best interests of everyone involved.”

The words floated somewhere above her. Professional. Orderly. Clean. She heard every one of them but none of them felt real. Because all she could think was how absurd it was that the end of seven years could fit inside a folder no thicker than an inch.

The attorney on Michael’s side spoke first, sliding one of the folders forward.

“On the matter of custody,” He began, voice even and courteous almost, “Our client is requesting a standard shared arrangement. Equal time. A fifty-fifty split, alternating weeks, with flexibility for travel schedules given both parties’ professional commitments.”

The words landed in the center of the table, balanced and reasonable on paper—designed to sound like cooperation.

She kept her ⁠eyes fixed on the edge of her glass.

Fifty-fifty? As though fathers simply disappeared for weeks at a time, served their wives divorce papers through attorneys, built new lives somewhere else, and then returned expecting to divide a child neatly down the middle. Like time with a child could be weighed out evenly, as though it was something that could be portioned and exchanged without consequence. She never thought her own child would be subject to this kind of thing—life was cruel.

He wanted equal time. Equal responsibility. Equal claim. After everything he’s done.

Her own attorney shifted beside her, glancing once in her direction before responding. “We’ve reviewed that proposal,” He said calmly, “And at this stage our client is not in agreement.”

A pause.

The room tightened slightly.

Then he continued. “Given the current circumstances, she is requesting primary custody, with structured and supervised visitation.”

There it was, out in the open. Her stomach twisted again slower this time, bracing for impact long after the words had already been spoken. But she still didn’t look up—didn’t trust herself to see him yet. She wondered what his expression was..

Across from her, pens stopped moving. Someone exhaled quietly, the kind of sound people make when they’re pretending not to react.

Michael’s attorney adjusted his posture. “Supervised visitation is a.. significant limitation,” Je said, carefully choosing each word, “Especially in cases where both parties have been primary caregivers. On what basis is that being requested?”

Her pulse ticked harder beneath her skin.

Her attorney didn’t look at her, only answering immediately. “Stability,” He said. “And continuity of care during a period of documented instability.”

Documented instability.

A clinical phrase for something that felt anything but clinical when it lived inside her.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was dense. Heavy with everything no one wanted to say directly in front of everyone else. She could feel it then, faintly, the shift in the room’s attention. Not hostility but something more complicated. Assessment. Quiet recalculation. The way people looked at decisions when they realized they were about to become precedent.

Her fingers tightened under the table again.

Fifty-fifty.

Supervised visits.

The phrases repeated in her mind without sound, colliding against each other until they stopped meaning anything at all except conflict.

Michael’s attorney spoke again, softer this time, “Our client has no intention of being removed from his child’s life. If anything, he is requesting increased consistency. Predictability. Equal access to daily care, schooling routines, and—”

“He’s not being removed,” Her attorney interrupted gently. A pause followed by: “He’s being structured.”

She felt the nausea return in a slow wave, not as sharp as before, but deeper. More settled. Something that sat under her ribs and refused to move.

Across the table, paper turned softly. Someone marked a note. Another cleared their throat. And the discussion continued anyway, the shape of their child’s life simply another item to be negotiated between professionals who had never once had to hold him when he cried.

The attorney on his side spoke first, sliding a neatly tabbed folder toward the center of the table with practiced ease.

Her attorney shifted almost imperceptibly beside her.

“As stated before, we reviewed the proposal,” He said. “My client cannot agree to that arrangement.” The room remained silent as he continued. “She is requesting sole physical custody, with supervised visitation until a consistent pattern of stability has been established.”

Across the table, Michael’s attorney folded his hands together. “Could you clarify the basis for supervised visitation?”

Her attorney answered without hesitation. “The events of the past year.”

“I’m going to need something more specific than that.”

“As documented,” Her attorney replied evenly, “Mr. Jackson entered treatment following prolonged substance dependency. There were also extended periods of physical absence from the child, interrupted communication, and the abrupt dissolution of the marriage.”

His attorney gave a small nod.

“We don’t dispute treatment. In fact, your client voluntarily sought it. Rehabilitation is generally viewed as evidence of recovery rather than evidence of parental unfitness, that isn’t a factor in this.”

Michael attorney spoke again. “Our position is that whatever difficulties existed between husband and wife should remain separate from the child’s relationship with his father.”

Husband and wife.

As though those were just words.

As though the marriage had ended because two people had simply grown apart.

As though she hadn’t spent months bathing him when he couldn’t stand long enough to bathe himself. Feeding him because he forgot to eat. Sleeping beside him through endless nights when every phone call brought another problem. Holding together a household, a career, a child, and a man who no longer had the strength to hold himself together.

As though she’d stayed through every unbearable moment only to be discarded the second he was strong enough to leave.

And now..

Now he wanted fifty fucking percent.

(Name) didn’t want to keep a father from his son. But somewhere in the midst of disappearing, serving her with divorce papers through strangers, and forcing every conversation to happen through attorneys, he had somehow convinced himself he was entitled to walk back into fatherhood like nothing had broken in between? The thought was so staggering she wasn’t sure whether she wanted to cry.. Or stand up and leave because she felt offended.

Her attorney let the silence settle for a moment before folding his hands neatly atop the folder in front of him.

“We appreciate the sentiment,” He said, his tone remaining unfailingly courteous. “But respectfully.. we find that position difficult to reconcile with the circumstances that brought us here.”

Across the table, no one interrupted.

