Before the World Knew Your Name
Hi guys this is my first MJ fanfic! I think it would be a long story. I hope you guys like it the way I do.
I was tired of the sun people insisted belonged to me, so I decided to go far away and see sunlight from a corner of the world I had never explored before.
My body ached after hours of dancing without pause. Rehearsals meant to make every movement perfect, one last time for today. I had decided to disappear somewhere still untouched by most people.
For months, it had felt difficult to breathe. It wasn't that I hated fame. It wasn't that I hated my fans. They were my family, and I loved them. But sometimes everything felt so suffocating. Every now and then, I wanted to know what life felt like without fame. Without people losing their minds just because I was there. What it felt like to walk quietly, humming to myself, enjoying the cool shade of the wind and the leaves brushing against my face on a peaceful afternoon without being surrounded by crowds.
The blinding flash of cameras.
The only people who knew about this trip were Marlon and Bill.
I felt like I could trust them a little more than the others.
At first, Marlon had shaken his head in disbelief.
"No, Mike. You can't just do this. Everyone's gonna lose their minds if you disappear without telling anybody."
But after a bit of persuasion—and a bribe involving a beautiful model I'd met during an Off the Wall photoshoot (she was friends with one of the makeup artists who worked on me, and I'd offered to introduce them)—Marlon finally sighed and said with an indifferent smile,
"I'm not promising how long I can keep my mouth shut. You know I talk too much. At least until you get to Bali. Call me as soon as you arrive, Mike."
I knew the island from a travel brochure tucked inside a magazine I'd picked up in Los Angeles a while ago.
That was what they called it.
The title stretched across the page in large letters, accompanied by photographs that immediately made me sit up straighter. I remember studying every page carefully.
Not many people knew about Bali back then.
I glanced at the clock hanging neatly on my bedroom wall.
My flight left at one in the morning.
Slowly, I opened my bedroom door and looked both ways down the hallway.
I could hear a television still playing inside Janet's room.
The sound would make my escape even harder to notice.
I tiptoed through the hallway, half-running until I reached Marlon's room and quietly turned the doorknob.
He was already dressed, wearing a blue denim jacket, his curls neatly arranged. I had no idea what he planned to do after dropping me off at the airport.
Marlon smiled, grabbed his bag and car keys, then walked over and patted my shoulder.
We hurried down the staircase that seemed endless in the dark. Sweat gathered at my temples. I was terrified Joseph would wake up. Hayvenhurst felt unusually cold beneath the strong wind outside that night.
Bill was already there, leaning against Marlon's car, waving when he saw us.
We'd intentionally taken Marlon's car. If Joseph woke up and saw a car leaving Hayvenhurst, we'd still be safe. He wasn't nearly as strict with Marlon as he was with me. I wished he could be. Marlon tossed the keys to Bill, who caught them effortlessly. I lifted my large carry bag filled with clothes for a tropical climate and hurriedly shoved it into the trunk.
Marlon and I sat together in the back seat while Bill glanced at us through the rearview mirror.
The fans who spent night after night waiting outside our house immediately erupted into screams.
My name echoed through the darkness.
Ever since Off the Wall, the crowds had become impossible.
I pulled my hat lower, covering half my face.
"OH MY GOD, MARLON! MARLON!"
Bill pressed harder on the gas.
My heart hammered inside my chest as I imagined Joseph waking up because of the commotion at the front gate.
The hour-long drive passed with Marlon firing off jokes, Bill shaking his head at nearly every sentence that came out of Marlon's mouth, and me staring out the window at the city lights that somehow still seemed impossibly bright.
I turned toward him. Marlon had always been the brother I was closest to. Maybe because our ages weren't far apart. Wherever Marlon was, there was Michael. And vice versa. Me, overly sensitive. Marlon, drifting through life with an ease I never understood. Sometimes I wondered if he had any ambition at all. But as we grew older, I realized I needed someone like him around me. Someone capable of untangling the knots in my head.
Marlon wrapped an arm around my shoulder and squeezed gently, "I'm gonna miss you. No more than two weeks. Got it?"
"Stop being sentimental, Marlon. I'll be back."
"We'll be there soon, son. Marlon, be careful driving back. Watch the road signs. Don't run a red light."
Bill and his fatherly lectures.
And yes, Bill was coming with me.
