MIMIWRLD

1992california

As you sat inside the audition room, you were nervous.

Not because of the audition itself. Auditions had become second nature to you years ago after spending most of your adult life under bright lights and critical eyes, learning how to command a room the moment you stepped into it. You had walked the biggest runways in the world, posed for photographers whose names carried as much weight as movie stars, and built a career strong enough that people now recognized your face before they recognized your name. Normally, none of this would have rattled you.

But this felt strange.

The room was too quiet, too empty, and the silence around you only made the unease sitting in your chest grow heavier with every passing minute. Your eyes drifted toward the door again before moving around the waiting area, noticing for what had to be the tenth time that there were no other women here. No assistants moving in and out with clipboards. No models flipping through magazines while pretending not to stare each other down. No low hum of conversation that usually came with auditions in Los Angeles.

It was just you.

And that was exactly what made you nervous.

You barely even knew what you were auditioning for. Amelia had simply told you that it was for a music video and that the artist personally requested you by name, though even she hadn't been told who the artist actually was. The secrecy surrounding the entire thing had unsettled you from the beginning, enough that you almost declined before curiosity got the better of you, but now that you were sitting here alone with nothing except your thoughts for company, a sinking feeling had started settling deeper and deeper into your stomach.

You were just hoping it wasn't the artist you were thinking of, because the media had not allowed you to escape him since your breakup.

Michael Jackson.

Even after two years apart, his presence still lingered everywhere around you, no matter how hard you tried to move forward with your life. His songs played constantly on every radio station, his short films dominated MTV, and his face stared back at you from magazine covers in grocery store checkout lines, airports, hotel lobbies, and newsstands across every city you traveled through. There were nights you would walk into clubs with friends only to hear his voice booming through the speakers minutes later, forcing old memories to rise before you had time to brace yourself against them.

It felt impossible to outrun him.

But then again, what else was to be expected when Michael had become bigger than celebrity itself? The Bad tour had only cemented him further into a level of fame most people could not even comprehend, and now Dangerous had pushed him right back into the center of the world's attention all over again.

You bought the album the day it came out, because of course you did. Loving Michael hadn't stopped simply because the relationship had.

Some of the songs, though, had nearly destroyed you the first time you listened to them alone in your apartment. There were lyrics woven into the album that you recognized immediately because you remembered hearing fragments of them years earlier when it had only been the two of you tangled together in hotel beds after long flights or sitting awake in the middle of the night while Michael scribbled ideas into notebooks beside you. You remembered melodies hummed softly against your skin while he absentmindedly traced shapes along your arm, remembered hearing pieces of songs before the world ever would.

Dangerous was brilliant, and painful in ways you hadn't been prepared for.

You're pulled from your thoughts when you hear your name called, and the moment you lift your head and see who is walking toward you, your stomach drops so hard it nearly makes you dizzy.

Sandy Gallin.

Recognition crashes into you instantly, because there is only one reason Michael's manager would be standing in front of you right now.

You haven't seen Sandy in two years, not since the day everything between you and Michael finally collapsed beneath the weight of schedules, distance, exhaustion, and a love that neither of you had ever stopped feeling but no longer knew how to sustain.

"I know how this looks," Sandy says carefully the second she sees your expression change. The sympathy in her face confirms what your heart already knew the moment you saw her.

You stand quickly, before she can continue. "I can't do this," you say as you shake your head, and Sandy immediately exhales softly, looking almost disappointed but not surprised.

"I told him it wasn't a good idea, for either of you... But he asked for you personally and said if it's not you, he's not making the short film," Sandy says.

A sharp breath leaves you as the full picture finally settles into place, because now you understand why everything about this process had felt so strange from the start. There had never really been an audition at all. Michael had already decided he wanted you here before anyone ever contacted Amelia, and, knowing him the way you once did, you could picture the exact stubborn calm he must have had as he refused every other suggestion his team tried to offer him.

Michael putting his team in an impossible situation somehow still feels easier to process than realizing he wanted to see you badly enough to orchestrate all of this in the first place.

"I'm sorry that he put you in this situation, but I–I mean, looking at what's required for the female lead... I don't know if I can do that... I know two years is a long time, but..."

Your voice trails off because you can't force yourself to finish the sentence out loud. You can't admit the real reason this feels impossible. No amount of time had changed the fact that you were still in love with him.

Sandy's expression softens immediately because she understands anyway.

"I know when Michael brought me on, I wasn't there for too long before the two of you broke up, but even in the short amount of time that I was around the two of you... Anyone could see what would make doing this so difficult, even though it's been two years... that's why I told him it wasn't a good idea to have you as the lead," she says gently.

You nod slowly because she's right.

Everyone around the two of you had known, even if nobody ever fully understood the depth of what existed between you and Michael behind closed doors. People saw the way he looked at you like the rest of the room disappeared whenever you walked in. They saw the way your schedules bent around each other despite both of your careers operating at impossible speeds. They saw how naturally the two of you fit together despite the chaos constantly surrounding your lives.

And after the breakup, people noticed that too.

Neither of you had ever publicly moved on. There had been rumors over the years, of course, because the media refused to let either of you exist without attaching another famous name beside yours, but nothing real had ever followed. No relationships, no confirmed romances, no public appearances hand-in-hand with someone new.

Because no matter how much time passed, nobody else had ever been each other.

"And looking at the filming schedule, I don't know if I can... I mean, I have 30 runway shows lined up in Paris... contractual obligations," you say, clinging to the practical excuse because it feels far safer than admitting the emotional truth sitting beneath it.

Sandy sighs softly and nods, clearly already aware of the schedule conflict before you even mention it.

"I'll buy out the contracts." The sound of the new voice cuts through the room so suddenly that your breath catches painfully in your throat before you can stop it.

His voice.

You and Sandy both look up at the same time, but the second your eyes land on him, the entire world around you seems to narrow until nothing else exists except Michael standing in the doorway.

And God, it almost devastates you how beautiful he looks.

His dark curls fall damply around his face and down the back of his neck, pulled loosely into a low ponytail that somehow only makes him look softer instead of more put together, a few strands curling against his cheeks from either humidity or sweat after another long day spent moving between meetings and studios. He's dressed casually in an oversized plaid button-up tucked into black pants, the sleeves slightly loose around his wrists in that effortlessly comfortable way Michael always dressed when he wasn't trying to be "Michael Jackson" for cameras or appearances.

This version of him was painfully familiar. It was the Michael you knew behind closed doors. The one who wandered barefoot through Neverland late at night, humming unfinished melodies under his breath. The one who stole your clothes sometimes because he liked how soft they felt. The one who got so consumed by music that he forgot to eat unless someone reminded him.

Two years had passed since the last time you saw him in person, but none of those years had dulled the effect he had on you. If anything, the distance only made the reality of him more overwhelming now that he was standing right in front of you again, instead of existing through television screens, magazine covers, and old memories you revisited too often when you were alone.

Because suddenly painfully and beautifully real again.

And the moment his eyes meet yours, every memory you have spent two years trying to carefully survive comes rushing back all at once. The Bad tour. Hotel rooms across different countries. Late-night phone calls through static-filled international lines. His hands wrapped around yours backstage while crowds screamed for him outside. The exhaustion that slowly settled between the two of you, no matter how desperately you both kept trying to hold on. The quiet heartbreak of loving someone completely and still not knowing how to make a life together work.

Your chest tightens so painfully that it almost feels impossible to breathe.

You hadn't seen him in person since the day the two of you broke each other's hearts, and seeing him now hits you with those memories hard and all at once, because no matter how much time has passed, the truth sitting between you and Michael has never changed.

He is still the love of your life, and judging by the look in his eyes as he stares at you now, you are still the love of his, too.

two years ago1990

You had cancelled another photoshoot again because he promised. He promised that the two of you would have the night to yourselves to celebrate your anniversary, yet here you were, sitting in your shared hotel suite, which he booked for your anniversary, waiting for him to get back from the studio, and at this point, it was late... your anniversary had officially come and gone. You were meant to be celebrating five years together, yet you sat alone.

The realization sat heavily in your chest now, thick and exhausting in a way that made your entire body feel emotionally worn down. Earlier in the evening, you had still been excited. You'd spent far too long deciding what to wear because, despite everything that had happened over the last several months, despite every missed dinner and every broken promise that came attached to another late-night studio session, you still loved him enough to let yourself hope that tonight would be different. Five years mattered... at least you thought it did.

The suite had been prepared for hours. Candles burned low now after being lit long ago, their wax melted down the sides from how much time had passed while you waited. Dinner sat untouched near the balcony, cold and forgotten after spending the entire night waiting for footsteps that never came. Every passing hour had slowly chipped away at your excitement until eventually all that remained was disappointment curling painfully inside your chest.

And now your anniversary was over, and you spent it alone.