He continued. “My client has been the child’s primary source of consistency throughout the better part of the last year. She has maintained his routines, his medical appointments, his education, his home, and his day-to-day care while simultaneously managing an unprecedented level of public scrutiny surrounding the dissolution of this marriage.”

He glanced briefly toward the documents. “During that same period, your client voluntarily entered treatment, ceased regular communication for an extended length of time, and elected to initiate divorce proceedings through legal counsel rather than direct communication with his wife with another woman in his life.”

His voice never rose. “Against that backdrop, requesting an immediate fifty-fifty custodial arrangement is, ridiculous and not a proposal we consider realistic.”

The discussion continued for another two hours.

Nothing changed. Every proposal was met with another counterproposal. Every compromise unraveled the moment someone followed it with, “However..” Custody schedules became calendars spread across polished wood. Holidays were divided before they had even happened. Birthdays were discussed in alternating years. Christmases became odd numbered and even numbered. Every sentence sounded perfectly reasonable on its own.

Together, they sounded grotesque.

The conversation had long since stopped being productive. It was two immovable objects politely colliding with one another over and over again, dressed up in professional language and careful tones.

Finally, her attorney closed his folder, “I don't believe we’re making meaningful progress.”

No one disagreed. Across the table, opposing counsel gave a small nod. “I think a brief recess would be appropriate.”

“Perhaps twenty minutes,” Another someone added. “Give everyone a chance to speak with their clients privately and reassess before continuing.”

There was a quiet chorus of agreement.

Pens were capped. Legal pads were gathered. Someone reached across the table to collect a stack of exhibits that had slowly migrated into the center during the discussion. Chairs eased backward with soft scrapes against the floor, the room immediately feeling larger now that everyone had permission to move.

(Name) didn’t Her hands remained folded tightly in her lap. Her eyes stayed fixed on the untouched glass of water in front of her, the same glass she’d been staring at for nearly two hours. She heard the rustle of jackets, the quiet exchange of voices, the metallic click of briefcases closing. The meeting was ending, at least for now.

Then, for the first time since she had walked through the door.. Michael spoke: “..One moment.”

The room stilled.

It wasn’t that his voice was loud. It was almost the opposite. It was quiet enough that everyone instinctively stopped moving to hear him.

“I have a request.” Every eye shifted toward him and he wasn't looking at the attorneys. He was looking at her. “If everyone is comfortable with it..” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I’d like a few minutes alone with my wife.”

Silence settled over the room.

One attorney glanced toward another and (Name)’s attorney looked toward her, saying nothing as he wasn’t answering for her this time. He was waiting for her to speak while the request lingered between them.

Finally, opposing counsel spoke. “Well.. provided both parties consent, I don’t have an objection.”

Her attorney remained still for another moment before turning slightly toward her. “You don’t have to.”

She swallowed. Her throat felt painfully dry. “I know.”

"If you’d rather I stay, I stay.”

She closed her eyes briefly. This was the conversation she’d spent weeks dreading. It had been waiting for her whether there were lawyers in the room or not.

Slowly, she nodded. “It’s okay, Mark.”

Her attorney studied her face carefully, making sure she wasn’t agreeing out of pressure or obligation. Then he gave a small nod. “We’ll be right outside.”

One by one, the attorneys gathered their files and made their way toward the door. Their footsteps were quieter than before, everyone understood they were leaving behind something no legal training could prepare them to witness.

The door opened, then closed and the latch clicked softly.

And for the first time in months, there was no one left in the room except the two people whose names had been written across every page of the divorce file.

The silence that followed was worse than the situation at hand had been. At least that had given them something to hide behind: numbers, schedules, legal terms, the careful language of attorneys who could take something unbearably personal and reshape it into something that fit neatly inside a folder. Now there was nothing between them. No one interrupting. No one redirecting. No one stepping in when the weight of everything they had avoided finally settled into the room. For several moments, neither of them moved. (Name) remained exactly where she was, her posture still rigid from the hours she had spent forcing herself to stay composed. She didn’t need to look at him to know he was there, and that was the part she hated most. After months of distance, after everything that had happened, some part of her still recognized his presence before she ever saw him.

The quiet scrape of his chair shifting made her body react before her mind could. Her shoulders tensed, her fingers tightening together in her lap, her breath catching slightly. She wasn’t afraid of him, but some part of her was afraid of what would happen if she finally allowed herself to see him. The anger she had carried from a distance felt much easier to hold than the reality of having him sitting only a few feet away. Anger did not remember the good mornings, the private jokes, the years of knowing someone so completely that their absence felt like a missing piece of your own body.

“Can you..” His voice stopped.

An uncertain pause.

Her eyes remained fixed on the untouched glass in front of her, watching the faint reflection of the room distort across the surface.

“Can you look at me?”

The request was painfully simple. Almost too simple for everything that existed underneath it. Her fingers tightened further, but she didn’t answer. For a moment, neither did he. He didn’t push. He didn’t repeat himself. He simply waited.

That somehow made it harder.

“Please.” The word was quiet. Not a demand or even an expectation. A simple request of her.

She hated that he still had the ability to reach the parts of her that wanted to soften. She hated that one small word could pull at years of memories she had spent so long trying to bury beneath anger, paperwork, and silence. She had convinced herself that enough distance would make him easier to face, that time would turn him into someone she could look at without feeling everything at once.

