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Michael Jackson

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Previous: CH14: The Photo Disclaimer! This is an persona fic ! Read previous chapters beforehand. IMPORTANT POLL AT THE END! Read from the start: PROLOGUE.

Masterlist

Special

November 13th 1982

It started with a call.

"Hi, Renée..."

Michael had to take a small breath. For the past couple of days, all he could think about was what La Toya said right before their fight ended.

She's using you for your fame... Don't come crying to me when she breaks your heart!

At the time, Michael had been too pissed to pay her any mind. He was angry at La Toya for getting into his business, pestering him, and possibly listening in on their late-night phone calls. Michael dumped at lot of his feelings on La Toya in the past, but sometimes he wanted someone else to confide in. Was that so wrong?

She affected him more than he wanted to admit.

Renée's not like that, Michael would have to remind himself. He had re-read Renée's letter to himself at least ten times by that point. He didn't want to doubt her, which was why he felt so embarrassed to ask, "Who else have you told that we're talking?"

Subtle.

He didn't sound too accusatory or suspicious.

He didn't know it, but on the other end of the line, Renée was anxiously fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. He didn't expect was for Renée to catch on pretty quickly

"Well, my mum knows. It's hard not to tell her why there's another phone in the house, especially since the phone guy was still installing it when she got back from work."

Michael chuckled. "Yeah, I guess."

He wanted to say, Who else? but it sounded too needy.

Instead, he waited.

"And..."

Here it is, he thought. Just like La Toya said. She's using him for his fame.

"My friend, Lanna."

He'd heard that name before, didn't he? Maybe Renée mentioned it once or twice during one of their phone calls, but he didn't really know this Lanna?

"She's also a fan of—um... you—but she wouldn't tell a soul. Lanna's really the only other person I talk to, apart from David, but I'm kinda required to talk to my own boss."

Well...guess it made sense.

Thinking back to Renée's letter, she said she hoped they'd become good friends. In other words, she liked him for him. She was the kindest girl he's met in years, and just the thought of their friendship growing made his heart flutter.

Michael changed the subject. He'd been so busy with 'Thriller' that he hadn't been able to call for a while. In the process, though, he wanted to make it up to her.

"I sent something... Hopefully it'll get there before the album drops."

"You sent me something?" The thought of Michael sending her something made her stomach do backflips. Despite being absolutely alone in her room, she hid her growing smile underneath her covers. The whistling wind outside her window, and the dim light from her bedside lamp only judge her. And too maybe the posters stuck along her walls. 

"It's a little gift for helping me out in the studio," he told her. "Trust me, you'll like it a lot."

And she did.

The twenty-first of November rolled around, and another package appeared on Renée's doorstep. This time, Isabel retrieved it from the mailman, and called Renée downstairs to sign for it. Expecting the package, Renée rushed downstairs, ready to sign off on the delivery.  With the swipe of a pen, the box was hers.

The box itself wasn't nearly as big as the phone had been, and was a lot lighter too. Made it easier to handle on her own. Remembering a few months ago, Renée had to lug it upstairs, step-by-step. 

Straight upstairs, she set it right down, smack-centre of her room on her pink shag carpet. With a small quick huff, she grabbed the scissors from her desk and stabbed through the package tape.

"A gift," she reminded herself as she slid the blade through the tape.

When the box was finally opened, like the phone, it was filled with packing peanuts. Only tips of Michael's gifts poking out.  

Resting on top was a letter only halfway submerged.

It read:

November 12th, 1982,

Quick! Don't buy the album off the shelves!

Did I scare you? Sorry if I did. That was just in case this thing arrived later than expected.

Renée could practically hear him giggling as he wrote that line.

I wanted to get you this gift as a thank you. Both for listening to Billie Jean in the recording studio, and for being my friend. There should be one record album, a cassette, and a few other gifts. Don't worry, it's a fun kind of extra!

There were a lot of songs taken out of this album, so I got Quincy to mix a special cassette of all those unused songs and some demos. Try not to judge me on my beatboxing. I can't play instruments or anything like that. I really hope you like it. It's a bit embarrassing. ESPECIALLY the demos. I can't wait to talk when you do get it.

Your Friend Always,

He signed it a little more casually than his last letter.

Michael

Almost like he knew she didn't need his last name to know who wrote it.

With a content smile, Renée set the note and envelope aside on her bed before turning her attention back to the package. The first thing that caught her eye was a sleek black box tied with a ribbon. A neat little bow.

Renée, sat cross-legged, then carefully opened it. Inside, wrapped in white tissue paper, was a cassette that so happened to have the most handsomest picture Renée'd ever seen of him.

Michael, smiling from ear to ear, holding a tiger cub. Not to mention he wore a dapper white suit, with soft curls falling over his forehead.

Above him were the words:

Michael Jackson — Thriller

She flipped it over. A handwritten track list covered the back.

Starlight Hot Street Nite Line Got the Hots Human Nature (Demo) Billie Jean (Demo) Beat It (Demo) Beat it Carousel

Probably written by Quincy or Michael himself.

To say she was excited was an understatement.

Opening the cassette case, she found a printed note tucked inside the cover. The space was far too small to realistically write on.

For Renée,

it began.

These collection of songs are my pride and joy. They are pieces of myself, given solely to you. Please promise me you won't let anyone else listen. They belong only to you.

Thank you for listening to me when I call.

Your Friend Always,

Michael

Her heart couldn't handle it anymore. Just with that sign off, "your friend always," was enough to tie her stomach in knots. Michael was treating her better than anyone has ever had. She was so used to being the one extending a hand, giving people her whole world while getting nothing in return. But for someone else—for a guy, for Michael—to be the one reaching back without expecting anything in return... She didn't know what to do with that.

Renée bit her tongue and pushed the thought aside. Instead, she slipped the cassette into her Walkman, settled the headphones over her ears, and continued rifling through the box as she listened.

The first song on the tape was Starlight. The moment Michael sang the opening note, she almost didn't recognize him. She was so used to the Michael who laughed, mumbled, and acted all bashful over the phone. 