You were getting tired of it.

This photoshoot wasn't the first thing you had canceled or had Amelia reschedule to accommodate Michael's schedule and the promises he made to you... promises that he ended up breaking. Over the last year, especially, your own life had started feeling less and less like it belonged to you.

Every schedule Amelia handed over somehow ended up rearranged around Michael's availability instead of your own, and little by little, you had started sacrificing parts of yourself so naturally that you hadn't even realized how much you were giving away until recently.

Photoshoots were moved, runway shows were declined, interviews were turned down, and campaigns were rescheduled.

All for him, and the terrifying thing was that you'd done it willingly because you loved him.

At first, it had felt romantic in the way intense love often does. Flying across countries just to spend two days together between tour stops. Meeting him backstage after shows while crowds screamed his name outside. Rearranging your schedule so you could stay beside him longer before one of you inevitably had to leave again. You told yourself that sacrifices were normal when two people loved each other this much.

But somewhere along the way, the sacrifices stopped feeling mutual, and lately, it felt like your entire world revolved around fitting yourself into the empty spaces left inside Michael's.

You felt like you were starting to lose yourself.

The tabloids didn't help either. Every time you canceled or rescheduled one of your own projects and then were seen on tour with Michael, or at one of his shoots, the press wasn't nice about it. There was misogyny in everything they wrote about you, your career, and how it seemed like you were revolving your entire life around your relationship.

The articles had become crueler over time, dissecting your life like your accomplishments somehow mattered less because you were in love. Headlines mocked the way you followed him across tour dates. Magazine columns questioned whether your career was declining because you spent "too much time being Michael Jackson's girlfriend." People spoke about you as though years of hard work and success suddenly disappeared just because of who you're dating.

And lately, those headlines had started getting under your skin because deep down, you were beginning to wonder if they were seeing something you had been trying desperately not to admit to yourself.

And Michael didn't seem to notice.

Or maybe he noticed and genuinely didn't understand how deeply it was affecting you because his entire life had always operated at this impossible speed that left little room for anything else. On one level, you understood. Bad was his first solo tour ever since leaving The Jacksons fully, and it was a huge success. It's been three years since his last album, and he's always creating music, so he wants to make something special for his fans, which you understood and could appreciate, but that didn't stop the feeling that you were losing yourself in his life.

That was the worst part; that you understood him so completely, it made it difficult to even stay angry.

You knew how his brain worked. You knew that once Michael got inside a studio, time stopped existing for him. Music consumed him entirely until everything else blurred into the background, and you knew he would never intentionally hurt you. He loved you with everything he had.

But lately, loving him felt like slowly disappearing.

You had already changed out of the outfit you were going to wear for your date, and you had casual clothes on, clothes that you were going to sleep in. A pair of soft cotton shorts and one of Michael's Bad Tour t-shirts, and you were currently on the phone with Janet as you aimlessly flipped through channels on the TV.

The red dress you had spent nearly an hour getting ready in earlier now hung abandoned over the chair near the vanity, mocking you every time your eyes accidentally drifted toward it. Your makeup had long since been washed off after finally giving up sometime around midnight, and now you sat curled against the pillows in his oversized shirt, the familiar scent of his cologne lingering faintly in the fabric in a way that only made your chest ache worse.

"He's still not back yet?" Janet asks, and you sigh.

"Nope... and I haven't heard from him. I should've known, I should've kept my photoshoot scheduled," you say, more frustrated at yourself than Michael, because this wasn't new anymore, and that was the problem.

This exact feeling had become familiar enough that part of you hated yourself for still allowing disappointment to hurt this badly every single time.

"You know I love my brother, but you're my sister, too... There are a lot of things you shouldn't have canceled just to accommodate him. You had a life before you became his girlfriend," Janet says, and you sigh because she's right.

The words hit painfully because Janet wasn't judging you. If anything, she sounded sad. Sad in the way people do when they've been watching someone they love slowly lose pieces of themselves without fully realizing it yet.

And that was what scared you the most, because you couldn't even remember the last time you'd chosen yourself over Michael.

"I know... I just don't know how much more of this I can take. I don't feel like me anymore," you say. The confession leaves your mouth quietly, and Janet frowns. Saying it out loud makes something crack painfully open inside your chest because it's the first time you've admitted it to someone besides yourself. Janet would hate it if you and Michael broke up, but she also understands if you're at that point, given everything that's happened.

You don't feel like yourself anymore. You feel exhausted, lonely, and lost somewhere inside his life instead of living your own.

"Hey... whatever happens, you'll always be my sister, okay?" Janet says.

Emotion tightens instantly in your chest at the reassurance because Janet stopped feeling like simply Michael's sister years ago. She had become family in every way that mattered, one of the few people who truly saw the relationship from the inside instead of through magazine headlines and public appearances.

You hear the keycard against the door, the door opens, and there he is. Your eyes briefly glance at him before he notices, and Michael opens his mouth to say something, but he stops when he sees you.

The entire energy in his body changes instantly.

He sees you're dressed for bed, and sitting in bed, the phone pressed against your ear, and he knows, immediately, that he messed up. He already knew he had messed up, but he was hoping that when he got back, you'd still be dressed to do what he had planned for you.

The guilt hits him all at once.

His eyes flick toward the untouched dinner first before landing on the red dress abandoned across the chair, and then finally back to you sitting quietly in bed wearing his shirt instead of the outfit you were supposed to wear tonight. Exhaustion still clings to him from hours spent in the studio, but it's immediately overtaken by the horrible sinking realization that he missed your anniversary entirely.

And judging by the expression on your face, he knows this time feels different.

"He just walked in, I have to go, Jan," you say, and you hear her exhale on the other line.

"Love you," Janet says, and you smile.

"Love you too," you say and hang up the phone, but you don't turn to Michael. You keep your body and face angled toward the TV. You can't look at him, not yet. The second you do, you already know the hurt sitting inside your chest is going to spill out in ways you aren't ready for.

"Baby..." you hear Michael's voice softly echo through the room as his footsteps approach the bed.

The sound of his voice alone is enough to make your chest tighten painfully, because even now, even after hours spent sitting here alone feeling abandoned and forgotten, your body still reacts to him instinctively. But you don't turn toward him. You keep your eyes fixed stubbornly on the television screen, though you aren't actually paying attention to anything playing across it.

Behind you, you can feel him taking in the room slowly, and then his attention lands on the kitchen counter. The gift box and the card with his name in your familiar handwriting, sitting carefully in front of it.

The sight of them hits him like a physical blow.

His stomach drops instantly because suddenly the reality of what he missed tonight settles over him. You had planned this. Somewhere earlier in the evening, before disappointment and exhaustion took over, you had been excited enough to wrap his gift and write him a card while waiting for him to come home.

And he never showed up.

The guilt twists viciously inside his chest because Michael knows how much anniversaries matter to you. He knows you're sentimental. He loves how you save movie tickets, handwritten notes, and little meaningless things simply because they're attached to memories with people you love. Somewhere inside that box is something you picked out carefully for him, probably weeks ago, and instead of spending the night celebrating five years together, you ended up alone in bed waiting for him until your anniversary quietly slipped away.

"I'm so sorry. I lost track of time... one of the songs wasn't landing the way it was supposed to, and it took longer to fix than I thought, but I—" you cut him off.

"Just stop, Michael..." you say while shaking your head.

The exhaustion in your voice cuts through him immediately. No rage, anger, or yelling... just exhaustion, and somehow that hurts him more.

When you finally turn to look at him, the guilt sitting in his eyes is immediate and overwhelming, but what devastates you most is the fact that even now, even standing there looking heartbroken and exhausted after hurting you again, he still manages to take your breath away.

Michael has always been painfully beautiful.

His curls frame his face perfectly, soft and slightly damp from hours spent working in the studio, a few pieces falling loose around his face in that careless way that only ever happened when he got too focused on music to notice anything else around him. The red Mickey Mouse varsity jacket hanging from his shoulders only makes the sight of him feel more achingly familiar because you've seen him wear it a hundred times before, usually during late-night studio sessions where he'd eventually end up curled against you half-asleep while still talking about melodies and lyrics.

And maybe that's part of why this hurts so badly, too, because you still love him so much that looking at him physically aches.

"You promised tonight would be for us. I canceled a high-profile photoshoot because you promised we'd spend the entire evening together... Now our anniversary is over, I lost the photoshoot, and this is my first time seeing you all day... so what did I get from this?" you say, and Michael frowns, because he feels awful.

Every word lands exactly where it's supposed to because the truth sitting underneath your frustration is undeniable. You gave something up for him again, and once again, he failed to meet you halfway.

Michael opens his mouth to respond immediately, desperate to fix this somehow before it slips any further out of his hands. "Baby, I–"

But he cuts himself off because he doesn't know what to say. What excuse could possibly make this better? That he got distracted working? That he lost track of time? That he didn't mean for it to happen?