But she was still sitting there, unable to lift her eyes. Because looking at him meant admitting he was real—that this was real. That the person who had once felt like home was sitting across from her, and she had no idea what to do with that anymore.

Her silence stretched for several seconds longer, but it wasn’t peaceful. It was the kind of silence that came when too many things were being held back at once, when every sentence she wanted to say had been swallowed before it could reach her mouth because none of them felt big enough to contain what she was actually feeling.

Her hands had started shaking again and she noticed it before he did. A faint tremor at first, barely visible beneath the table, her fingers twisting together. She pressed her thumb against the side of her hand, grounding herself, reminding herself that she was sitting in a room, that she was safe, that she was not back in those months of waiting for a phone call that never came.

It didn’t work, because the truth was she wasn't afraid of the room. She was afraid of the answers.

She finally lifted her eyes, but only for a moment. Long enough to see his face. Long enough for the anger and hurt she’d been carefully organizing for months to collide with the reality of him sitting there.

And then the question came out before she could stop it.

“Did you sleep with her?” Her expression changed the moment the question left her mouth, she looked exhaustion and wounded—the question itself had reached a place he had been desperately trying not to confront. For a moment, he simply stared at her, and when he finally spoke his voice was quiet enough that it almost disappeared beneath the weight of the room.

“(Name).. oh, God, please.” He looked down, his fingers shifting slightly against the edge of the table as he was searching for the right words and finding none of them. There was no defensiveness in him, no attempt to turn the question back on her. Somehow, that made it worse. She had prepared herself for anger. She had prepared herself for him to tell her she was being unfair or emotional or that she didn’t understand. She had prepared herself for a fight because a fight would have been easier than this careful, painful silence.

“Why are you asking me this?” The softness of it made something inside her crack. Her hands tightened together in her lap, feeling the frustration building beneath her ribs-she couldn’t.. she couldn’t fucking believe he didn’t understand why she needed to know. After months of unanswered questions, after watching her entire life collapse through headlines and whispers and conversations she wasn’t invited into, hearing him ask why felt unbearable.

“..Why am I asking you?” Her voice came out quieter at first, almost disbelieving. She looked at him for a moment, tears already gathering in her eyes, before shaking her head. “Why am I asking you?!”

“You know why I'm asking you, Michael!”

“(Name), please..”

“No!” The word came quickly, sharper than she intended. She swallowed, trying to steady herself, but the effort was useless. The control she had walked into the room with was gone, stripped away piece by piece until there was nothing left but the person underneath it.

“No, no, nonononono! Don’t do that!” She stood suddenly, a detached smile pulling at her lips. “I thought this was going to be an honest conversation! Don’t say my name like I’m the one being unreasonable!”

He went quiet and looked away as she pressed her lips together, she trying to keep herself from falling apart in front of him. It was almost humiliating how much she was still affected by him. How after everything, she was still sitting across from him hoping he would say something that made any of it make sense.

“I spent months trying to figure out what happened—look at me!” She snapped, her voice shaking as she watched him reluctantly look. “I spent months wondering if you were okay, wondering if you hated me, wondering if I did something wrong. I was trying to understand how we went from what we were to this, and then suddenly everyone else seemed to know things I didn’t!”

Her fingers curled against the table. “So yes, I am asking you.” She looked back at him. “Because I deserve to know!”

He inhaled quietly, but before he could respond, she continued.

“Tell me.” Her voice rose, the restraint finally snapping under the weight of everything she had been carrying. “Tell me!”

Her palm struck the table before she even realized she had moved. The sound startled even her, echoing through the empty conference room. Aggression and rage, yes. It was desperation. The kind that came from someone who had spent too long swallowing every question because she was afraid of what the answer might be.

“You at least owe me that much.”

The anger vanished as quickly as it appeared, leaving only the grief underneath. Her shoulders shook, tears spilling freely now as she looked at him. “You owe me the truth.”

Michael didn’t say anything. Then his expression shifted, and when he finally answered, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“No.”

She blinked. “What?”

“No.” He shook his head slightly. “Nothing happened.”

The answer should have relieved her. It didn’t. Instead, it created an entirely new kind of confusion. She stared at him, almost unable to process the words. “Nothing?”

“Nothing happened between us.”

Her brows furrowed as she searched his face, waiting for the rest of the explanation. Waiting for the part that would make everything fit together again. But there wasn’t one.

A small, broken laugh escaped her. “What the fuck? Then what am I supposed to do with that, Michael?”

He didn’t answer. Because that was the question neither of them wanted to confront.

If nothing happened, then why?

Why had everything changed?

Why had she been left behind?

Why had another woman become the center of every conversation surrounding the end of their marriage?

Her breathing became uneven as she looked at him, her anger slowly shifting into something much more painful. “What does she have?”

His expression changed slightly. “(Name), please don’t do this right now..”

“Shut up!” She shook her head, tears continuing to fall. “What does she have?” She pressed. “What has she done for you that I haven’t!”

He looked away.

That movement broke something in her. “I was there! I was there!” Her voice cracked. “I was there when things were difficult! I was there when nobody else understood what was happening! I stayed when it was hard—I stayed when it wasn’t convenient! I stayed when I had every reason to walk away! I love you!”

She wiped at her face, but it did nothing. “Tell me what I didn't give you!” He remained silent. “Tell me what I wasn’t!” The room seemed to shrink around them. ”What did she have that I don't, Mikey? Please!”