The truth was, I wasn't brave enough to travel that far alone. Coward. But what if people recognized me there? What if I got trapped in a crowd and ended up crushed beneath all the chaos and panic? Still, from everything I'd read about Bali, Indonesia, it sounded nothing like America.
Maybe somewhere on the far side of the island, away from the noise and crowds, nobody would know who I was.
I never expected the journey to Bali to feel this long.
Maybe because I was too excited to go. Or maybe because, for the first time in my life, I was going somewhere without a packed schedule, without interviews, without television appearances, without someone constantly knocking on my hotel room door telling me I had five minutes to get ready.
As the plane began its descent, Bill, who was sitting beside me, lifted the window shade a little.
Half asleep, I slowly opened my eyes.
And for a few seconds, I didn't say a word.
Below us stretched an ocean whose color I couldn't even explain. It wasn't blue like the one I was used to seeing in California. It wasn't green either. It sat somewhere between the two, like someone had mixed watercolor into clear glass and let the sunlight shine through it from every direction.
The island looked small from up here.
The palm trees looked like tiny dots scattered along the coastline. I could even see the white lines of waves breaking against the shore.
I rested my forehead against the window.
I spent the rest of the flight watching the island grow closer and closer. For the first time in months, my mind wasn't filled with songs, choreography, meetings, or album sales targets.
Curious about what it would feel like to be there. Curious if the place was really as peaceful as the brochure made it seem. Curious if, for the next two weeks, I could be an ordinary person.
The little airport felt different from the ones I usually visited.
There were no huge crowds.
No people shouting my name.
I was still wearing a hat, sunglasses, and clothes I'd deliberately picked to avoid standing out. Habit. It's hard to let go of that kind of thing.
But a few minutes passed.
And no one came up to me.
I couldn't help but laugh to myself.
So this is what it feels like.
I even helped Bill carry one of the suitcases for a while without anyone noticing.
That would've been impossible in Los Angeles.
A local man recommended by the travel agency came to pick us up. His English wasn't very fluent, and of course I couldn't understand a word of Indonesian, but he seemed friendly enough.
The drive to the house we'd be staying in took nearly three hours.
At first, I tried reading the book I'd brought with me.
Five minutes later, I gave up.
The view outside was too interesting.
Small roads cut through shimmering rice fields glowing beneath the afternoon sun. Barefoot children ran through the villages. Some people rode old bicycles. I saw women carrying large baskets balanced on top of their heads with a kind of grace that amazed me.
Nobody seemed to be in a hurry.
It felt like I was watching a world moving at an entirely different pace.
I rolled the car window down a little, and warm air brushed against my face, carrying the salty scent of the ocean. The breeze was slightly humid. I closed my eyes for a moment.
And for the first time in a very long while, my chest didn't feel tight.
Slowly, I opened my eyes again and spotted a few monkeys swinging through the trees lining the roadside.
The afternoon was beginning to fade into evening by the time we finally arrived.
The car turned onto a narrower road. Trees grew thick on either side. In the distance, I could already hear the sound of the waves.
Until the house finally came into view.
I recognized it immediately.
The same house I'd seen in the brochure.
Or maybe even more beautiful.
A large wooden house stood on a hill overlooking the sea. A wide veranda stretched across the front. Frangipani trees grew around the yard, their white and yellow petals drifting through the breeze.
Bill hadn't even turned off the engine before I opened the car door.
Because the ocean stretched out right in front of me.
The late afternoon sunlight reflected off its surface like thousands of tiny shards of glass.
I don't know how long I stood there.
All I know is that I felt very small.
And strangely enough, I liked that feeling.
Someone's voice made me turn around.
A middle-aged man was walking toward me with a warm smile. Beside him stood a woman who seemed to be his wife.
Then, without meaning to, my eyes drifted toward the veranda.
And that's where I saw her.
A girl was sitting on the wooden floor with a large canvas spread out in front of her.
Her black hair was tied up carelessly. I could tell it was long and wavy from the thickness of the ponytail, with a few loose strands framing her face.
The sleeves of her yellow shirt were rolled up to her elbows.
Her hands were covered in paint.
She looked completely absorbed in what she was painting, so focused she didn't seem to notice I'd arrived.
Or maybe she had noticed.
And simply chose not to care.
I wasn't sure which possibility was more interesting.
I watched her for a few seconds too long.
Until she finally looked up.
And unlike most people, she didn't widen her eyes. She didn't smile. She didn't look surprised.