None of it changes the fact that your anniversary came and went while you sat here alone waiting for him.

"How much more, Michael? How much more of my career do I have to sacrifice to accommodate promises you're not even keeping?" you ask as your eyes water, and Michael's heart shatters the second he sees the tears finally spill over, because suddenly he sees it.

He finally sees how everything has been affecting you, not just tonight's missed anniversary, but everything. Every time you rescheduled a photoshoot because he promised you that he'd take you to dinner, and he ended up not showing up. Every time you canceled an appearance because he promised you'd spend the day together, just for you to end up alone. Every time you rearranged your schedule to fit around promises he made and ended up not keeping.

And the horrible part is that he never consciously meant to become selfish about it. He loves you more than anything in his world, but somewhere over time, he got used to your flexibility. He got used to you moving things around to stay beside him. He got used to you always making space for him, no matter how chaotic his life became.

But he never stopped to realize how much space it was costing you in return.

"Let me make it up to you," he says, and you shake your head immediately. Because this isn't about flowers or jewelry or expensive apologies. This is about feeling like you're slowly disappearing inside someone else's life.

Michael's already kneeling in front of the bed before he fully realizes he's moved, positioning himself beside you so he can force himself into your line of sight. The movement is instinctive, desperate almost, because some terrified part of him can feel the shift happening beneath this conversation. He reaches for you immediately, his hands wrapping carefully around yours before pulling them gently toward him.

"Baby, please... I love you," Michael says. The words make your heart clench painfully inside your chest because the worst part of all of this is that you know he means it.

You know that Michael loves you completely; there has never been a doubt in your mind about that, and you love him too just as much. That's why all of this hurts as deeply as it does. Because if the love was gone, leaving would probably be easier.

"You can't make it up to me, Michael... our anniversary is over... happy five years, right?" you say as you remove your hands from his, and Michael frowns, shaking his head. The bitterness in your voice is quiet, almost numb, and somehow that unsettles him more than anger ever could.

You turn off the TV and set the remote to the side.

"I'm going to bed now..." You say as you lie down, turning your back toward him, and Michael frowns. The silence that settles over the room afterward feels unbearably heavy.

Michael just stares at your back for several long seconds, his chest tightening harder and harder the longer the distance between you lingers untouched. Usually, after arguments, there's still something fiery between the two of you: raised voices, tears, frustration, and emotions spilling out everywhere because both of you care too much.

But this? This calmness terrifies him.

Your nonchalant demeanor and calm spoken words cut him deeper than if you had been yelling at him. He figured he would get your anger, because he knew you were angry, but the kind of angry where you remain calm throughout it? He's only seen that a few times.

And every single one of those times ended with him realizing far too late just how deeply he'd hurt you.

Michael stays there for a moment, on his knees beside the bed, watching your backside.

The silence stretching between the two of you feels unbearable now, heavy with everything neither of you knows how to fix anymore. Normally, after arguments, eventually one of you reached for the other. Usually, Michael could coax you into his arms with soft apologies and kisses against your temple until the hurt softened enough for the two of you to find your way back to each other again.

But tonight feels different; there's real distance between you, and for the first time since falling in love with you, Michael feels genuinely afraid that his apologies might not be enough this time.

He knew this wouldn't be easy to fix. There were no words that could fix it, and he knew you barely trusted his actions since he kept making empty promises. Every "I'll make it up to you" sounded hollow now because he never seemed to stop hurting you in the exact same ways over and over again.

Eventually, after several long moments spent staring at your back in silence, Michael slowly stands from beside the bed and disappears into the bathroom. The sound of the shower turns on a few seconds later, filling the suite with soft white noise while you lie there staring blankly into the darkness.

Even hearing him moving around behind the bathroom door hurts.

Because, despite everything, your body still reacts to his presence instinctively. Part of you still wants to get up and walk in there and let him pull you into his arms while both of you pretend love is enough to fix this.

But deep down, you know it isn't anymore.

By the time Michael gets out of the shower, you're fast asleep, or at least pretending to be.

Your breathing is slow and even as you lie curled toward the opposite side of the bed, his side still cold and untouched from where he never lay beside you earlier tonight, like he was supposed to. Michael stands there quietly for a moment in sweatpants and a t-shirt, water still dampening the curls around his face, while exhaustion weighs heavily on every part of him.

God, he hates this. He hates the distance between you, he hates the tears he saw in your eyes, and he hates knowing he's the reason they were there.

Before getting into bed beside you, he gently kisses your forehead, the touch lingering there for a second longer than usual because some desperate part of him needs the reassurance that you're still here beside him tonight, and it takes everything in you not to open your eyes and let yourself melt into his embrace.

But he keeps his distance afterward.

He doesn't reach for you or pull you into his arms the way he normally would. He doesn't curl himself around your body or press sleepy kisses against your shoulder until both of you drift off together. Instead, he stays on his side of the bed, staring up at the ceiling in the darkness for a long time before exhaustion finally drags him under, too.

And even then, sleep doesn't come peacefully.

When Michael wakes up the next morning, and his eyes adjust to the dim sunlight peeking through the windows, the first thing he notices is that you're gone. Confusion immediately pulls him fully awake.

Your side of the bed is empty and cold.

The silence inside the suite feels wrong in a way that makes panic start creeping into his chest before he's even fully sitting up. Normally, you're still there beside him in the mornings, buried under blankets while mumbling sleepily when he moves too much. Sometimes you steal his shirts and wander around barefoot, ordering breakfast while music plays softly in the background.

But now the room is silent, and in your place on the bed is the hotel's notepad. The second Michael sees your handwriting, something inside him drops violently.

No.

No, no, no.

His hands shake as he reaches for the paper, dread crawling through every inch of him before he even starts reading because deep down, he already knows.

And when Michael reads the words you left for him... his heart shatters.

Michael,I love you... But this isn't working anymore. It's very clear you're focused on your career, and that's fine, you should be... but I have to put focus back into mine. I have to restore my reputation with agencies and fashion houses... I have to feel like myself again. Focus on Dangerous... I know the album is going to be amazing. I'm sorry to do this with a note, but I knew if I looked into those eyes of yours, I wouldn't be able to do it. I will always love you... And I'm so sorry.

By the time he reaches the end of the note, he can barely breathe through the pressure crushing his chest. His vision blurs almost immediately.

"No..." he whispers brokenly to the empty room. The word barely leaves his mouth before the tears start.

Michael folds in on himself right there in the bed, the note trembling violently in his hands while the reality crashes over him all at once. You're gone: after five years together, after building entire pieces of your lives around each other, you're gone.

And the worst part is that he understands why. That's what kills him, because he knows you tried. You tried so hard to hold onto this relationship. You bent your life around his over and over again while he kept promising he'd do better, that things would calm down, that after this album or this tour or this recording session, he'd finally have more time for you.

But there was always something else: another rehearsal, another meeting, another song, another promise that went unkept.

Now he realizes he's finally pushed you too far.

He cried all morning after reading it, canceled his morning meetings and studio sessions. He was glued to the bed; he couldn't move. The entire suite feels haunted by you now. Your clothes are gone, your perfume barely lingers in the air, and the side of the bed where you slept is empty.

Every piece of it makes him feel sick.

At some point, his fingers tighten suddenly against the fabric of his jacket from the night before, still discarded beside the bed where he tossed it after coming back too late. Slowly, almost mechanically, Michael reaches for it and digs into the pocket before pulling out the medium-sized velvet box hidden inside.

The engagement ring he had been planning to give to you. The sight of it completely breaks him.

A strangled sound leaves his throat as he stares down at the box resting in his trembling hands because last night was supposed to be the night he asked you to marry him.

Five years together, and he'd known long before the five-year mark that he wanted you to be his wife. He wanted forever with you so badly it scared him sometimes. But everything had happened so fast during the Bad era. The album, the tour, the constant traveling, and the constant pressure. He kept convincing himself the timing wasn't right yet, that he wanted to give you more than rushed moments stolen between airports and studios.

So he waited, and waited, and waited. Last night was supposed to finally be it. A private dinner for your anniversary, just the two of you. He'd even planned exactly how he was going to ask, but instead, he missed the entire night because he got lost in the studio chasing perfection while the woman he loved sat alone, realizing she was disappearing inside his life.

Now he had missed his chance again.

And this time, he knows he may have lost you for good.

present

"I will leave you two to talk... We'll be right outside if you need something," Sandy says before she leaves the room, leaving you and Michael alone. The door clicks shut softly behind her, and suddenly the room feels far too quiet.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. After spending two years apart, standing alone together again feels strangely intimate all on its own, and the awareness of each other settles heavily into the space between you.