Singing—especially on 'Thriller'—was vastly different. Not to mention, it too was quite different than 'Off The Wall.'

(For the reader's sake, imagine having a friend—whom you've known for ages—who was very quiet and timid. And the next thing you know, you watch their tagged Instagram story and they're completely different person. Extroverted and in their element. Nothing like you'd ever expect from them.)

Starlight...wasn't really her vibe. Too many synths, in her opinion, and it was the same for Hot Street.

Next, buried amongst the sea of packing peanuts, was something else. Bigger and flatter, a record wrapped in bubble wrap.

'Michael Jackson — Thriller' was written on the album cover. Instead of the cute cover with Michael holding the cub, in this one those big doe eyes looked timid into the camera. He was as equally handsome. 

Man... he's cute, she thought, even though she did prefer the cassette version.

Renée slipped off the plastic wrap and unfolded the gatefold sleeve. Like his first Epic album, it opened into a full-body photograph. Michael wore the same dashing white suit, leaning casually across the fold out, and the same cub that he held now perched over his knee. Guess they had to dry clean that suit after, because Renée was pretty sure that tiger was gnawing on Michael's leg.

With the record flipped was a song and lyric list. Some familiar from the cassette.

Human Nature. Beat It.

But not the one Michael played for her in the studio, Billie Jean.

"I need to call Lanna..." Renée started, but stopped before she could finish. Her eyes drifted to the red phone sitting on her nightstand, then back to the cassette.

She sighed.

Michael had asked her to promise not to share it. Especially the cassette.

Keeping it secret was going to be tough, especially from Lanna—the girl she'd met back in 1979, who knew Renée better than she knew herself.

It had all started on a sunny morning when an eighteen-year-old Lanna, with short hair and bangs, walked into Neurotic Records for the first time.

Sharp. Witty. Extroverted. Nothing had changed much. 

After failing her first year of college at seventeen, Renée had started working at the lonely record store. She was still in training, barely eighteen at the time, so most of her shifts involved cleaning, organizing, and keeping the shelves tidy. 

Shy. Anxious. Introverted. 

It was Lanna who walked right up to Renée and started yapping about Off the Wall, The Jackson 5, and The Jacksons. At that point, Renée was only just dipping her toes into Michael's music, so having someone to talk to made her light up.

No one understood Renée the way Lanna did. Their strange obsession with Michael Jackson had been the foundation of their friendship, and it stayed that way ever since. 

But now...there was Michael

Through their phone calls, only a few weeks at that point, Michael began trusted her. Michael wasn't just this superstar she had pictures of all over her walls. He wasn't just an album cover to stare at. Michael was her friend, and Renée wasn't the type of person to hurt the ones she loved. Especially, Michael.

A week earlier, Michael and Quincy Jones sat side-by-side in the mixing studio doing final checks on everything. Headphones sitting on their heads, before Michael slung his off. 

"Q," he said, the headphones now in his lap. Quincy took his off too. "I was wondering if," he fiddled with the headphones wire, "I could ask for a favour?"

Michael wore that shy expression Quincy got used to seeing since The Wiz. He wanted something, but he was scared or nervous to ask for it. Quincy nodded slowly, eyebrows cocked up for Michael to go on.

"Well," his eyes darted away but Quincy, "it shouldn't be too much trouble since we got all the tracks recorded already."

Quincy smirked gently, shaking his head with a small huff of a hum. "How long's this favour gonna take, Smelly?" 

Michael curled into himself, bringing his knee up to his chest and hugging it.

"I want a personal cassette mix with some polished demos and songs we took out from Thriller. I want to make it special too, with notes and a different cover."

"A special one? Only one cassette."

Michael nodded, eyes still looking down at the ground. 

It took a second, but Quincy's head fell to the side, before a little laugh escaped him.

"I'm guessing this is for Isabel's daughter, ain't it?" He had a feeling it was.

"No," Michael quickly answered, flustered out of his mind. 

"Calm down, Mike. I not judging you or something."

Michael didn't admit it, but sure did show it. The kid was. pretty obvious. 

"I'll do it," Quincy slapped a hand on Michael's shoulder. "But you're gonna have to talk to the bosses to get it personalized the way you want it to."

Michael's smile grew shyly. 

Quincy shared his smile, "I got you, man."

Written: June 19 2026 / June 20 2026 / July 8 2029

Edited: July 8 2026 / July 9 2026

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QUICK VOTE: Should Renée have a last name? I've been trying to avoid it for a while now (up till future chapter 15).

Previous: CH13: Halloween of 82' Disclaimer! This is an persona fic ! Read previous chapters beforehand. IMPORTANT POLL AT THE END! Read from the start: PROLOGUE.

Masterlist

The Photo

a/n: REMINDER TO ANSWER POLL AT THE END

The letter containing her editorial-like debut wouldn't arrive for another week. In the meantime, Renée and Michael spoke for nearly eight nights straight before he finally received the letter in the mail.

He was excited, giddy too with anticipation when the bodyguard delivered it that afternoon. Thankfully, it didn't get mixed in with the rest of the mail. He wouldn't want his mother, sisters, or, God forbid, Joseph to open it first. There was a good chance they'd think it was something when it wasn't.

Dodging his mother and sisters in their intimate-sized condo, Michael closed himself into his room and dove onto the bed. Stuffed animals and Mickey Mouse went flying off the bed from the force of his jump, spilling onto the already cluttered floor below, scattered amongst vintage toys, records, and stacks of books. Michael dropped back onto his mattress, legs crossed amongst the mess he'd created and opened the envelope.

First, a letter.

November 1st, 1982

Dear Michael,

It's weird to write you a letter when we talk every night anyways, but I thought it might be strange not to accompany the picture with one. It would be a bit strange to send a picture all cold turkey. I'm really awkward when it comes to sappy stuff, even over the phone, so I thought it was best to write you here. Maybe I'd stop second-guessing myself. I'll just get to the point. I really like talking to you, and I feel less lonely whenever I hear your voice. You're sweet, kind, and even though we still barely know each other, I hope we can be good friends with time. There! I did it. Hopefully I don't regret writing all these things later on, even though I probably will.