Michael couldn’t look at her. And that silence was its own answer. Not the answer she had been expecting. Her expression slowly changed as another realization began settling into place. It wasn’t sudden but a quiet, horrible understanding that arrived piece by piece.

If nothing happened between them.. then something else had.

Something before.

Her voice lowered. “Were you were talking to her before all this? Is that why you were coming home late?” He went still as she stared at him, watching his reaction. “You were.”

A pause. “You had to have been.” The tears blurred her vision, but she didn’t look away. “Because people don’t just wake up one day and end up here.”

Her voice trembled. “She didn’t just appear outta nowhere.” And for the first time, the thought that had been circling her mind for months finally became something she could say aloud. “You—you were already letting her into your life while I was still trying to save ours! To fix you!”

He was quiet for so long that she felt the answer before he ever spoke it. She searched his face desperately for the instinctive denial that never came, for the immediate shake of his head that would let her believe she had spent months torturing herself over nothing. Instead, he lowered his eyes, his jaw tightening subtly as though the effort of choosing his next words had become physically painful. It was such a small movement, so insignificant to anyone else, but to her it felt catastrophic. She had spent the better part of eight weeks replaying every conversation, every silence, every headline, trying to identify the exact moment she’d stopped being enough. Now she was watching it happen in real time, watching the man who had once answered every fear before she could even voice it suddenly become incapable of giving her the one reassurance she needed most.

“Yes.” The word landed with almost no force at all and her expression didn’t change. He swallowed before continuing, unable to meet her eyes for more than a second at a time. “Yes.. we were spending time together. We were friends.” He said it carefully, almost cautiously like there was a version of those words that existed without causing harm. “It wasn’t..” He paused, rubbing absently at his thumb with the opposite hand. “It wasn’t anything you’re making it out to be, honestly.”

She stared at him for several long seconds, trying to reconcile what he’d just said with the reality she’d been living. Friends. Such an ordinary word. Such an innocent word. It almost made her laugh. Months of silence. Months of unanswered phone calls. Months of waking up alone, wondering whether her husband still remembered she existed, only to discover that while she’d been clinging to the ruins of their marriage, he’d been building a “friendship” with another woman. The same friendship he and her once shared seven years ago? Oh, she bets, Whether he believed it had been innocent no longer mattered. Innocent things didn’t grow in secret. Innocent things didn’dmt survive only because one person had been left completely in the dark.

“It wasn’t anything I’m making it out to be?” She repeated quietly, her voice trembling with anger and disbelief. “Michael, I’m your wife!” The last word nearly caught in her throat. “I was sitting at home wondering why you wouldn’t speak to me while you were talking to somebody else, and you’re telling me I'm making something out of nothing?” She laughed then, but it was a broken sound, one born entirely out of exhaustion. “Do you even hear yourself?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but she was already shaking her head.

“No, no, don’t explain it away. Just answer me.” She leaned forward slightly, “Are you planning to be with her?”

The question lingered between them.

He didn’t answer, of course.

He tried. She could see him trying. His lips parted, his chest rose with a slow breath, and for one impossible second she thought he was finally going to give her something, anything, that she could survive. Instead, nothing came. His eyes drifted away from hers again, settling somewhere over her shoulder, as though even the possibility of speaking the truth aloud was more than he could bear.

She felt the air leave her lungs.

“If the answer was no,” She whispered, “You would’ve said no—is that what you do, Michael? You fuck all your girl friends?”

Still nothing.

The room seemed to tilt around her. She could hear the faint hum of the air conditioner somewhere overhead, the muffled footsteps of people passing outside the conference room, the sound of her own heartbeat pounding so violently in her ears that it drowned out almost everything else. It was astonishing, she thought, how quickly a person’s entire world could be rearranged by someone refusing to answer a single question.

“Do you love her?” She hadn’t meant to ask it.

It escaped her the way all the worst truths did, before pride had the chance to stop them. There was no anger left in her voice now, only desperation. It was the question beneath every other question she’d asked since sitting down. Not whether he’d betrayed her. Not whether he’d lied. Simply whether there was still anything left of the man who had once loved her so completely she had built her entire life around it.

Michael couldn’t answer that one either. His eyes closed for the briefest moment, and when he opened them again, they still wouldn’t meet hers. “I..” He stopped, swallowing hard. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

(Name) simply stared at him, then something inside her gave way. A short, breathless laugh escaped her, so hollow it barely sounded human. She sat back in her chair as tears spilled unchecked down her face, looking at him not with hatred but with a kind of horrified disbelief, as though she no longer recognized the person sitting across from her.

“You don’t know?” She repeated, almost whispering. “After everything.. after seven years.. after everything I gave you, everything we survived together, you don’t know?” She shook her head slowly, wiping at tears that refused to stop falling. “You’re a psychopath.”

“I have spent so long convincing myself that I missed something. That I wasn’t enough. That maybe there was something she could give you that I couldn’t.” Her breathing had become ragged now, every sentence interrupted by the effort of trying not to break completely. “So tell me.” She looked at him then, really looked at him, her eyes red and glistening with grief. “What has she done for you that I haven’t? What does she have that I don’t? I stood beside you through everything. I loved you when the rest of the world decided you weren’t worth loving. I built my life around yours because I believed we were building something together.”

Her voice cracked so sharply she had to stop and swallow before continuing. “And now you’re sitting across from me telling me you don’t know if you love this bitch?”