You stay on your side of the room, fingers curling slightly against your arms as if grounding yourself there, and Michael doesn't try to move closer either, even though every instinct inside him is pulling him toward you. He isn't sure how you'd react if he did. He doesn't know if touching you again after all this time would comfort you or make you walk right back out the door.

So he stays where he is, but his eyes never leave you.

"What do you mean you'll buy me out of the contracts?" You ask, and Michael softly smiles, small and nervous, more vulnerable from the fact that he's standing in front of you again after spending two years replaying every mistake he made in this relationship over and over in his head.

"That's what I mean... I'll buy out your contracts, and whatever they were going to pay you for the shows, I'll pay you more," Michael says, and you sigh and take a deep breath.

Of course, he would do that. Not because he thinks money fixes this, you know, Michael better than that. If anything, the offer only makes your chest ache because you understand what he's really trying to do. He's trying to remove every practical reason you have for saying no because deep down, he already knows your real hesitation has nothing to do with Paris or runway contracts.

It has everything to do with him, with standing this close to him again after spending two years forcing yourself to learn how to survive without him.

"Why are you doing this, Michael?" you ask, and he bites down on his lip, slightly nervous about telling you the full truth, but he knows he needs to.

You can see it written all over him, the hesitation mixed with emotion in his eyes as he looks at you. Michael was always capable of being emotionally open with you in ways he rarely allowed himself to be with anyone else, but right now, there's something even more fragile underneath it. There's fear that if he says the wrong thing, you'll shut him out again before he has the chance to tell you everything he's spent the last two years carrying around inside him.

"Because I miss you... because I can't stop thinking about how badly I messed everything up, and you didn't deserve it, and because what's required in this video... I wouldn't feel comfortable being sensual and intimate with anybody else in this way... just you," Michael says, and your breath hitches slightly.

The honesty in his voice hits you immediately because there's nothing polished about it. No careful PR answers or charming deflection. Just Michael standing in front of you, looking painfully sincere while admitting something you realize you've secretly wanted to hear from him for years now.

Hearing him say he can't imagine doing this with anyone else does something dangerous to your heart because you know exactly what this short film calls for. The tension, closeness, touching, and intimacy. You read the synopsis before coming here, and once you saw Sally walk out, you spent half the conversation mentally trying to convince yourself that you could handle pretending your feelings for Michael were gone long enough to get through filming if you took the job.

Now he's standing here admitting he doesn't even want to pretend with another woman.

"I didn't mean to leave the way I did... but I felt like I was drowning, Michael..." you say softly. The confession leaves your mouth quieter than you intended, but the second the words are out there between you, you see the hurt flash across his face immediately. Not anger or defensiveness. Just pain, because looking back now, he understands exactly what you mean in ways he couldn't fully grasp back then.

Michael frowns, taking a slow step toward you, and then he looks at you, as if he's asking for permission, to see if you back away from him. You don't move, and you don't tell him to stop.

The realization softens something in his expression instantly, and he takes another step carefully, like he's approaching something fragile he's terrified of breaking again.

"I know... and I realize now I was unintentionally pushing you in further... I'm so sorry," Michael says, and you feel a bit of the ache in your chest loosen, because you do miss him... but you've worked hard for the last two years to restore your reputation in the modeling and fashion industry. You've gained back the trust of major fashion houses and magazines to not constantly cancel or reschedule appearances.

Those two years were brutal in ways most people never saw. Rebuilding your reputation meant rebuilding your identity, too. You had to prove to people that you were still dependable, still serious about your career, and still capable of putting yourself first after years of revolving your life around someone else's schedule.

There were fashion houses that stopped calling for a while. Editors who questioned whether you'd commit to campaigns fully. Rumors that you were becoming "difficult" because of how often your schedule shifted during your relationship with Michael.

So you fought your way back, and you did it without him.

Michael's watched it all. He's watched every fashion show, memorizing the confidence in your walk and the way you carried yourself now compared to before. He's bought every cover feature you've done, flipping through magazines just to stare at your photos longer than he probably should have.

He was so proud of you for getting your career back on track, which also led to more guilt that he was the reason you had derailed it... and he let you because it was convenient for him, and he hated himself for that.

"You really won't do the short film if I'm not the co-lead?" You ask, and Michael shakes his head immediately. There isn't even hesitation in him when it comes to this.

"I really won't... even though it's just acting, I wouldn't be comfortable being sensual like that with a woman who isn't you," Michael says, and your heart does melt a little at that being the reason he only wants you as the lead.

Because you know Michael. You know that physical intimacy has never been casual for him emotionally, no matter what the public assumes. Even pretending requires vulnerability from him, especially in something as intimate as this short film is supposed to be.

So hearing him admit that he doesn't even want to fake that kind of closeness with another woman makes warmth spread slowly through your chest despite everything you've spent the last two years doing to protect your heart from him.

"Before I agree... did Amelia know about this and help set me up?" You ask, and Michael immediately shakes his head.

"No, she would never do that to you... When I had Sally call her, I told her to keep it vague. I was scared that if you knew upfront it was for my short film, you'd immediately say no. Amelia didn't manipulate or trick you... I kind of manipulated the situation to see you again," He says, the shyness creeping in as he rubs the back of his neck, unsure of how you're going to react to that.

The nervousness in him softens something inside your chest immediately because, for all the confidence the world associates with Michael Jackson, you know this version of him too well. The shy one. The emotionally awkward one who gets uncertain whenever his feelings are involved, especially where you're concerned.

Even now, after all this time apart, he's looking at you cautiously, like he's genuinely worried admitting that might upset you instead of understanding the truth sitting underneath it, and honestly, it probably should upset you a little.

Instead, a laugh slips out before you can stop it. It catches both of you off guard, the tension in the room easing just enough for something warm and achingly familiar to settle between you again.

You shake your head softly. "Well... you've always been one for grand gestures," you say, and Michael laughs too, biting down on his lip.

The sight of him smiling like that after everything nearly hurts because you missed this. You missed the quiet little moments with him that nobody else ever really got to see. The way he got shy when he was happy. The way he bit his lip, trying not to grin too hard. The way being around him could still make the room feel lighter despite all the complicated history sitting between the two of you.

For a second, it almost feels dangerously easy to slip back into whatever this used to be.

"So you'll do it? You'll really do the short film?" He asks, and you take a deep breath and nod.

You can see how much the answer matters to him before he even says another word. There's hope written all over his face now, cautious and almost disbelieving, like part of him still expected you to walk out of here no matter how honest he tried to be with you today.

But the truth is, you love him, and you miss him.

And honestly, you don't think you'd be able to handle seeing another woman in this with him, even if it was pretending. The thought alone leaves something ugly and heartsick twisting inside your chest because, despite everything the two of you went through, despite the breakup and the years apart, some part of you still feels like you and Michael belong wrapped around each other and nobody else.

"Yes, Michael... I'll do it," you say, and he lets out a breath of relief, and he immediately moves closer to you, but then suddenly stops himself as the reality that the two of you are no longer together in that way comes crashing back all at once.

The hesitation that settles over him is almost heartbreaking to watch because you can physically see him remembering that things are different now. For five years, touching you was second nature to him. Holding your hand, pulling you against him, kissing your forehead whenever he walked into a room; all of it used to happen without thought because loving you was instinctive to him.

Now he's standing a few feet away, looking uncertain about whether he's even allowed to touch you anymore.

"Can I uh... can I hug you?" He asks, and your breath slightly catches. Something about hearing Michael ask permission nearly breaks your heart.

You haven't hugged him in years, and you know as soon as he touches you, you're going to melt into it because your body still remembers him too well. You already know exactly how his arms feel around you, how safe and familiar he always made you feel whenever he held you close enough that the rest of the world disappeared for a while.

So you nod. "Of course you can," you say.

Michael smiles immediately, the expression so warm and relieved that your chest tightens painfully at the sight of it before he closes the distance between the two of you. The second his arms wrap around you, your body responds instinctively, like muscle memory, melting into him before your brain can even catch up. It feels so natural that it almost steals the breath from your lungs. Like, no matter how much time passed, your body never forgot that this was where it belonged.

You rest your head against his chest automatically, and the second you do, Michael's entire body relaxes around you in a way that feels almost emotional. He lowers his head slowly until it rests against the top of yours, and then he lets out a deep breath that rumbles through his chest beneath your cheek.

The sound nearly destroys you because it feels like relief and grief all at once, like the last two years of missing each other are finally being acknowledged without either of you having to say the words out loud.

For a while, the two of you just stand there silently in each other's arms, holding onto each other like neither of you realized how desperately you needed this until now. The familiar feeling returns almost immediately, the comfort, the closeness, the love between you that never actually disappeared, no matter how much distance or heartbreak tried to bury it.

And as Michael holds you tighter against him, eyes closed while your body fits perfectly against his like it always has, one thought settles heavily into his chest.