Talk to you soon,

Renée

How could a simple letter and a confession of friendship cause his heart to leap that desperately? Was it because of its words, or was it because it was Renée who had written them? The answer would come with time.

As for the picture, when he shook it out of the envelope, the only thing on his mind was his absolute love for Kermit. The photo itself was quite stunning and deserving of a spot on his cork board.

Written in red Sharpie in the white space below were the words: Kermit 1982'

To think, the only thing on Michael's mind was Kermit, but in a few years' time, all he'd be able to think about was her.

That night, he called her.

Ever since their first phone call, Michael had made it a habit of calling her instead of the other way around. Having to go through operators, security, and multiple people just to reach him was a hassle, and he never wanted Renée to feel like speaking to him had to be some grand process. It was easier for him to call her directly.

"Renée," he said the moment he heard the line pick up. "I got your picture today. It looks really good too."

Already settled into her bed, Renée rested the phone against her ear. Her pyjamas were on, and a cup of fruity-smelling tea sat on her nightstand.

"You think?" Renée asked, unable to truly hide the smile creeping onto her lips behind the phone. She took a small sip of her raspberry tea, the warmth settling through her as she snuggled beneath the covers.

He let out a quiet giggle. "I put it up on my wall. Right next to my Mickey drawings."

"Mickey?" she repeated. "Like... Mickey Mouse?"

"Mhm," he hummed.

With the phone still in hand, he wandered over to his desk, his eyes drifting to the photo now pinned amongst his other treasures.

"I really like Mickey Mouse, and Disneyland. I go all the time."

She laughed softly on the other end of the line, and for a moment, his stomach twisted in knots. Hopefully she didn't think it was silly or strange.

But to his surprise, she said, "I like Disney too."

Thank you, God.

He had been worried for a second there. He knew it might seem childish, how much he loved Disney and all, but Renée didn't seem bothered in the slightest. If anything, she sounded excited.

"I'm more of a Disney princess kind of girl," she admitted. "But I like The Jungle Book and all that stuff too."

"I like Peter Pan," he said, taking a quiet pause as he debated whether to ask his next question. He decided to."Do you like Peter Pan?"

It was music to his ears when he heard her hum a soft, "Yes."

Michael's face immediately brightened. A quiet little laugh escaped him as he bounced slightly where he stood, his free hand fluttering in excitement before he could stop himself.

"Really?" he asked, his voice lifting. "Oh, I love Peter Pan. The whole idea of never growing up, flying, going to Neverland—it's just magical."

Michael bounced onto his bed and flopped back against it.

"Y'know," his voice softened into a whisper, "I wonder...if we think happy enough thoughts, maybe we could fly too."

Silence.

Then, "Maybe with some faith, trust, and pixie dust."

No one understood his love for Disne—or even came close to understanding it other than Taj, even though he was only nine. Renée was just as much of a grown-up as Michael was, and yet there she was on the phone giggling alongside him.

"Exactly!"

Michael didn't want to overwhelm her with his obsessions. He could talk about Disney for hours, although it seemed selfish to indulge himself too much. What more could there possibly be to Renée? "Tell me about princesses," he asked, his feet kicking in the air behind him. "Who's your favourite?"

Renée sighed thoughtfully, running through the small catalogue of Disney princesses in her mind. There were only so many to choose from in 1982.

"Cinderella—wait—Aurora!"

The sheets rustled through the speaker as Michael turned onto his back, a quiet laugh escaping him. "Aurora?" he repeated. "Really?"

She scoffed, pretending to get upset, though her giggles gave her away.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing," he grinned. "Don't worry about it."

"You were laughing for a reason. What's so wrong with Aurora?"

"Nothing's wrong with Aurora," he quickly told her. "I just wasn't expecting that."

"Well, I like her song."

"The song she sings when she meets the prince?"

"Mhm," Renée nodded, despite him not being able to see her. "I think it's really pretty."

"Does that mean you sing?" Michael rolled back onto his stomach.

Michael heard her shrugged to herself, it just getting him even more excited. Music was Michael's whole life—his true love—so if Renée too liked singing, that meant she'd be his true love— Michael had to stop himself. The though alown getting him all flustered. He really didn't mean to think that.  

"Kinda," Renée broke her silence. She whispered, "but only to myself."

Michael felt all warm with a fluttering feeling in his stomach. And he wondered too. Was her voice as soft as she spoke over the phone, as passionate as she sounded when they listened to Billie Jean in the booth, or did it sound like when she couldn't control her laughter and just land herself in a fit?  "You can't just say that and not sing for me," he smiled to himself. "Can you sing any of my songs?"

"Don't even," she warned

"Renée," he whined. "Not even 'Rock with You'? 'Girlfriend'?"

Okay, this was definitely flirting in lyric form. It just had to be!

Michael pleaded with her even though he already knew she wouldn't budge. She just sounded so cute all pouty over the phone.

"Absolutely not," she pushed back further. "I'll never sing out-loud, especially to you." 

"You're no fun," he laughed. Really, the last thing she said got him a bit down. She'll never sing out-loud, especially to him.  "One day," his soft voice filled the phone again. "One day I'll get you to sing for me."

The call eventually ended for the night. Michael had to go see Quincy the next day, which meant he'd unfortunately have to hold off calling Renée again. His schedule was so busy it barely left time for anything else. Between the last-minute mix of Thriller, a big meeting with Paul McCartney for a short film, and the press, there was simply not enough hours in the day. On top of all that, it wasn't like he could call Renée whenever he wanted. The time difference made things far too complicated.

Michael tiredly slid off his bed and properly hung up the phone. Shoving the toys that had fallen onto the floor off to the side with his feet. Only one Mickey remained at the end of the bed.

But just as he was about to get dressed for the night, there came a knock.

"Yeah?" he answered, still rifling through his closet. "Who is it?"