The realization arrived almost imperceptibly, settling over her in slow, unbearable pieces. If nothing physical had happened, if he was telling the truth about that much, then there had still been something. Something that had begun long before the divorce papers arrived, long before the headlines, long before she had any reason to suspect another name belonged in the story of her marriage. She lowered her eyes for only a moment before lifting them again, and when she spoke this time, her voice had become frighteningly calm.

Neither of them spoke after that.

The silence that settled over the room no longer felt tense. It felt exhausted. There was nothing left to argue about, nothing left to explain. Every question she had carried into that building had either been answered or answered by omission, and somehow the omissions hurt more. She sat motionless in her chair, staring at nothing in particular as tears continued slipping down her face, too emotionally spent to wipe them away anymore. Across the table, he remained just as still, his hands folded together in front of him, his gaze lowered to the polished wood between them. Whatever words either of them might have found earlier had long since abandoned the room.

A soft knock broke the silence.

Neither of them responded.

Another knock followed, more tentative this time, before the conference room door opened just enough for one of the attorneys to lean his head inside.

“I’m sorry,” He said carefully, his eyes moving between the two of them almost immediately. It didn’t take legal training to recognize that whatever had happened during the recess had not gone well. “(Name).. Michael.. are we interrupting something?”

She blinked once, she’d forgotten where she was. The conference room slowly came back into focus. The legal folders. The glasses of water. The yellow legal pads scattered across the table. Her attorney stood just beyond the doorway with her manager beside him, both of them studying her face with immediate concern. She could almost watch the realization spread across their expressions as they took in her swollen eyes, the mascara beginning to gather beneath them despite every attempt she’d made to hold herself together.

Her manager instinctively took a half-step forward. “(Name)..”

She lifted a hand before he could come any closer.

It wasn’t to stop him. It was because she couldn’t bear for anyone to fuss over her right now. She drew a slow, uneven breath that caught halfway through her chest before finally managing to speak.

“..Could I..” Her voice disappeared as she swallowed hard and tried again, this time barely above a whisper. “Could I have.. just a few minutes?”

Everyone remained still.

She looked toward her attorney, unable to quite meet anyone’s eyes for more than a second. I just..” She pressed trembling fingertips against the corner of one eye, frustrated when another tear escaped anyway. “I need to.. get away from him.”

No one said anything immediately.

There wasn’t anything to say.

Her attorney gave a small nod first. “Of course.”

She pushed her chair back carefully, surprised that her legs still worked beneath her. They felt disconnected from the rest of her body, numb, and she had to steady herself against the edge of the conference table before taking her first step. No one tried to stop her as she crossed the room, though she could feel every pair of eyes following her. Her manager instinctively moved as though to accompany her, but she offered him the smallest shake of her head.

“I’ll be alright,” She lied quietly.

He knew it was a lie.

She knew he knew.

Still, he respected it.

The receptionist looked up from her desk just in time to see her emerge, immediately rising from her chair with the professionalism of someone accustomed to recognizing distress without drawing attention to it.

“The ladies' room is just around the corner,” She said gently, gesturing toward the end of the hall.

(Name) managed a faint nod. “Thank you.”

Her heels echoed softly against the marble floor as she walked away. She kept her chin lifted until she rounded the corner and disappeared from everyone’s view.

Only then did she let herself unravel.

The hotel suite was unnaturally quiet.

Michael hadn’t spoken once during the drive back. His attorney had attempted conversation exactly twice before recognizing the futility of it, and the remainder of the ride had passed in silence, broken only by the dull rhythm of tires against pavement and the occasional crackle of the radio that nobody bothered to turn off. By the time he let himself into the room, the exhaustion settling over him wasn’t physical. It lived somewhere much deeper, clinging stubbornly beneath his ribs. Lisa looked up from the sofa when she heard the door open, quietly closing the magazine resting in her lap the moment she saw his face.

“How’d it go?” she asked softly as he slipped his jacket from his shoulders without answering, hanging it carefully over the back of a chair before rubbing both hands over his face. Every muscle in his body felt tight.

“..I don’t wanna talk about it.” There was no irritation in his voice. Just fatigue. A kind of emptiness. She watched him for a moment before giving a small nod.

“Okay.” That was all. No questions. No, What happened? No, What did she say? No, attempt to coax the conversation out of him. She simply returned the magazine to her lap, allowing the silence to settle naturally between them. And somehow… that had become unhealthy for him.

Michael lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees as he stared absently at the carpet. He wasn’t thinking about the meeting anymore. Not entirely. He was thinking about everything that had happened before it, about the strange way memory had begun rearranging itself somewhere between the intervention and the weeks he spent in rehabilitation. Rationally, he knew the people around him had been trying to save his life. The doctors. His attorneys. His family. Even (Name). She had wanted him sober, healthy, present, alive. He knew that. He truly did. But memory was rarely interested in fairness. But looking back, he didn’t remember feeling protected. He remembered feeling cornered. Every concerned expression had become another reminder that something was wrong with him. Every difficult conversation became another decision someone else was making on his behalf. Doctors telling him what he needed. Lawyers explaining what was best. Friends watching him with careful eyes, silently evaluating whether today was a good day or a bad one. Even the woman he loved most had slowly become another voice asking him to stop, to change, to get help, to fight harder. She hadn’t been wrong. That wasn’t the point. Pain had a remarkable way of convincing people that love and pressure were the same thing, and by the time he left rehabilitation, he could no longer separate the two.