1992california

As you sat inside the audition room, you were nervous.

Not because of the audition itself. Auditions had become second nature to you years ago after spending most of your adult life under bright lights and critical eyes, learning how to command a room the moment you stepped into it. You had walked the biggest runways in the world, posed for photographers whose names carried as much weight as movie stars, and built a career strong enough that people now recognized your face before they recognized your name. Normally, none of this would have rattled you.

But this felt strange.

The room was too quiet, too empty, and the silence around you only made the unease sitting in your chest grow heavier with every passing minute. Your eyes drifted toward the door again before moving around the waiting area, noticing for what had to be the tenth time that there were no other women here. No assistants moving in and out with clipboards. No models flipping through magazines while pretending not to stare each other down. No low hum of conversation that usually came with auditions in Los Angeles.

It was just you.

And that was exactly what made you nervous.

You barely even knew what you were auditioning for. Amelia had simply told you that it was for a music video and that the artist personally requested you by name, though even she hadn't been told who the artist actually was. The secrecy surrounding the entire thing had unsettled you from the beginning, enough that you almost declined before curiosity got the better of you, but now that you were sitting here alone with nothing except your thoughts for company, a sinking feeling had started settling deeper and deeper into your stomach.

You were just hoping it wasn't the artist you were thinking of, because the media had not allowed you to escape him since your breakup.

Michael Jackson.

Even after two years apart, his presence still lingered everywhere around you, no matter how hard you tried to move forward with your life. His songs played constantly on every radio station, his short films dominated MTV, and his face stared back at you from magazine covers in grocery store checkout lines, airports, hotel lobbies, and newsstands across every city you traveled through. There were nights you would walk into clubs with friends only to hear his voice booming through the speakers minutes later, forcing old memories to rise before you had time to brace yourself against them.

It felt impossible to outrun him.

But then again, what else was to be expected when Michael had become bigger than celebrity itself? The Bad tour had only cemented him further into a level of fame most people could not even comprehend, and now Dangerous had pushed him right back into the center of the world's attention all over again.

You bought the album the day it came out, because of course you did. Loving Michael hadn't stopped simply because the relationship had.

Some of the songs, though, had nearly destroyed you the first time you listened to them alone in your apartment. There were lyrics woven into the album that you recognized immediately because you remembered hearing fragments of them years earlier when it had only been the two of you tangled together in hotel beds after long flights or sitting awake in the middle of the night while Michael scribbled ideas into notebooks beside you. You remembered melodies hummed softly against your skin while he absentmindedly traced shapes along your arm, remembered hearing pieces of songs before the world ever would.

Dangerous was brilliant, and painful in ways you hadn't been prepared for.

You're pulled from your thoughts when you hear your name called, and the moment you lift your head and see who is walking toward you, your stomach drops so hard it nearly makes you dizzy.

Sandy Gallin.

Recognition crashes into you instantly, because there is only one reason Michael's manager would be standing in front of you right now.

You haven't seen Sandy in two years, not since the day everything between you and Michael finally collapsed beneath the weight of schedules, distance, exhaustion, and a love that neither of you had ever stopped feeling but no longer knew how to sustain.

"I know how this looks," Sandy says carefully the second she sees your expression change. The sympathy in her face confirms what your heart already knew the moment you saw her.

You stand quickly, before she can continue. "I can't do this," you say as you shake your head, and Sandy immediately exhales softly, looking almost disappointed but not surprised.

"I told him it wasn't a good idea, for either of you... But he asked for you personally and said if it's not you, he's not making the short film," Sandy says.

A sharp breath leaves you as the full picture finally settles into place, because now you understand why everything about this process had felt so strange from the start. There had never really been an audition at all. Michael had already decided he wanted you here before anyone ever contacted Amelia, and, knowing him the way you once did, you could picture the exact stubborn calm he must have had as he refused every other suggestion his team tried to offer him.

Michael putting his team in an impossible situation somehow still feels easier to process than realizing he wanted to see you badly enough to orchestrate all of this in the first place.

"I'm sorry that he put you in this situation, but I–I mean, looking at what's required for the female lead... I don't know if I can do that... I know two years is a long time, but..."

Your voice trails off because you can't force yourself to finish the sentence out loud. You can't admit the real reason this feels impossible. No amount of time had changed the fact that you were still in love with him.

Sandy's expression softens immediately because she understands anyway.

"I know when Michael brought me on, I wasn't there for too long before the two of you broke up, but even in the short amount of time that I was around the two of you... Anyone could see what would make doing this so difficult, even though it's been two years... that's why I told him it wasn't a good idea to have you as the lead," she says gently.

You nod slowly because she's right.

Everyone around the two of you had known, even if nobody ever fully understood the depth of what existed between you and Michael behind closed doors. People saw the way he looked at you like the rest of the room disappeared whenever you walked in. They saw the way your schedules bent around each other despite both of your careers operating at impossible speeds. They saw how naturally the two of you fit together despite the chaos constantly surrounding your lives.

And after the breakup, people noticed that too.

Neither of you had ever publicly moved on. There had been rumors over the years, of course, because the media refused to let either of you exist without attaching another famous name beside yours, but nothing real had ever followed. No relationships, no confirmed romances, no public appearances hand-in-hand with someone new.

Because no matter how much time passed, nobody else had ever been each other.

"And looking at the filming schedule, I don't know if I can... I mean, I have 30 runway shows lined up in Paris... contractual obligations," you say, clinging to the practical excuse because it feels far safer than admitting the emotional truth sitting beneath it.

Sandy sighs softly and nods, clearly already aware of the schedule conflict before you even mention it.

"I'll buy out the contracts." The sound of the new voice cuts through the room so suddenly that your breath catches painfully in your throat before you can stop it.

His voice.

You and Sandy both look up at the same time, but the second your eyes land on him, the entire world around you seems to narrow until nothing else exists except Michael standing in the doorway.

And God, it almost devastates you how beautiful he looks.

His dark curls fall damply around his face and down the back of his neck, pulled loosely into a low ponytail that somehow only makes him look softer instead of more put together, a few strands curling against his cheeks from either humidity or sweat after another long day spent moving between meetings and studios. He's dressed casually in an oversized plaid button-up tucked into black pants, the sleeves slightly loose around his wrists in that effortlessly comfortable way Michael always dressed when he wasn't trying to be "Michael Jackson" for cameras or appearances.

This version of him was painfully familiar. It was the Michael you knew behind closed doors. The one who wandered barefoot through Neverland late at night, humming unfinished melodies under his breath. The one who stole your clothes sometimes because he liked how soft they felt. The one who got so consumed by music that he forgot to eat unless someone reminded him.

Two years had passed since the last time you saw him in person, but none of those years had dulled the effect he had on you. If anything, the distance only made the reality of him more overwhelming now that he was standing right in front of you again, instead of existing through television screens, magazine covers, and old memories you revisited too often when you were alone.

Because suddenly painfully and beautifully real again.

And the moment his eyes meet yours, every memory you have spent two years trying to carefully survive comes rushing back all at once. The Bad tour. Hotel rooms across different countries. Late-night phone calls through static-filled international lines. His hands wrapped around yours backstage while crowds screamed for him outside. The exhaustion that slowly settled between the two of you, no matter how desperately you both kept trying to hold on. The quiet heartbreak of loving someone completely and still not knowing how to make a life together work.

Your chest tightens so painfully that it almost feels impossible to breathe.

You hadn't seen him in person since the day the two of you broke each other's hearts, and seeing him now hits you with those memories hard and all at once, because no matter how much time has passed, the truth sitting between you and Michael has never changed.

He is still the love of your life, and judging by the look in his eyes as he stares at you now, you are still the love of his, too.

two years ago1990

You had cancelled another photoshoot again because he promised. He promised that the two of you would have the night to yourselves to celebrate your anniversary, yet here you were, sitting in your shared hotel suite, which he booked for your anniversary, waiting for him to get back from the studio, and at this point, it was late... your anniversary had officially come and gone. You were meant to be celebrating five years together, yet you sat alone.

The realization sat heavily in your chest now, thick and exhausting in a way that made your entire body feel emotionally worn down. Earlier in the evening, you had still been excited. You'd spent far too long deciding what to wear because, despite everything that had happened over the last several months, despite every missed dinner and every broken promise that came attached to another late-night studio session, you still loved him enough to let yourself hope that tonight would be different. Five years mattered... at least you thought it did.

The suite had been prepared for hours. Candles burned low now after being lit long ago, their wax melted down the sides from how much time had passed while you waited. Dinner sat untouched near the balcony, cold and forgotten after spending the entire night waiting for footsteps that never came. Every passing hour had slowly chipped away at your excitement until eventually all that remained was disappointment curling painfully inside your chest.

And now your anniversary was over, and you spent it alone.

You were getting tired of it.