The door cracked open, and in stepped his sister, La Toya. She wore a mischievous grin, a knowing glint already shining in her eyes.

There was no chance he was escaping without a good talk.

"Michael," she said, closing the door behind her, "you think I haven't noticed you goin' off and disappearing at the same time every day?"

Michael nearly froze but kept his face as neutral as he could. He was a terrible liar.

"Michael," La Toya said, snapping him out of his daze. She was already sitting on the edge of his bed, patting the space beside her. "Tell me, or I'll tell everyone in this house you're having secret phone calls."

"La Toya," Michael groaned. He loved his sister to bits, but she was so nosy. Always in his beeswax. "I'm not having secret phone calls with anybody."

Before he knew it, La Toya had already wandered over to his cluttered desk.

It was covered in notes for Thriller, cassette tapes, lyric sheets, and little scraps of ideas. Above it hung the cork board.

And right there...

"Aha!"

She'd spotted it.

Michael braced himself for the inevitable grilling. La Toya—and Janet, for that matter—had a habit of scaring away any girl who wandered into his life. Not that there had been many. Most of the women he met were through work, and in a way, Renée had been too.

Still, he hurried after her.

Mickey-print pyjamas still in hand, Michael sprang across the room.

"Wait—no—that's not it!"

"Move," La Toya laughed, nudging him aside with surprising force before unpinning the Polaroid from the cork board.

In a flash, she'd darted around to the other side of the bed.

Michael stopped short.

They stood at opposite ends of it in a silent standoff.

"So..." La Toya held up the picture, studying Renée sitting on the concrete steps in her editorial-style pose. She tilted the photo toward the light.

"She's cute," she murmured.

Then she looked back at him with a smirk.

"I guess."

Michael lunged without warning, snatching the photo from her hand before army-rolling across the bed. He bounced back onto his feet, clutching the Polaroid against his chest.

"La Toya, just get out of my room! It's none of your business."

Despite the argument, they both kept their voices low. Neither of them wanted Katherine hearing them bicker. It never ended well when she did.

"It is my business," La Toya shot back. "As your sister, it's my job to know the girls you're talking to."

"It's nobody! It's just studio business."

Quickly, he tucked the photo into his back pocket.

"Why do you always have to snoop around my room? Just go away, La Toya. I mean it."

"Studio business at midnight?" She folded her arms. "Michael, don't lie to me. You have that guilty look on your face." She narrowed her eyes. 

"Is it that girl from Canada? The one you said was in rehearsals last month? You know she's probably just using you because you're famous. Come on, Michael. You can't be that naïve."

Michael's face burned.

"You don't know anything about her, La Toya!" Michael blurted, no longer worrying about keeping his voice down. "You're just being mean. You're always trying to ruin everything! I finally find someone who's nice to me, and you come in here trying to twist it all around. Just leave it, and get out of my room."

"Fine!"

She grabbed one of the Mickey plushies from his bed and tossed it at him. He caught it just before it hit his face.

"But Mother is eventually going to hear that phone clicking every night." La Toya reached the doorway, then poked her head back in for one final remark. "Keep your secrets, but don't come crying to me when she breaks your heart." The door slammed shut.

Her footsteps echoed down the stairs, leaving only silence behind.

Still fuming, Michael climbed back onto his bed and hugged the Mickey toy that La Toya had thrown at him. Rolling onto his side, he slipped out the photograph from his pocket.

Renée.

That same warm smile.

She wasn't using him for his fame...

Right?

Written: June 17 2026 / June 19 2026

Edited: July 4 2026

QUICK VOTE: Should Renée have a last name? I've been trying to avoid it for a while now (up till future chapter 15).

If so, write some ideas in the comments below! PLEASE do not used your OWN last name (I will delete if so)! Whoever has the most likes (between WATTPAD Tumblr & TikTok) I'll choose.

Happy late 4th of July for Americans

BOOOOO Morocco :(((

If you guys haven't guessed, I'm Canadian so I'm in mourning rn...

LMK if you want to be added to the taglist!

Previous: CH12: Kermit The Frog Disclaimer! This is an persona fic ! Read previous chapters beforehand. IMPORTANT POLL AT THE END! Read from the start: PROLOGUE.

Masterlist

Halloween of 82'

Content Warning: Disordered eating / food restriction

October 31st 1982

"Renée, come on!" Lanna called from the bedroom door, watching her friend scramble around for her candy bag.

"Not helping," she called back, fully inside her small closet, searching for the orange Halloween bag she'd been using since she was five.

Most people Renée and Lanna's age were out partying and getting wasted.

They were trick-or-treating at 6 p.m. as Miss Piggy and Kermit.

Free candy was free candy, right?

Renée pushed the hair out of her face, spotting the bag buried beneath a few sweaters. With all her might, she stretched upward and swiped it from the top shelf.

"Got it!"

"Good. Now hurry up." Lanna sighed, tapping her foot against the carpeted floor—as if it would make Renée hurry up any faster. Renée wore green jeans, a green sweater, and the lighter green collar she'd watched Renée cut out of a sheet of felt two days ago. Lanna herself, going as Miss Piggy, wore a diva-like dark fuchsia dress with a pink feather boa, her brown hair hidden beneath a blonde wig. She, too, carried a pink bucket to match.

"Let's go before people start running out of candy."

Renée quickly gathered her things and rushed downstairs with Lanna. Her mother was at work, so all Renée needed to do was grab her keys, put on her green sneakers, and fly out the door.

Three hours behind, Michael sat in the L.A. condo a little bummed out. Since their Encino home was under construction, and their temporary stay was in the condo Michael usually escaped to, he wouldn't be able to go out that night. Even if he were to say he'd be out under the guise of a late-night studio session, sneaking in all that candy would be tough to do.

"Michael," La Toya's voice stirred him from his thoughts. He was lying in bed on the top floor while she called out from the hallway. "Mother wants you!"

"I'm coming," he said.