Then Lisa had called. She hadn’t asked whether he’d been taking his medication. She hadn’t questioned the decisions he’d made or reminded him what his doctors wanted. She never looked at him with that quiet mixture of hope and worry everyone else seemed unable to hide, as though they were all waiting for him to fall apart again. When he complained, she listened. When he sat in silence for minutes at a time, she never rushed to fill it. When he admitted he was tired, she didn’t tell him how to fix himself. She simply stayed. Around her, he didn’t feel like a patient. He didn’t feel like someone everyone was desperately trying to repair before he broke again. He didn’t feel like the center of another intervention. He felt like himself. Or at least, the version of himself he had been before every conversation became about what was wrong with him. He could breathe. The realization should have frightened him. It didn’t. Because nowhere in his mind had he labeled it betrayal.

When (Name) had looked across the conference table that afternoon, tears streaming down her face as she asked, Did you sleep with her? the answer had come effortlessly. No. Nothing happened. He believed it. He still believed it. There had been no affair. No kiss. No stolen night hidden from the world. Nothing physical had crossed the line his conscience had always considered unforgivable. To him, fidelity had always lived in actions that could be seen, touched, named. By that definition, he had remained faithful until the end. What he refused to examine were the things that couldn’t be photographed.

The phone calls that gradually became longer than the conversations he had with his own wife. The fears he confessed to another woman because they somehow felt easier to say aloud there. The loneliness. The frustration. The parts of himself that had once belonged inside his marriage but had quietly migrated somewhere else. He hadn’t chosen another woman in one catastrophic moment. He had simply stopped choosing the first one in hundreds of tiny, forgettable ones, each decision so insignificant on its own that none of them had felt capable of ending a marriage until they had all accumulated into exactly that.

His jaw tightened as her voice returned to him with startling clarity.

“What has she done for you that I haven’t?”

He closed his eyes.

Because there wasn’t an answer. Not an honest one.

Lisa hadn’t sacrificed more. She hadn’t stood beside him through years of scrutiny, impossible expectations, and relentless public judgment. She hadn’t watched him crumble and stayed anyway. She hadn’t built a home with him, celebrated birthdays with him, learned the invisible ways he unraveled when the world became too loud, or spent years believing in him when believing had become difficult. (Name) had done all of that. She had given him years. Lisa had given him relief. Those were not the same thing. Yet somewhere inside him, relief had quietly begun masquerading as understanding. It had become easier to sit beside someone who expected nothing from him than to face the woman whose expectations existed only because she had spent years believing he could survive. He had mistaken the absence of conflict for peace, the absence of accountability for acceptance, and by the time he understood the difference, it was too late to explain it without sounding like he was searching for excuses.

He leaned back against the headboard, staring blankly toward the ceiling as the room settled once again into silence. For the first time since leaving the conference room, he allowed himself to hear her final words exactly as she’d spoken them.

“You don’t even know if you love her.”

He wanted to tell himself she was wrong. He wanted to believe the distinction mattered. That friendship was friendship. That nothing physical had happened. That he hadn’t crossed the line she believed he had. But lying alone in the quiet, stripped of attorneys, explanations, and carefully chosen language, he found himself confronting a possibility he had spent months avoiding. Perhaps the cruelest betrayals were never the obvious ones. Perhaps they happened so gradually they were almost impossible to notice while they were occurring. Conversation by conversation. Confidence by confidence. One ordinary day after another, until the person who had once known you better than anyone else slowly became the last person you allowed inside your heart.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ㅤㅤ⋆ㅤㅤ June, 1994.

⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ╰ㅤ 1994 MTV Video Music Awards.

It hadn’t been one thing that made her spiral. If it had been one thing, maybe she could’ve gotten through the night.

But walking into her first award show since the divorce and realizing every hallway, every dressing room, every stretch of red carpet carried memories she hadn’t asked to revisit, was a lot. It was seeing him again for the first time not as her husband, not even as someone she could still pretend belonged somewhere in her future, but as another woman’s husband. It was watching them move through the room together with the kind of love she remembered once belonging to her. Then came them taking the stage. The applause. The cameras. And when they kissed beneath the lights, the room erupted around them as if the entire world had collectively decided to celebrate the life she’d spent months grieving.

That was her melting point.

Her manicured nails fumbled with the tiny bottle in her clutch, the bathroom lights too bright as they glinted off the pill caps. The celebrity style mirror mocks her—this is supposed to be a night of rebirth for her, and yet here she is squeezing five little white lies into her palm like they’re candy. A shaky breath hitches in her throat as she dry swallows them one by one, tasting salt and dissolving on the back of her tongue.

She stares at herself in horror through the mirror because who would cry for someone else’s husband? He wasn’t hers anymore. Her reflection wavers when a knock sounds at the door: “Two minutes ‘til hair and makeup, Miss (Name)!” calls an assistant whose name tag she didn’t remember reading.

There was a point where she stopped feeling like she was in the room at all, like her attention had slipped a few inches behind her actual body and was now watching everything happen from slightly off angle, delayed just enough that nothing lined up cleanly anymore. Voices reached her, but they didn’t land where they were supposed to. They skimmed across the surface of her awareness and kept going.

Someone said her name and she thought she answered, but she wasn’t entirely sure she had.