This photoshoot wasn't the first thing you had canceled or had Amelia reschedule to accommodate Michael's schedule and the promises he made to you... promises that he ended up breaking. Over the last year, especially, your own life had started feeling less and less like it belonged to you.

Every schedule Amelia handed over somehow ended up rearranged around Michael's availability instead of your own, and little by little, you had started sacrificing parts of yourself so naturally that you hadn't even realized how much you were giving away until recently.

Photoshoots were moved, runway shows were declined, interviews were turned down, and campaigns were rescheduled.

All for him, and the terrifying thing was that you'd done it willingly because you loved him.

At first, it had felt romantic in the way intense love often does. Flying across countries just to spend two days together between tour stops. Meeting him backstage after shows while crowds screamed his name outside. Rearranging your schedule so you could stay beside him longer before one of you inevitably had to leave again. You told yourself that sacrifices were normal when two people loved each other this much.

But somewhere along the way, the sacrifices stopped feeling mutual, and lately, it felt like your entire world revolved around fitting yourself into the empty spaces left inside Michael's.

You felt like you were starting to lose yourself.

The tabloids didn't help either. Every time you canceled or rescheduled one of your own projects and then were seen on tour with Michael, or at one of his shoots, the press wasn't nice about it. There was misogyny in everything they wrote about you, your career, and how it seemed like you were revolving your entire life around your relationship.

The articles had become crueler over time, dissecting your life like your accomplishments somehow mattered less because you were in love. Headlines mocked the way you followed him across tour dates. Magazine columns questioned whether your career was declining because you spent "too much time being Michael Jackson's girlfriend." People spoke about you as though years of hard work and success suddenly disappeared just because of who you're dating.

And lately, those headlines had started getting under your skin because deep down, you were beginning to wonder if they were seeing something you had been trying desperately not to admit to yourself.

And Michael didn't seem to notice.

Or maybe he noticed and genuinely didn't understand how deeply it was affecting you because his entire life had always operated at this impossible speed that left little room for anything else. On one level, you understood. Bad was his first solo tour ever since leaving The Jacksons fully, and it was a huge success. It's been three years since his last album, and he's always creating music, so he wants to make something special for his fans, which you understood and could appreciate, but that didn't stop the feeling that you were losing yourself in his life.

That was the worst part; that you understood him so completely, it made it difficult to even stay angry.

You knew how his brain worked. You knew that once Michael got inside a studio, time stopped existing for him. Music consumed him entirely until everything else blurred into the background, and you knew he would never intentionally hurt you. He loved you with everything he had.

But lately, loving him felt like slowly disappearing.

You had already changed out of the outfit you were going to wear for your date, and you had casual clothes on, clothes that you were going to sleep in. A pair of soft cotton shorts and one of Michael's Bad Tour t-shirts, and you were currently on the phone with Janet as you aimlessly flipped through channels on the TV.

The red dress you had spent nearly an hour getting ready in earlier now hung abandoned over the chair near the vanity, mocking you every time your eyes accidentally drifted toward it. Your makeup had long since been washed off after finally giving up sometime around midnight, and now you sat curled against the pillows in his oversized shirt, the familiar scent of his cologne lingering faintly in the fabric in a way that only made your chest ache worse.

"He's still not back yet?" Janet asks, and you sigh.

"Nope... and I haven't heard from him. I should've known, I should've kept my photoshoot scheduled," you say, more frustrated at yourself than Michael, because this wasn't new anymore, and that was the problem.

This exact feeling had become familiar enough that part of you hated yourself for still allowing disappointment to hurt this badly every single time.

"You know I love my brother, but you're my sister, too... There are a lot of things you shouldn't have canceled just to accommodate him. You had a life before you became his girlfriend," Janet says, and you sigh because she's right.

The words hit painfully because Janet wasn't judging you. If anything, she sounded sad. Sad in the way people do when they've been watching someone they love slowly lose pieces of themselves without fully realizing it yet.

And that was what scared you the most, because you couldn't even remember the last time you'd chosen yourself over Michael.

"I know... I just don't know how much more of this I can take. I don't feel like me anymore," you say. The confession leaves your mouth quietly, and Janet frowns. Saying it out loud makes something crack painfully open inside your chest because it's the first time you've admitted it to someone besides yourself. Janet would hate it if you and Michael broke up, but she also understands if you're at that point, given everything that's happened.

You don't feel like yourself anymore. You feel exhausted, lonely, and lost somewhere inside his life instead of living your own.

"Hey... whatever happens, you'll always be my sister, okay?" Janet says.

Emotion tightens instantly in your chest at the reassurance because Janet stopped feeling like simply Michael's sister years ago. She had become family in every way that mattered, one of the few people who truly saw the relationship from the inside instead of through magazine headlines and public appearances.

You hear the keycard against the door, the door opens, and there he is. Your eyes briefly glance at him before he notices, and Michael opens his mouth to say something, but he stops when he sees you.

The entire energy in his body changes instantly.

He sees you're dressed for bed, and sitting in bed, the phone pressed against your ear, and he knows, immediately, that he messed up. He already knew he had messed up, but he was hoping that when he got back, you'd still be dressed to do what he had planned for you.

The guilt hits him all at once.

His eyes flick toward the untouched dinner first before landing on the red dress abandoned across the chair, and then finally back to you sitting quietly in bed wearing his shirt instead of the outfit you were supposed to wear tonight. Exhaustion still clings to him from hours spent in the studio, but it's immediately overtaken by the horrible sinking realization that he missed your anniversary entirely.

And judging by the expression on your face, he knows this time feels different.

"He just walked in, I have to go, Jan," you say, and you hear her exhale on the other line.

"Love you," Janet says, and you smile.

"Love you too," you say and hang up the phone, but you don't turn to Michael. You keep your body and face angled toward the TV. You can't look at him, not yet. The second you do, you already know the hurt sitting inside your chest is going to spill out in ways you aren't ready for.

"Baby..." you hear Michael's voice softly echo through the room as his footsteps approach the bed.

The sound of his voice alone is enough to make your chest tighten painfully, because even now, even after hours spent sitting here alone feeling abandoned and forgotten, your body still reacts to him instinctively. But you don't turn toward him. You keep your eyes fixed stubbornly on the television screen, though you aren't actually paying attention to anything playing across it.

Behind you, you can feel him taking in the room slowly, and then his attention lands on the kitchen counter. The gift box and the card with his name in your familiar handwriting, sitting carefully in front of it.

The sight of them hits him like a physical blow.

His stomach drops instantly because suddenly the reality of what he missed tonight settles over him. You had planned this. Somewhere earlier in the evening, before disappointment and exhaustion took over, you had been excited enough to wrap his gift and write him a card while waiting for him to come home.

And he never showed up.

The guilt twists viciously inside his chest because Michael knows how much anniversaries matter to you. He knows you're sentimental. He loves how you save movie tickets, handwritten notes, and little meaningless things simply because they're attached to memories with people you love. Somewhere inside that box is something you picked out carefully for him, probably weeks ago, and instead of spending the night celebrating five years together, you ended up alone in bed waiting for him until your anniversary quietly slipped away.

"I'm so sorry. I lost track of time... one of the songs wasn't landing the way it was supposed to, and it took longer to fix than I thought, but I—" you cut him off.

"Just stop, Michael..." you say while shaking your head.

The exhaustion in your voice cuts through him immediately. No rage, anger, or yelling... just exhaustion, and somehow that hurts him more.

When you finally turn to look at him, the guilt sitting in his eyes is immediate and overwhelming, but what devastates you most is the fact that even now, even standing there looking heartbroken and exhausted after hurting you again, he still manages to take your breath away.

Michael has always been painfully beautiful.

His curls frame his face perfectly, soft and slightly damp from hours spent working in the studio, a few pieces falling loose around his face in that careless way that only ever happened when he got too focused on music to notice anything else around him. The red Mickey Mouse varsity jacket hanging from his shoulders only makes the sight of him feel more achingly familiar because you've seen him wear it a hundred times before, usually during late-night studio sessions where he'd eventually end up curled against you half-asleep while still talking about melodies and lyrics.

And maybe that's part of why this hurts so badly, too, because you still love him so much that looking at him physically aches.

"You promised tonight would be for us. I canceled a high-profile photoshoot because you promised we'd spend the entire evening together... Now our anniversary is over, I lost the photoshoot, and this is my first time seeing you all day... so what did I get from this?" you say, and Michael frowns, because he feels awful.

Every word lands exactly where it's supposed to because the truth sitting underneath your frustration is undeniable. You gave something up for him again, and once again, he failed to meet you halfway.

Michael opens his mouth to respond immediately, desperate to fix this somehow before it slips any further out of his hands. "Baby, I–"

But he cuts himself off because he doesn't know what to say. What excuse could possibly make this better? That he got distracted working? That he lost track of time? That he didn't mean for it to happen?