Annoyance laced his tone, although he remained quiet rather than loud. La Toya was one of his closest sisters, but her voice... man, it sounded like Carol Burnett's. High-pitched and scratchy.

Michael tugged on his blue polo, which had become wrinkled from lying on the bed, and descended the stairs.

"Michael," Katherine said in that steady, motherly tone. A dish of unfinished peas, brown rice, steamed carrots, and broccoli sat in front of her.

"Yes, Mother," he answered.

This wasn't anything new. Every Sunday, Michael practised from morning to night and fasted all day. That day, his mother forced him to sit at the table and eat. Even then, he only picked at his food.

The plate sat on the island counter, still steaming after being reheated in the microwave.

"I need you to sit down and finish the rest of your plate."

"Mother..." He looked down at his socks rather than meet her eyes.

"Son—"

His voice jumped an octave, cutting her off with frustrated speed. "I'm not hungry, Mother."

Katherine knew her boy better than Michael knew himself. He was stubborn and always wanted the last word. But she couldn't stand watching her son work himself to the verge of fainting, then refuse anything given to him, regardless of whether it would've cured the pit in his stomach. As a mother, it hurt her more than he could ever know.

"Michael..." she said a bit more firmly. "You hardly ate anything today. You need to eat at least—"

"You're always worrying about me being too skinny!" he snapped, louder than he'd intended. He pushed back from the table and ran a hand through his hair. "But you know what? If I didn't have to eat to live, I'd never eat at all."

How did her boy not realize how wonderful he already was?

"Michael Joseph," she said sternly. "You are not leaving this room until you eat everything on that plate, or by Jehovah, I will feed you myself."

Katherine Jackson didn't need to raise her voice like his father did. There was a soft firmness in her words that scared Michael straight. She may have been soft-spoken, but in that moment, he felt like a child sitting at the kitchen table again.

Tears stung his eyes as he rigidly complied, slipping into the island chair, one hand still clutching the blue cotton hem of his polo.

Watching her boy cry in silence broke Katherine's heart. Her precious son—the quiet child she had raised, the one she believed had been blessed by Jehovah with a gift unlike any other—was hurting, and there was nothing she could do to take that pain away.

Katherine stepped out from behind the kitchen island and pulled up a chair beside her son. Michael remained frozen, small tears still staining his cheeks, as she quietly gathered a spoonful of peas, cupped his face in her gentle hands, and brought the food to his lips.

He flinched as her hand cupped his cheek, his jaw tightening. Michael could fight his father or his brothers, but never his mother. He loved her too deeply. Hesitantly, with his gaze fixed off to the side, he parted his lips to let the spoon pass into his mouth. He couldn't look at his mother while he chewed. Tears continued to fall as he shakily took one bite after another.

Fat boy, he thought.

Joseph's careless words had etched themselves into Michael's mind years ago, but they clung like chewing gum in hair.

Big nose... fat boy... he'd call him.

And as Michael ate, that's all he could think about. Every bite felt like proof of those insults, like he was becoming exactly what his father had always accused him of being.

He forced himself to finish eating before locking himself in his room for the rest of the evening. Renée wouldn't even be home if he called.

He was alone for the rest of the night.

Around midnight, Lanna and Renée hung out at the playground a block away, trading chips, candy, and chocolate before eating them. The two of them sat on either side of the slide's railings, a few feet above ground level. They laughed and talked about anything and everything until Renée remembered.

"You still have that camera from earlier, right?"

"Uh, pretty sure, but it's probably buried underneath a whole bunch of candy."

"Then can you get it?"

"What?" Lanna pointed into her bag. "Now?"

"Yes, now." She rolled her eyes, nearly reaching over to grab the bag and fish for it herself.

Lanna snatched it away from Renée's hasty hand, grumbled, and pulled out the chunky Polaroid camera.

"Why do you need it?" she asked, holding it out to her. "We took pictures before we went out anyway."

Renée gently pushed it back with her green fingerless gloves.

"I need you to take a picture of me."

Lanna raised an eyebrow.

"Are you a narcissist or something?"

The way Renée twitched was very telling. Lanna had known her for four years, and not to toot her own horn, she was pretty observant.

"It's..." Renée hesitated. "...it's for Michael."

Now this was a huge development. First a free concert, next a free trip to L.A., late-night phone calls, and now a photo?

"Michael wants a picture of you? And he told you that? Why?"

She didn't mean it rudely, but this was Michael Jackson. Arguably the most talked-about guy of their generation. Talented, hot, and, as of a month ago, apparently shy.

"Renée—"

"He said he likes Kermit and wanted to see my costume," she snapped, waving her hands as if trying to physically push away the implication. "That's all. So can you help me?"

All Lanna could do was sigh and look around for good lighting.

Under the warm, flickering light outside the elementary school, Renée stood awkwardly in front of the brick wall. For a dancer, Lanna thought, she really didn't know how to pose.

"How about..." Lanna looked around for a second. Renée needed some kind of prop—or something to hold onto—so she wouldn't look so stiff.

Then she found it.

The perfect spot.

The stairs.

"There! Sit over there or something and look cute."

The staircase in front of the school's doors was perfect. The lighting, the height—everything was golden. Lanna was determined to take the cutest photo of Renée to send to Michael, even if it meant making her pose there all night.

Next thing Renée knew, she was in a full-blown photoshoot. Once the pictures developed, they looked them over beneath the light. The first one was an immediate favourite. Renée leaned back against the steps, her hair sitting just right, the photo taken from above. The angle had been achieved by Lanna performing some balancing act on the stone banisters along the sides of the staircase.

"It seems too editorial." Renée studied it closely. The picture was cute; the flash lit up her costume nicely, but was it too try-hard? She didn't want to seem like she was trying too hard. Before she could doubt herself any further, Lanna stepped in and snatched the photo from her hands.

"It's perfect," she said, sliding it into the pocket of Renée's jeans. "Perfectly hot enough, but not overly sexy to send to Michael."

"Lanna!" Renée nearly choked on her own breath, her face heating instantly. "Do not say it like that."

"What? It's true."