Her hands were being touched, adjusted, moved into place. Nothing aggressive, just corrective like she was a product on a conveyor belt that needed alignment before being sent forward. The feeling that accompanied it wasn’t panic yet. It was something flatter and an uncomfortable absence of ownership, because her body was no longer something she was directly responsible for managing.

There was a mirror somewhere near her, and she caught herself in it without meaning to. The reflection looked correct in the way costumes look correct on mannequins, everything in place without necessarily belonging to anything living. She stared at it for a second too long, waiting for recognition to catch up, but it never came.

There was just a murmur of thought forming underneath everything else.

I don’t feel well enough to be perceived right now.

But there was no space to say it out loud, and even if there had been, it felt like the kind of statement that wouldn’t change anything. The show would still happen. The lights would still open. The audience would still exist on the other side of whatever threshold she was being pushed toward.

A voice near her said something about timing, something about cues, something about being ready, and she tried to attach meaning to it, but the words kept arriving too late, like subtitles out of sync with dialogue. She focused instead on breathing, because breathing was still something she could technically confirm was happening. In and out. In and out. A system she didn’t have to negotiate with. But even that started to feel slightly detached, like it was happening near her rather than inside her.

From somewhere beyond the curtain there was applause again. It didn’t feel like it belonged to her world anymore. It felt like it belonged to people who still had consistent access to themselves. She wondered, distantly, what that must be like. To be fully inside your own life while it was happening.

A curtain shifted.

Someone said her name again, closer this time, like they were trying to bring her back into range. She tried to respond properly. Tried to find the version of herself that was supposed to be here, ready, contained, professional, whatever word people used for being intact in public.

But she’s not there tonight. The fact is, she’s fucked up on medication no one even knows she’s taking.

The backstage corridor felt so congested, everything moved in a delay. Voices came through water. Hands touched her arm and didn’t fully register as contact until after they had already let go. Someone said her name more than once before she realized it was directed at her and not the general atmosphere of panic forming quietly around her.

She was sitting, or maybe she had been sitting and was no longer, it was hard to tell where one state ended and the next began. The dress was already on. Hair fixed. Makeup finished in a way that looked correct under stage lighting and slightly unfamiliar up close, but it belonged to someone she had seen before but didn’t fully recognize as herself. The award show monitor down the hall flickered with rehearsals, applause, other people’s certainty.

There were voices around her that had shifted from instruction to hesitation.

“She’s not—” Someone started.

“She can’t go out like that,” Someone else said, lower.

A hand adjusted something on her shoulder. Another voice asked if she could hear them. She could hear them. She just couldn’t decide what hearing meant anymore. Words arrived, stayed for a moment, then dissolved before they could attach themselves to meaning. Everything felt slightly out of sync with itself, her body had agreed to show up but her awareness had not signed the same contract.

Someone was talking about timing.

Someone else was talking about canceling.

Her name again, more urgent this time. She blinked slowly at the floor as if it might offer instructions. The thing was, no one was really looking at her like she was a person anymore. That was the first thought that came through clearly enough to hurt— a distant, clinical recognition that she had become a variable in a situation that needed to be resolved.

Another mirror caught her reflection when she turned her head slightly. It looked like her. That was the most confusing part. Everything was correct but nothing matched.

Someone said, “We can push it. We can stall—”

Another voice cut in, “No, she’s on next.”

And that was when the room changed shape again. A stage manager appeared at the edge of her vision, speaking carefully, like approaching something that might break or bite or simply stop responding if handled too quickly.

“You’re up in a minute.” … “Do you understand?”

She tried to answer again. The attempt happened somewhere between thought and speech and didn’t fully complete as either. Instead, she nodded, or thought she did, or maybe just moved her head in a way that could be interpreted as agreement.

The corridor tightened around that decision immediately.

Someone stepped closer, checking her posture, adjusting her position like she was something that needed alignment rather than reassurance. There were words about marks on stage, about timing cues, about breathing. None of it landed in sequence. It came in fragments that refused to assemble into instruction.

Then there was the sound of applause from beyond the curtain. Not for her but for whoever had just finished.

A hand touched her back lightly.

“You go when it opens,” Someone said. “Just follow the light.”

The stage manager looked at her for a long moment longer than necessary, like there was still time to reverse something if enough certainty was introduced quickly enough.

There wasn’t.

The curtain up ahead shifted.

And her body, whether she agreed with it or not, began to move.

Michael almost didn’t attend.

The invitation had been sitting on his desk for weeks, accepted more out of obligation than enthusiasm. Industry events had become exercises in endurance lately. Smile when expected. Shake hands. Congratulate people whose names blurred together before the conversation had even ended. He had become remarkably good at appearing present while feeling entirely elsewhere. Lisa sat beside him as the lights dimmed, the auditorium gradually sinking into darkness as conversations softened into scattered murmurs. Applause rippled through the crowd when someone stepped onto the stage to introduce the next act.

Then her name echoed through the theater, carried through the speakers with practiced enthusiasm. Michael felt his stomach tighten before she had even appeared. He hadn’t seen her since the mediation. Not really. Not outside the memories that seemed determined to replay themselves whenever the world became quiet enough for him to hear them. He still heard her voice sometimes with startling clarity, still heard the accusation she had leveled at him across that conference table.

You dont even know if you love her.

It had followed him home. Followed him to bed. Followed him into every quiet moment since. The curtains parted. She stepped into the spotlight. For one fleeting second, she looked exactly as she always had. Beautiful. Poised. Elegant. Untouchable. The kind of performer capable of commanding an arena simply by standing still. Then the music began, and almost immediately something felt wrong.