She simply looked at me, her dark brown eyes catching the afternoon light.
As though I was just another guest who had arrived and would leave again a few weeks later.
Then she went back to her painting.
I wasn't even sure she knew who I was.
For some reason, that made me smile.
"Here's the key you'll be using. We'll be staying in the house out back, so if you need anything at all, don't hesitate to come find us," the middle-aged man who owned the house said. He seemed incredibly kind, and the smile never left his face while he spoke. His English wasn't very fluent.
"Thank you very much," I replied.
Bill accepted the key from the man, who had introduced himself as Bapak Nyoman. He was dressed entirely in white, wearing what looked almost like a skirt, and something wrapped around his head that resembled a hat. I didn't know what it was called. It wasn't familiar to me.
I started wandering around the house I'd rented for the next two weeks.
A set of wooden sofas was neatly arranged in the open-air sitting area. The late afternoon sunlight poured over everything beautifully. There were several bungalows scattered around the property. One of them belonged to the owners.
The same house where I'd seen the girl who seemed to be a painter.
I stopped in front of one of the paintings hanging on the living room wall.
Ever since I'd stepped inside this house, my eyes kept drifting toward the paintings displayed in almost every corner. None of them looked carelessly made. Everything seemed to belong exactly where it was. Even the colors felt carefully chosen.
I stepped a little closer.
The painting in front of me showed a vast stretch of ocean. The waves weren't clearly defined, almost abstract. Yet somehow, I could still feel the sea inside it.
I didn't know much about painting techniques, but I'd always believed that good art didn't need too much explaining.
You looked at it. And you felt something. And this painting made me feel something.
Maybe peace. Maybe longing.
Or maybe it was simply because I was standing so close to the ocean myself.
I squinted at the lower corner of the canvas.
A name was written there in small letters.
So she was the one who painted all of this.
I found myself thinking about the girl I'd seen on the veranda. The girl with paint-stained hands. The girl who hadn't seemed particularly interested in my arrival.
I didn't know why she kept crossing my mind.
Maybe because I wasn't used to being treated that way.
My hand flew to my chest.
She was standing right behind me.
I let out a long breath before laughing softly at my own reaction.
"No, no, it's alright," I said, shaking my head. "I was just startled."
For some reason, I felt like a little kid who'd just been caught snooping through something that didn't belong to him.
From this close, I could see her face more clearly. She couldn't have been much younger than me.
Her black hair was still tied up carelessly. A few strands had escaped and danced around her face in the breeze. She was still wearing the same yellow shirt.
And her hands were still stained with paint.
I noticed the paint covered nearly all of her fingers. Not just a few tiny spots. Which meant she truly spent her time painting not just as an occasional hobby.
"Welcome to our home," she said.
Her voice was softer than I'd imagined.
"My father's away taking care of something for a while. So I'll be the one looking after you while you're here."
"Oh, I see," I said with a small nod.
I didn't know why, but suddenly I felt a little nervous.
Usually I didn't have trouble talking to new people.
But there was something about this girl that made me unsure of how to act around her.
She seemed friendly. But distant.
Usually, this was the part where people told me their names.
Or said they recognized me.
But the girl simply looked at my hand for a few seconds.
As if she were considering something.
Only then did she shake it.
"You're famous, aren't you?"
The question was so sudden that I didn't know how to answer it right away.
Not because I didn't know the answer.
But because I'd never heard anyone ask it quite like that before.
Usually people already knew.
Or at least pretended they did.
"I guess so?" I finally answered.
I didn't even sound convinced myself.
"My cousin likes your songs."
No overwhelming admiration.
No request for an autograph.
For some reason, her answer was funny.
I rubbed the back of my neck.
I could feel an odd sense of embarrassment creeping up on me. I wasn't sure why.
Maybe because I'd hoped she'd say something more personal.
Maybe because I wanted to know if she'd ever listened to my music herself.
"What about you?" I asked.
She tilted her head slightly.
And somehow it only made me more curious.
The second the words left my mouth, I regretted them.
What kind of question was that?
I sounded like I was fishing for compliments.
If Marlon were here, he'd never let me live it down.
And somehow, I really wanted to hear her answer.
Instead, she laughed softly, her big eyes narrowing as she smiled.
It was more like someone who'd just heard a question they found amusing.
I wasn't sure whether I should feel offended or not.
"Come on," she finally said, turning around.