"Oh my God," she groaned, hiding her face in her hands. "He is going to think I'm a complete idiot."

"You mean he's going to think you're pretty."

"That's somehow worse."

Either way, she wound up putting the Polaroid in an envelope and sliding it into the post box the next morning.

Written: June 16 2026

Edited: June 16 2026

QUICK VOTE: Should Renée have a last name? I've been trying to avoid it for a while now (up till future chapter 15).

If so, write some ideas in the comments below! PLEASE do not used your OWN last name (I will delete if so)! Whoever has the most likes (between WATTPAD Tumblr & TikTok) I'll choose.

Historical facts:

(lmk if u like this 'history facts' sections for whenever I mention something specific to his life)

Michael suffered from anorexia. Up until the late '80s, he was a vegetarian, but later switched to a more protein-heavy diet as per his doctor's suggestion. Throughout his childhood, and well into adulthood, he always had difficulties with eating. Some sources say his lack of eating was the result of stress, exhaustion, and emotional distress, in some cases starving himself until he'd faint. One could also argue that his body dysmorphia and insecurities were a major factor in his self-starvation. This led to him being spoon-fed or monitored during meals.

Michael would spend every Sunday practising and dancing until he'd collapse from exhaustion, all without a morsel of food (most of the time).

There were also multiple confrontations about his dangerous eating habits during the time of Thriller's final mix (around when this chapter takes place). In some instances, he'd be confronted by his mother, Katherine, who'd try to force him to eat a proper meal. Reportedly, according to Katherine, Michael would stubbornly pout and argue. In one real quote, when she'd begged him to eat, Michael looked her in the eye and said: "You're always worrying about me being too skinny. But you know what? If I didn't have to eat to live, I'd never eat at all."

In 1979, Michael first met Jim Henson (the puppeteer behind Kermit and creator of The Muppets) at an industry event. It wasn't until The Jacksons' Victory Tour in New York City in 1984 that Michael met Kermit face to face. Jim surprised him by bringing Kermit into Michael's private dressing room, resulting in the famous photograph of a starstruck Michael shaking hands with Kermit the Frog while formally addressing him as, "Mr. Kermit."

A small historical note: Michael did meet Jim Henson in 1979, but the famous photo of him shaking hands with Kermit was taken in 1984 during the Victory Tour, not during their first meeting. The rest aligns well with the historical record.

LMK if you want to be added to the taglist!

Previous: CH11: Working' Day and Night Disclaimer! This is an persona fic ! Read previous chapters beforehand. IMPORTANT POLL AT THE END! Read from the start: PROLOGUE.

Masterlist

Kermit The Frog

October 30th 1982

"Renée," Michael said happily once he heard her voice on the other end.

"Michael!"

He could tell she was smiling. She always made this cute little humming sound when she smiled, and sure enough, she did it again. As he wandered around his room, cordless phone in hand, he carried on.

"How are you?" he asked. "How's your weekend so far?"

Renée hummed through the speaker, her soft voice travelling like a whisper into his ear.

Again, it was very late for her and still somewhat early for him. Although there was only a three-hour time difference, the calls had proved difficult early on.

"It's been okay," she sighed. "But tomorrow's Halloween, so I'm going out."

"Like... to a party?" Michael sat down on his bed, imagining she was probably doing the same on the other end of the line. But he couldn't help wondering: Was Renée one of those party girls who got drunk and slept with any man who gave her attention?

"No," she said, much to his relief. "I'm not cool enough to go to parties, so I usually go trick-or-treating with my friend, Lanna."

"You go trick-or-treating?" He felt himself perk up with excitement.

"I know I'm a bit too old for it," she sighed, "but free candy is free candy, right?"

"Can you keep a secret?" Michael asked shyly into the phone.

Renée inched closer to the receiver. So did he.

"Mhm... pinky promise."

"Well," he whispered, "I go trick-or-treating too."

Another surprise. Not because he was twenty-four—free candy was free candy—but because Renée would've thought it was difficult for him to go outside, being as famous as he was. Not to mention, he'd told her he didn't celebrate holidays.

True, because of his religion he didn't celebrate most things, especially Halloween, but it was different now. Using the penthouse he'd bought for his family while their house was being renovated, he'd transform himself into some sort of monster and go trick-or-treating. Although, with their home still under construction, it would prove a little trickier to go out this year.

"It's sort of a secret," he told her. "I wear these crazy disguises, like monsters and all that, and go door to door. No one knows—not even Mother or Joseph."

Joseph? Oh yeah. That's his dad.

Her giggle was infectious.

"They must be really good costumes."

"So..." Michael lay back across his sheets. "...what are you dressing up as?"

"Y'know the Muppets?"

Of course he knew the Muppets. Michael had been ecstatic when he met Jim Henson and Kermit back in '79.

"I love the Muppets," he smiled. "I also met Oscar the Grouch on Sesame Street when they wanted me for a Christmas episode." He chuckled to himself. "But I'm guessing you already know that."

"Maybe," she laughed.

"So what are you gonna wear?"

"Um..." Renée looked over at the costume hanging from her wardrobe door. It was going to be a pretty cold Halloween, so she'd altered it to make it warmer. "A green sweater, the lighter green collar I made two days ago, and a pair of jeans I dyed green."

She turned her attention back to the phone, only to hear him giggle again.

"That sounds like a good costume... and it'll probably look good on you too."

To have someone she admired so much compliment her...

Now that was heaven.

"Thanks, Michael."

"And you better take a picture and send it to me. I wanna see it. I'll give you our address so it doesn't get mixed in with all the fan letters."

"Oh?" she teased. "Now you're making me feel all special."

Her playful, carefree charm had no idea how flustered it made him.

"Well... you are special," he blurted.

"I mean..." An awkward giggle escaped him. "You're my friend, so of course you're special..."

Eventually, they got off the phone, much to Michael's disappointment.

Without Renée, he only had his mother and sisters to help subdue the loneliness. Still, it felt strange having someone his own age as a friend. After nearly two decades on the road, Michael had thought it was impossible for someone like him to make friends, but here he was.