Not obvious. Not enough that anyone unfamiliar with her would have noticed. The audience certainly didn’t. To them she was mesmerizing. Magnetic. Yet Michael found himself sitting forward almost instantly. She missed a mark by half a step. Barely noticeable. The kind of mistake most people would never catch. But he did. Then she remained still during a transition where choreography should have carried her across the stage. Her eyes drifted beyond the audience for a fraction of a second too long, lingering somewhere far away before she seemed to remember where she was and continued. Even her smile appeared delayed, arriving a beat late before disappearing altogether. Around him, thousands of people watched in complete silence, captivated by what they believed was an extraordinarily emotional performance.

Michael knew better. This wasn’t artistry. This wasn’t a creative choice. Every movement felt detached from her body, it looked like she was remembering the cues rather than inhabiting it. There were moments where she seemed–drunk. This was not a part of the performance. The realization settled heavily in his chest as the song continued, growing more devastating with every passing verse. Her voice never faltered. If anything, it became stronger. But strength wasn’t what made it unbearable. It was the rawness beneath it. The feeling that every note carried something she had never managed to say aloud. For the first time since the divorce meeting, he wasn’t hearing lyrics. He was hearing everything she’d swallowed. Every unanswered phone call. Every night she’d spent waiting. Every apology he had never given her. Every question he’d never truly answered.

By the middle of the performance, unease had settled so deeply beneath his skin that it became impossible to ignore. He shifted forward in his seat without realizing he’d done it. Beside him, Lisa noticed immediately.

“You okay?” she asked quietly. He didn’t answer right away. His eyes remained fixed on the stage. Something was wrong. The sensation crawled through him with growing certainty.

“I’m gonna go backstage for a minute.” Lisa frowned slightly, glancing toward the stage before looking back at him.

“Michael..”

“I’ll be right back.” He was already standing, beneath reason and logic, an older instinct had begun sounding an alarm he couldn’t ignore. He had spent years beside her. Years learning the subtle signs most people never noticed. The shorter breaths. The thousand yard stare. The way she’d lock her knees when she was trying not to collapse. The tiny changes that happened before panic arrived. Before exhaustion arrived. Before she admitted she wasn’t okay. He knew them all. His body recognized them before his mind could fully process what he was seeing.

The applause erupted behind him as he slipped through the auditorium doors. The sound followed him down a maze of unfamiliar hallways lined with security personnel, production staff, equipment cases, and cables taped neatly across the floor. He walked quickly at first, then faster. The muffled sound of the performance echoed through the walls until, somewhere near the dressing room corridor, the music stopped altogether. Then came shouting. Panicked. Urgent. Sharp. The kind of voices people used when something had gone wrong and everyone was trying not to make it worse. Someone yelled for a medic. Another voice shouted for space. Footsteps thundered down the hallway as crew members rushed past carrying equipment, forcing him against the wall. Security began converging toward a dressing room farther ahead. Michael’s stomach dropped instantly. He didn’t think. He started moving faster. Then running. By the time he reached the doorway, a crowd had already formed. Security personnel. Production assistants. Crew members speaking rapidly into radios. Two medics knelt somewhere beyond the bodies he couldn’t see through. He caught only the briefest glimpse of her sequined fabric disappearing beneath someone’s shoulder before another person stepped into his line of sight.

“What happened?” he asked.

Nobody answered.

The hallway was chaos. People moving in every direction. Radios crackling. Equipment being carried inside.

“What happened?” he repeated, louder this time.

A production assistant glanced toward him only long enough to recognize who had spoken.

“She collapsed.”

The words struck him with almost physical force.

“What?”

“She passed out after she came offstage.”

For a moment everything else seemed to disappear. The hallway. The noise. The people. His feet were moving before he’d consciously decided to move.

“I need to see her.” He barely managed three steps before someone intercepted him. Her manager stepped directly into his path firmly enough to make it clear he wasn’t getting through.

“I’m sorry.”

Michael stared at him in disbelief. “I need to see her.”

“I can’t let you in.” The words sounded unreal. His voice cracked despite himself. “Please.”

For the briefest second, sympathy flickered across the other man’s face. Sympathy. Regret. Understanding. Then it vanished. “She doesn’t need this right now.”

The sentence landed harder than anything that had been said during the divorce meeting. Because for years, he had been the first person people called when something went wrong. The first person through the door. The one sitting beside hospital beds. The one holding her hand. The one making decisions. The one people automatically looked toward in a crisis. Now he wasn’t even allowed inside the room. His gaze drifted instinctively past her manager’s shoulder, searching desperately for some glimpse of her through the crowd moving around the doorway. He saw nothing. Only medics. Only crew members. Only a closed circle of people trying to help her. A circle that no longer included him. His hands hung uselessly at his sides. There was nothing to argue. No legal language to hide behind. No compromise to negotiate. No loophole to exploit. The divorce had quietly altered something he hadn’t fully understood until this exact moment. He still possessed every instinct that had once made him her husband. Every urge to protect her. To sit beside her. To make sure she was okay. But instincts and rights were not the same thing. He no longer had the right. After a long moment, his shoulders sagged.

He lowered his eyes. “..Okay.” The word barely escaped him. Then he turned and walked away, each step feeling disconnected from the last. Behind him, the dressing room door remained closed. The people inside continued working.