None of it changes the fact that your anniversary came and went while you sat here alone waiting for him.

"How much more, Michael? How much more of my career do I have to sacrifice to accommodate promises you're not even keeping?" you ask as your eyes water, and Michael's heart shatters the second he sees the tears finally spill over, because suddenly he sees it.

He finally sees how everything has been affecting you, not just tonight's missed anniversary, but everything. Every time you rescheduled a photoshoot because he promised you that he'd take you to dinner, and he ended up not showing up. Every time you canceled an appearance because he promised you'd spend the day together, just for you to end up alone. Every time you rearranged your schedule to fit around promises he made and ended up not keeping.

And the horrible part is that he never consciously meant to become selfish about it. He loves you more than anything in his world, but somewhere over time, he got used to your flexibility. He got used to you moving things around to stay beside him. He got used to you always making space for him, no matter how chaotic his life became.

But he never stopped to realize how much space it was costing you in return.

"Let me make it up to you," he says, and you shake your head immediately. Because this isn't about flowers or jewelry or expensive apologies. This is about feeling like you're slowly disappearing inside someone else's life.

Michael's already kneeling in front of the bed before he fully realizes he's moved, positioning himself beside you so he can force himself into your line of sight. The movement is instinctive, desperate almost, because some terrified part of him can feel the shift happening beneath this conversation. He reaches for you immediately, his hands wrapping carefully around yours before pulling them gently toward him.

"Baby, please... I love you," Michael says. The words make your heart clench painfully inside your chest because the worst part of all of this is that you know he means it.

You know that Michael loves you completely; there has never been a doubt in your mind about that, and you love him too just as much. That's why all of this hurts as deeply as it does. Because if the love was gone, leaving would probably be easier.

"You can't make it up to me, Michael... our anniversary is over... happy five years, right?" you say as you remove your hands from his, and Michael frowns, shaking his head. The bitterness in your voice is quiet, almost numb, and somehow that unsettles him more than anger ever could.

You turn off the TV and set the remote to the side.

"I'm going to bed now..." You say as you lie down, turning your back toward him, and Michael frowns. The silence that settles over the room afterward feels unbearably heavy.

Michael just stares at your back for several long seconds, his chest tightening harder and harder the longer the distance between you lingers untouched. Usually, after arguments, there's still something fiery between the two of you: raised voices, tears, frustration, and emotions spilling out everywhere because both of you care too much.

But this? This calmness terrifies him.

Your nonchalant demeanor and calm spoken words cut him deeper than if you had been yelling at him. He figured he would get your anger, because he knew you were angry, but the kind of angry where you remain calm throughout it? He's only seen that a few times.

And every single one of those times ended with him realizing far too late just how deeply he'd hurt you.

Michael stays there for a moment, on his knees beside the bed, watching your backside.

The silence stretching between the two of you feels unbearable now, heavy with everything neither of you knows how to fix anymore. Normally, after arguments, eventually one of you reached for the other. Usually, Michael could coax you into his arms with soft apologies and kisses against your temple until the hurt softened enough for the two of you to find your way back to each other again.

But tonight feels different; there's real distance between you, and for the first time since falling in love with you, Michael feels genuinely afraid that his apologies might not be enough this time.

He knew this wouldn't be easy to fix. There were no words that could fix it, and he knew you barely trusted his actions since he kept making empty promises. Every "I'll make it up to you" sounded hollow now because he never seemed to stop hurting you in the exact same ways over and over again.

Eventually, after several long moments spent staring at your back in silence, Michael slowly stands from beside the bed and disappears into the bathroom. The sound of the shower turns on a few seconds later, filling the suite with soft white noise while you lie there staring blankly into the darkness.

Even hearing him moving around behind the bathroom door hurts.

Because, despite everything, your body still reacts to his presence instinctively. Part of you still wants to get up and walk in there and let him pull you into his arms while both of you pretend love is enough to fix this.

But deep down, you know it isn't anymore.

By the time Michael gets out of the shower, you're fast asleep, or at least pretending to be.

Your breathing is slow and even as you lie curled toward the opposite side of the bed, his side still cold and untouched from where he never lay beside you earlier tonight, like he was supposed to. Michael stands there quietly for a moment in sweatpants and a t-shirt, water still dampening the curls around his face, while exhaustion weighs heavily on every part of him.

God, he hates this. He hates the distance between you, he hates the tears he saw in your eyes, and he hates knowing he's the reason they were there.

Before getting into bed beside you, he gently kisses your forehead, the touch lingering there for a second longer than usual because some desperate part of him needs the reassurance that you're still here beside him tonight, and it takes everything in you not to open your eyes and let yourself melt into his embrace.

But he keeps his distance afterward.

He doesn't reach for you or pull you into his arms the way he normally would. He doesn't curl himself around your body or press sleepy kisses against your shoulder until both of you drift off together. Instead, he stays on his side of the bed, staring up at the ceiling in the darkness for a long time before exhaustion finally drags him under, too.

And even then, sleep doesn't come peacefully.

When Michael wakes up the next morning, and his eyes adjust to the dim sunlight peeking through the windows, the first thing he notices is that you're gone. Confusion immediately pulls him fully awake.

Your side of the bed is empty and cold.

The silence inside the suite feels wrong in a way that makes panic start creeping into his chest before he's even fully sitting up. Normally, you're still there beside him in the mornings, buried under blankets while mumbling sleepily when he moves too much. Sometimes you steal his shirts and wander around barefoot, ordering breakfast while music plays softly in the background.

But now the room is silent, and in your place on the bed is the hotel's notepad. The second Michael sees your handwriting, something inside him drops violently.

No.

No, no, no.

His hands shake as he reaches for the paper, dread crawling through every inch of him before he even starts reading because deep down, he already knows.

And when Michael reads the words you left for him... his heart shatters.

Michael,I love you... But this isn't working anymore. It's very clear you're focused on your career, and that's fine, you should be... but I have to put focus back into mine. I have to restore my reputation with agencies and fashion houses... I have to feel like myself again. Focus on Dangerous... I know the album is going to be amazing. I'm sorry to do this with a note, but I knew if I looked into those eyes of yours, I wouldn't be able to do it. I will always love you... And I'm so sorry.

By the time he reaches the end of the note, he can barely breathe through the pressure crushing his chest. His vision blurs almost immediately.

"No..." he whispers brokenly to the empty room. The word barely leaves his mouth before the tears start.

Michael folds in on himself right there in the bed, the note trembling violently in his hands while the reality crashes over him all at once. You're gone: after five years together, after building entire pieces of your lives around each other, you're gone.

And the worst part is that he understands why. That's what kills him, because he knows you tried. You tried so hard to hold onto this relationship. You bent your life around his over and over again while he kept promising he'd do better, that things would calm down, that after this album or this tour or this recording session, he'd finally have more time for you.

But there was always something else: another rehearsal, another meeting, another song, another promise that went unkept.

Now he realizes he's finally pushed you too far.

He cried all morning after reading it, canceled his morning meetings and studio sessions. He was glued to the bed; he couldn't move. The entire suite feels haunted by you now. Your clothes are gone, your perfume barely lingers in the air, and the side of the bed where you slept is empty.

Every piece of it makes him feel sick.

At some point, his fingers tighten suddenly against the fabric of his jacket from the night before, still discarded beside the bed where he tossed it after coming back too late. Slowly, almost mechanically, Michael reaches for it and digs into the pocket before pulling out the medium-sized velvet box hidden inside.

The engagement ring he had been planning to give to you. The sight of it completely breaks him.

A strangled sound leaves his throat as he stares down at the box resting in his trembling hands because last night was supposed to be the night he asked you to marry him.

Five years together, and he'd known long before the five-year mark that he wanted you to be his wife. He wanted forever with you so badly it scared him sometimes. But everything had happened so fast during the Bad era. The album, the tour, the constant traveling, and the constant pressure. He kept convincing himself the timing wasn't right yet, that he wanted to give you more than rushed moments stolen between airports and studios.

So he waited, and waited, and waited. Last night was supposed to finally be it. A private dinner for your anniversary, just the two of you. He'd even planned exactly how he was going to ask, but instead, he missed the entire night because he got lost in the studio chasing perfection while the woman he loved sat alone, realizing she was disappearing inside his life.

Now he had missed his chance again.

And this time, he knows he may have lost you for good.

present

"I will leave you two to talk... We'll be right outside if you need something," Sandy says before she leaves the room, leaving you and Michael alone. The door clicks shut softly behind her, and suddenly the room feels far too quiet.

For a moment, neither of you says anything. After spending two years apart, standing alone together again feels strangely intimate all on its own, and the awareness of each other settles heavily into the space between you.