Not only was she sweet and kind, she understood him. She never judged him or looked at him like some kind of spectacle.

That night came back to him the way it had for weeks now.

Renée had fallen asleep in the chair, and the studio had gone quiet. Everyone else was either in the changing rooms or had already left for the night. He'd thought he'd be alone, that she wouldn't wake up.

But she had.

Her socks muffled her footsteps as she walked over to him.

She saw him touch his face. Stretch his jaw and shape his nose with his fingers.

"I broke my nose," he remembered telling her.

Michael had hoped she'd leave it at that, but Renée was unpredictable.

"Wouldn't breathing be easier if it was wider?"

She'd said it so simply. So logically. Yet there was something quietly caring about it.

He hadn't known whether to laugh it off or cry.

She looked sad for him—he could tell—but she didn't show it for his sake.

For him.

How could a man like him deserve someone like her?

Maybe God really had listened to him...

And maybe He really had brought him a friend.

Historical fun facts:

(according to the internet lol)

From September to December of 1982, Michael's Encino Hayvenhurt home was under massive construction. Michael, his two sisters (Latoya and Jannet), and his mother lived in a condo for a while. 

Michael ACTUALLY went trick-or-treating. Despite being a Jehovah's Witness, as an adult he'd dress in Hollywood level monster costumes and go out. Usually on the excuse of late night studio sessions, etc. 

a/n: I don't know much about religion but since Michael was pretty religious, I wanted to represent him in honesty, to the best of my abilities. Hopefully I'll get better as this fanfic goes on! I learn more about MJ everyday. 

QUICK VOTE: Should Renée have a last name? I've been trying to avoid it for a while now (up till future chapter 15).

If so, write some ideas in the comments below! PLEASE do not used your OWN last name (I will delete if so)! Whoever has the most likes (between WATTPAD Tumblr & TikTok) I'll choose.

There will be a final vote if there are enough responses.

Written: June 13 2026

Edited: June 30 2026

LMK if you want to be added to the taglist!

Previous: CH10: First Call! Disclaimer! This is an persona fic ! Read previous chapters beforehand. IMPORTANT POLL AT THE END!

Read from the start: PROLOGUE.

Masterlist

Workin' Day and Night

Michael ran through the doors huffing—bursting into Westlake Recording Studios. Quincy, already sat in front of the expensive sound board, preparing the tracks in the cassette machine just beside him. He looked at Michael. Quincy was a cool and collected type, but it wasn't often he saw Michael in a frenzy.

"Y'good, Smelly?"

"Human Nature," Michael cut him off. "Q, I want Human Nature on Thriller."

Quincy got out of his chair, Michael already taking off his jacket and heading into the recording booth. He leaned onto the door frame of the booth, watching Michael already putting on the headphones.

"The one by Steve Porcaro? Last time you said—"

"Forget last time," Michael firmly told him. "I want to record the vocals tonight." Michael took off his shades. His eyes all doe-like and wanting, "please, Q."

Quincy shook his head for a moment, cracked a smile, then shook his head.

"Alright, man. Booth's all yours."

He handed Michael the lyric sheet, and got to work.

Fourteen hours straight starting from the night he got off the phone with Renée. Workin' all day and night—although in the opposite order. 

Human Nature... To him, Human Nature was about a deep yearning for normalcy, freedom, and a desire for human connection. Something that was so close, yet so far, with the pedestal of fame he grew up on. And the way Renée described it: believing in something; Whether it being an idea, notion or person. Either way and either context, it's all just human nature. It's a song that anyone could relate to, whether listening or singing along. A perfect cut for Thriller.

The next day, Michael anxiously arrived at the studio, ready to stand up for himself. It's been weeks at that point that Quincy and him had been arguing over Billie Jean. Michael walked into the studio, Quincy already in front of the soundboard like last time. Quincy just turned around in his chair, looking at a stiffened Michael in the doorway.

He just doesn't understand, Michael would tell himself. So what if the instrumental intro was 29 seconds long? It added to the build up, and Renée said so herself. She liked it, and she liked the intro too.

"You okay—"

"We're keeping the intro," he stated firmly. "The 29-second intro to Billie Jean, we're keeping it."

Quincy swiped a tongue under his bottom lip and rubbed his chin. "Michael," he began to say. "Look, man. It's radio suicide. If we shave it down—"

"But that's the jelly!" he cut in. "That's what makes me want to dance."

"Michael—"

"Renée said it too," Michael blurted.

Quincy squinted his eyes. "Renée? Isabel's daughter, Renée?"

"Yes, and she said she liked the intro. She was groovin' and everything to it."

Isabel was right, Quincy thought. Michael and Renée did get along just like she said.

Quincy took a deep breath and stood down. Once Michael was set on something, there was no point in arguing.

"Fine," he said.

And that was that.

It's been a few days since Michael said he wanted to call Renée more. While Michael was off-the-rocker busy, Renée couldn't sleep. While she worked, all she could think about was him. While she ate, went out with Lanna, all thoughts led back to Michael.

Did she screw it all up with Michael? God, no, she hoped. Michael had been the best thing to happen to her, and being deprived of him was torturous.

Then, the night of October 9th came around and the phone rang. Renée scrambled upstairs from dinner and dove onto her bed, picking up the blaring thing till she heard his voice.

"Renée?"

His voice was soft like usual, but tired. She guessed he'd been working hard all that time, and for that she was a bit relieved. Still, she never let go of her breath, even as she said:

"Michael... How are you?"

The phone crackled and popped as he sighed into the receiver. "I'm sorry, Renée. I've been workin' day and night on these songs."

"Like that one you had me listen to?" Renée held the phone up with her shoulder, grabbing some clothes to sleep in from her drawers. She listened to him as she got dressed.

"Yeah, that one and another one. I went into that recording studio and put my foot down. I said, we're keeping that 29-second intro, and that's that."