"I'll show you to the master bedroom."
A little annoyed that I hadn't gotten an answer.
"What's your name?" I asked.
I knew I'd just read it on one of the paintings.
But I wanted to hear her say it herself.
For the second time that day, I'd heard that name.
And for the second time, I thought it suited her perfectly.
I picked up my pace until we were walking side by side up the wooden staircase to the second floor.
Behind us, I could hear Bill carrying my suitcases.
Nadine glanced over her shoulder.
Her eyes landed on my luggage.
"You brought a lot of luggage for a two-week trip."
Bill was carrying one huge suitcase that was already making me feel a little guilty.
Then I remembered there were still several more waiting outside.
Nadine raised an eyebrow.
I don't know why, but I suddenly felt judged.
And somehow, I felt like she was right.
She pushed open the bedroom door.
A rush of ocean breeze greeted me through the large windows at the end of the room. White curtains drifted gently in the wind. From here, I could even hear the waves crashing against the cliffs below.
I stepped inside. The room wasn't luxurious. But that was exactly what I liked about it. A large wooden bed stood in the center. A writing desk faced the ocean.
No stack of messages waiting for me to answer.
For the first time in a very long time, I felt like no one could find me.
Nadine leaned against the doorframe.
"My father designed this room."
"He believes people think more clearly when they can see the ocean."
I walked toward the window.
Nadine thought for a few seconds.
I turned toward her and she looked completely serious.
Nadine smiled a little too.
Bill set down the last suitcase beside the bed.
"I'll be in the room next door then, Michael."
Bill walked out, smiling at me and now it was just Nadine and me in the room.
For some reason, everything suddenly felt a little quieter. Nadine glanced at my suitcases again.
And immediately knew what she was thinking.
"I haven't said anything."
"But I know you want to."
Nadine folded her arms across her chest.
"That's a fair question."
"It's not a fair question."
"Five," I corrected, sounding slightly offended.
Nadine pointed toward the corner of the room.
Nadine looked like she was trying very hard not to laugh.
"That's not being prepared."
There went my wounded pride.
For a moment, I found myself thinking about how good Nadine's English was, considering it wasn't her first language.
Her accent was still there.
Some letters sounded different when she spoke them.
Other than that, though, she spoke effortlessly.
I listened to the way she talked, she didn't seem like someone searching for the right words.
They simply came naturally, as though English had always been part of her everyday life.
It suddenly occurred to me that I knew almost nothing about her.
Other than the fact that she painted.
And that she seemed to enjoy embarrassing me.
Nadine walked farther into the room while I stayed standing near my suitcases.
She opened one of the half-closed windows, and another breeze swept inside. The thin white curtains drifted gently, brushing against her arm now and then.
From here, the ocean looked even clearer.
I could see the waves breaking in the distance.
The afternoon sun was slowly sinking toward the horizon, turning the water gold.
"Did you paint all the paintings in this house?"
The question slipped out before I could think about it.
I pointed toward the hallway we'd just walked through.
"The ones downstairs. The one by the living room too."
She followed my hand, then nodded.
"A few belong to my mother."
I nodded, I thought about the painting of the ocean again.
There was something about it that lingered in my mind, not in a bad way it's quite the opposite, I felt like I'd seen that ocean before. Not a real ocean. An ocean from a dream. It wasn't truly blue. There was gray. A little green.
A color I couldn't quite describe.
I walked toward the window.
"The one by the living room is beautiful."
Nadine didn't answer right away.
"That doesn't narrow it down."
"So you paint the ocean a lot."
I looked at her. Nadine was smiling a little. I was beginning to realize that most of her expressions were impossible to read.
Sometimes she looked serious when she was joking. Sometimes she seemed distant, only to laugh a few seconds later.
I hadn't known her long enough to understand her face.
And strangely enough, that made me curious.
"So, are you really a painter?" I asked.
The question made her laugh again.
"You asked that as if I have some special identification card that says painter."
I shook my head, smiling.
"Alright. I mean, do you do it for a living?"
Nadine thought for a moment before answering.
"I do it because I like it."
"It's the best answer I've got."
I studied her face for a few moments.
I didn't know why, but I had the feeling Nadine wasn't the kind of person who liked putting herself into neat little boxes.
"Maybe that's the right answer," I finally said.
She looked slightly surprised.
"I make music because I like it too."
She simply looked at me for a few seconds, then her gaze shifted to the row of suitcases still lined up across the floor.