You stay on your side of the room, fingers curling slightly against your arms as if grounding yourself there, and Michael doesn't try to move closer either, even though every instinct inside him is pulling him toward you. He isn't sure how you'd react if he did. He doesn't know if touching you again after all this time would comfort you or make you walk right back out the door.

So he stays where he is, but his eyes never leave you.

"What do you mean you'll buy me out of the contracts?" You ask, and Michael softly smiles, small and nervous, more vulnerable from the fact that he's standing in front of you again after spending two years replaying every mistake he made in this relationship over and over in his head.

"That's what I mean... I'll buy out your contracts, and whatever they were going to pay you for the shows, I'll pay you more," Michael says, and you sigh and take a deep breath.

Of course, he would do that. Not because he thinks money fixes this, you know, Michael better than that. If anything, the offer only makes your chest ache because you understand what he's really trying to do. He's trying to remove every practical reason you have for saying no because deep down, he already knows your real hesitation has nothing to do with Paris or runway contracts.

It has everything to do with him, with standing this close to him again after spending two years forcing yourself to learn how to survive without him.

"Why are you doing this, Michael?" you ask, and he bites down on his lip, slightly nervous about telling you the full truth, but he knows he needs to.

You can see it written all over him, the hesitation mixed with emotion in his eyes as he looks at you. Michael was always capable of being emotionally open with you in ways he rarely allowed himself to be with anyone else, but right now, there's something even more fragile underneath it. There's fear that if he says the wrong thing, you'll shut him out again before he has the chance to tell you everything he's spent the last two years carrying around inside him.

"Because I miss you... because I can't stop thinking about how badly I messed everything up, and you didn't deserve it, and because what's required in this video... I wouldn't feel comfortable being sensual and intimate with anybody else in this way... just you," Michael says, and your breath hitches slightly.

The honesty in his voice hits you immediately because there's nothing polished about it. No careful PR answers or charming deflection. Just Michael standing in front of you, looking painfully sincere while admitting something you realize you've secretly wanted to hear from him for years now.

Hearing him say he can't imagine doing this with anyone else does something dangerous to your heart because you know exactly what this short film calls for. The tension, closeness, touching, and intimacy. You read the synopsis before coming here, and once you saw Sally walk out, you spent half the conversation mentally trying to convince yourself that you could handle pretending your feelings for Michael were gone long enough to get through filming if you took the job.

Now he's standing here admitting he doesn't even want to pretend with another woman.

"I didn't mean to leave the way I did... but I felt like I was drowning, Michael..." you say softly. The confession leaves your mouth quieter than you intended, but the second the words are out there between you, you see the hurt flash across his face immediately. Not anger or defensiveness. Just pain, because looking back now, he understands exactly what you mean in ways he couldn't fully grasp back then.

Michael frowns, taking a slow step toward you, and then he looks at you, as if he's asking for permission, to see if you back away from him. You don't move, and you don't tell him to stop.

The realization softens something in his expression instantly, and he takes another step carefully, like he's approaching something fragile he's terrified of breaking again.

"I know... and I realize now I was unintentionally pushing you in further... I'm so sorry," Michael says, and you feel a bit of the ache in your chest loosen, because you do miss him... but you've worked hard for the last two years to restore your reputation in the modeling and fashion industry. You've gained back the trust of major fashion houses and magazines to not constantly cancel or reschedule appearances.

Those two years were brutal in ways most people never saw. Rebuilding your reputation meant rebuilding your identity, too. You had to prove to people that you were still dependable, still serious about your career, and still capable of putting yourself first after years of revolving your life around someone else's schedule.

There were fashion houses that stopped calling for a while. Editors who questioned whether you'd commit to campaigns fully. Rumors that you were becoming "difficult" because of how often your schedule shifted during your relationship with Michael.

So you fought your way back, and you did it without him.

Michael's watched it all. He's watched every fashion show, memorizing the confidence in your walk and the way you carried yourself now compared to before. He's bought every cover feature you've done, flipping through magazines just to stare at your photos longer than he probably should have.

He was so proud of you for getting your career back on track, which also led to more guilt that he was the reason you had derailed it... and he let you because it was convenient for him, and he hated himself for that.

"You really won't do the short film if I'm not the co-lead?" You ask, and Michael shakes his head immediately. There isn't even hesitation in him when it comes to this.

"I really won't... even though it's just acting, I wouldn't be comfortable being sensual like that with a woman who isn't you," Michael says, and your heart does melt a little at that being the reason he only wants you as the lead.

Because you know Michael. You know that physical intimacy has never been casual for him emotionally, no matter what the public assumes. Even pretending requires vulnerability from him, especially in something as intimate as this short film is supposed to be.

So hearing him admit that he doesn't even want to fake that kind of closeness with another woman makes warmth spread slowly through your chest despite everything you've spent the last two years doing to protect your heart from him.

"Before I agree... did Amelia know about this and help set me up?" You ask, and Michael immediately shakes his head.

"No, she would never do that to you... When I had Sally call her, I told her to keep it vague. I was scared that if you knew upfront it was for my short film, you'd immediately say no. Amelia didn't manipulate or trick you... I kind of manipulated the situation to see you again," He says, the shyness creeping in as he rubs the back of his neck, unsure of how you're going to react to that.

The nervousness in him softens something inside your chest immediately because, for all the confidence the world associates with Michael Jackson, you know this version of him too well. The shy one. The emotionally awkward one who gets uncertain whenever his feelings are involved, especially where you're concerned.

Even now, after all this time apart, he's looking at you cautiously, like he's genuinely worried admitting that might upset you instead of understanding the truth sitting underneath it, and honestly, it probably should upset you a little.

Instead, a laugh slips out before you can stop it. It catches both of you off guard, the tension in the room easing just enough for something warm and achingly familiar to settle between you again.

You shake your head softly. "Well... you've always been one for grand gestures," you say, and Michael laughs too, biting down on his lip.

The sight of him smiling like that after everything nearly hurts because you missed this. You missed the quiet little moments with him that nobody else ever really got to see. The way he got shy when he was happy. The way he bit his lip, trying not to grin too hard. The way being around him could still make the room feel lighter despite all the complicated history sitting between the two of you.

For a second, it almost feels dangerously easy to slip back into whatever this used to be.

"So you'll do it? You'll really do the short film?" He asks, and you take a deep breath and nod.

You can see how much the answer matters to him before he even says another word. There's hope written all over his face now, cautious and almost disbelieving, like part of him still expected you to walk out of here no matter how honest he tried to be with you today.

But the truth is, you love him, and you miss him.

And honestly, you don't think you'd be able to handle seeing another woman in this with him, even if it was pretending. The thought alone leaves something ugly and heartsick twisting inside your chest because, despite everything the two of you went through, despite the breakup and the years apart, some part of you still feels like you and Michael belong wrapped around each other and nobody else.

"Yes, Michael... I'll do it," you say, and he lets out a breath of relief, and he immediately moves closer to you, but then suddenly stops himself as the reality that the two of you are no longer together in that way comes crashing back all at once.

The hesitation that settles over him is almost heartbreaking to watch because you can physically see him remembering that things are different now. For five years, touching you was second nature to him. Holding your hand, pulling you against him, kissing your forehead whenever he walked into a room; all of it used to happen without thought because loving you was instinctive to him.

Now he's standing a few feet away, looking uncertain about whether he's even allowed to touch you anymore.

"Can I uh... can I hug you?" He asks, and your breath slightly catches. Something about hearing Michael ask permission nearly breaks your heart.

You haven't hugged him in years, and you know as soon as he touches you, you're going to melt into it because your body still remembers him too well. You already know exactly how his arms feel around you, how safe and familiar he always made you feel whenever he held you close enough that the rest of the world disappeared for a while.

So you nod. "Of course you can," you say.

Michael smiles immediately, the expression so warm and relieved that your chest tightens painfully at the sight of it before he closes the distance between the two of you. The second his arms wrap around you, your body responds instinctively, like muscle memory, melting into him before your brain can even catch up. It feels so natural that it almost steals the breath from your lungs. Like, no matter how much time passed, your body never forgot that this was where it belonged.

You rest your head against his chest automatically, and the second you do, Michael's entire body relaxes around you in a way that feels almost emotional. He lowers his head slowly until it rests against the top of yours, and then he lets out a deep breath that rumbles through his chest beneath your cheek.

The sound nearly destroys you because it feels like relief and grief all at once, like the last two years of missing each other are finally being acknowledged without either of you having to say the words out loud.

For a while, the two of you just stand there silently in each other's arms, holding onto each other like neither of you realized how desperately you needed this until now. The familiar feeling returns almost immediately, the comfort, the closeness, the love between you that never actually disappeared, no matter how much distance or heartbreak tried to bury it.

And as Michael holds you tighter against him, eyes closed while your body fits perfectly against his like it always has, one thought settles heavily into his chest.