"So why does a musician who makes music because he likes it bring six suitcases for a two-week vacation?"
And for the second time that day, I heard Nadine laugh.
“I’ll let you get settled.”
I cleared my throat softly. For some reason, it felt like there was something lodged there.
Nadine pressed her lips together and offered me a small, polite smile. The kind that didn’t linger. It lasted only a second before she turned and headed toward the door.
I nodded, then watched her leave.
Our shoulders brushed as she passed me. So briefly that maybe it hadn’t happened at all. And yet I still felt it.
My body stiffened for a fraction of a second. Before I could even process what had happened, I caught her scent.
Not perfume. At least, I didn’t think so.
Something softer like freshly washed hair. Like flowers growing wild around the house after rain. Sweet, but not overpowering. Barely there. I wasn’t even sure whether I had actually smelled it or simply imagined it.
The door closed and suddenly I was alone again.
Something was wrong with me.
I stared at the door for several seconds longer than necessary before forcing myself to move.
For the next hour, I pretended to unpack.
Because the truth was that most of my clothes were still everywhere. Several shirts hung carelessly over the back of a chair. Trousers lay piled across the dark brown sofa facing the bed. One suitcase remained completely untouched.
I walked toward the window.
Outside, the afternoon was slowly dissolving into evening.
The sky that had been blue only moments ago was melting into shades of gold. Small birds crossed the horizon in the distance. Beneath the cliffs, the ocean continued its endless rhythm, rising and falling like a steady breath.
I pushed the window open wider, the sea air filled my lungs.
I took a long breath and for the first time in months—I felt like I could breathe.
I turned. Bill was standing in the doorway, dressed far more casually now. A navy-blue T-shirt. Shorts. For the first time since we'd arrived, he actually looked like a man on vacation.
“Looks like dinner’s ready. You coming?”
I nodded, “What do you think they made?”
“No idea. Something unfamiliar. I’ve been smelling something pretty strong coming from the kitchen for the last hour.” Bill shrugged.
I laughed softly, “That’s a very reassuring description.”
“You ate mystery food in Japan.”
Bill shook his head with a chuckle. We made our way downstairs.
The house felt different now that evening had settled in. Warm yellow lamps glowed from the corners, reflecting softly against the wooden floors. Somewhere beyond the property, I could hear insects singing and waves crashing against the shore.
But when we reached the kitchen area, it was empty.
Then a voice called out from outside.
“Mr. Jackson! Over here!”
We both turned. In the backyard, on a stretch of green grass overlooking the sea, a long wooden table had been set up, a white tablecloth covered its surface. Large dishes filled with foods I didn’t recognize sat neatly arranged in the center. The fading sunlight mixed with the warm glow of lanterns, making the entire scene look almost like a painting.
Bapak Nyoman waved enthusiastically.
And Nadine sat across from them.
I don’t know why my eyes found her first.
There were three people sitting there.
Yet somehow, my eyes found her first.
Her hair was down now. Dark waves spilled over her shoulders, moving gently whenever the ocean breeze passed through. One side had been tucked behind her ear, held in place by a white frangipani flower. I had never seen someone look so completely at home in a place.
As though the sea, the wind, the trees, and her belonged to the same story.
Meanwhile, I still looked like a tourist who had arrived with six suitcases.
Bill was trying not to smile. I immediately started walking toward the table.
“You’re back, Bapak Nyoman.” Said I.
“Yes!” he said cheerfully. “My wife and I went to buy ingredients. You must try Balinese food. I don’t know whether you’ll like it, but we worked very hard preparing everything.”
His smile was so sincere that I immediately felt guilty for having worried about the food.
“You really didn’t have to do all this. Thank you very much. Of course I’ll try it.”
I followed the direction of Ibu Nyoman’s hand. And only then did I notice a small problem.
The only empty chair was directly across from Nadine.
I pulled out the chair and sat down. A terrible mistake. Because from this distance, I could see her more clearly. The frangipani flower in her hair. The slight sun-kissed warmth of her skin. And the faint trace of blue paint that still lingered on one of her fingers.
She hadn’t managed to wash it off completely.
I didn’t know why I noticed things like that.
Bapak Nyoman’s voice startled me.
Everyone was looking at me.
Then realized I hadn’t heard a single word anyone had said for the last several seconds.
blakekathryn
romaincrisis