Renée flopped down on her bed, the curly cord now slack instead of pulling. He sounded so proud of himself, and in a way, she too was proud of him. If she had a hard time standing up for herself, there was no doubt he did too.

"That's great, Michael," she said to him. "Producers are magic, but it starts with the singer... Don't tell Quincy I said that."

Michael laughed, the speaker crunching with noise as he did. "I won't," his laughter died down with a content sigh. "I pinky promise I won't tell 'em."

a/n: Shorter chapter than usual, but I hope you all enjoyed it! Stay turned for future updates! I'm working on an edit for the tragic anniversary coming up so I may be a bit busy since I'm crunching. Regardless, I'll be back. 

Historical fun facts:

There was a real incident involving Michael Jackson's Billie Jean. Quincy Jones wanted to "shave" off the iconic intro of the song claiming it would be "radio suicide" if it were that long. Ultimately, Michael won the argument by saying: "But that's the jelly! That's what makes me want to dance."

Human Nature was put on last minute before the Thriller album release in November, replacing the song "Carousel" in it's line up. It's a song originally by keyboardist for TOTO, Steve Porcaro. When he ran out of blank tapes, he recorded some demos on the on a cassette sharing its other side with Human Nature. Listening to the demos, the cassette automatically played the other side which was when Quincy and Michael first listened to Human Nature. The song had that energy they wanted, so they added it to the album. The full version of cut-out song, "Carousel," was released November 18, 2022 for the 40th anniversary of Thriller, the album. 

Hopefully I got that all right. lol

QUICK VOTE: Should Renée have a last name? I've been trying to avoid it for a while now (up till future chapter 15).

If so, write some ideas in the comments below! PLEASE do not used your OWN last name (I will delete if so)! Whoever has the most likes (between WATTPAD Tumblr & TikTok) I'll choose.

There will be a final vote if there are enough responses.

I also did a tribute post to make 17 years without Michael if you wanted to check it out. There’s a pretty strong message at the end.

Written: June 10 2026

Edited: June 24 (midnight lol)

LMK if you’d like to be added to the tag-list! New updates (nearly) every other day.

Tribute edit to Michael Jackson who left us on the 25th of June 2009, aged 50.

Michael Jackson was a misunderstood man. Growing up in the music industry at such a young aged left only with his adult years to experience childhood wonders.

Yesterday I asked myself, "how is it that Michael feels like he's still alive?" but it came to me.

Us.

He may have passed over a decade ago, but he never truly left us. His philanthropy, magic and love left an impact on the world. An impact that will never truly leave us.

Many of us—his new fans—have never met or seen him in real life. But because of our love, we make is feel like he's still here with us. We make it so that his legacy will never die.

I've always known who Michael Jackson was. Growing up in the early 2000s, it was impossible to not hear him. I never really payed attention to him or cared about him as much as I do now.

Before you comment fake fan, listen to this.

After watching the biopic (5x), a spark was lit inside me. Maybe I felt inspired? Related to it in someway? I was born a life not as glamorous and as famous as Michae wasl, but nonetheless came into the world in the limelight. I grew up at shows, bars, theatres, meeting people who I didn't realize how important they actually were. I've been around the scene of a musician. Growing up in that environment, I too felt stunted and rather sheltered. Maybe that's why I feel so connected to him. I've seen the worst of this industry, seeing how rumours can destroy careers. First handed too. Now that I'm older, I understand the world; its wars, crisis, and the corruption of politicians and elites.

You know when people say, "when you grow up you'll learn to appreciate more?" It's true. Older, I now understand what Michael was trying to tell us all. I understand his music, his message, and the importance of his words.

I see the world for what it is and I too see the potential for what it can be.

"Without children, mankind would go extinct."

Myself and the new generations of Michael fans...

We need to fight together for the better of this world. This world is supposed to be beautiful and full of hope. Not death, destruction, and corruption. Life is supposed to be enjoyed. I see my own mother work to the bone, the other day telling me how in ten more years she'd pay off our home. She'd be 70.

I don't want that for us, and I don't want that for the future generations of this world. We need to fight for a better future for the children.

Please, if you have the power to do so, do something to help this world, even a bit. Help the families and children in Gaza, volunteer for your local shelter, do whatever you can to help this world

To be a moonwalker means to be kind, support, and lead with love. And he told us, "study the greats and be greater."

We need to be greater.

We need to heal the world, and it starts with us.

CH:10

Previous: CH:09: Call Me! Disclaimer! This is an persona fic ! Read previous chapters beforehand

Read from the start: PROLOGUE.

Masterlist

First Call!

"Renée," her mother said. "What exactly is happening here?"

Isabel's private dance lesson didn't show up that day, so she was back a lot more earlier than Renée expected. Coming home to heavy boots on the shoe mat and a middle-aged man in her daughter's room was vast cause for her suspicion.

"He's just installing my new private phone line..." Renée could tell Isabel's face began to harden. Not because she didn't accept her daughter's privacy, but because private lines meant more bills. "Michael sent him," she added.

Her mother's eyes squinted. "What? You mean...?"

Isabel didn't have to say it, because Renée already started to nod.

"Michael sent me a phone yesterday because he said he wanted to talk more." She held up the letter in her left hand. "He said he'd pay for everything—the long-distance, phone line—everything."

Isabel sighed. On one hand, she hated handouts and paid most of them back. But on the other, long-distance calls were too expensive. They'd go broke. And who know how long those phone calls could go on for?

Isabel looked over her daughter. She stood anxiously in front of her bedroom door, yellow paper in hand and fidgeting.

"Fine," she gave up. There was no way she could truly say no. On top of all that, Michael was the one who set this all up for her daughter.

It was a bit adorable too.

I guess they really hit it off.

There was one condition set for that day: eat dinner and go to bed before midnight.

One was followed, and that was dinner.

Renée chowed down on her lentil soup and scarfed down her garlic bread. She was practically bouncing off the walls with excitement, although she chose not to show it. She took a remaining slice of cake from the other day and ran upstairs to her room.

Surrounded only by the warm light of her bedside lamp, she picked up the phone and dialled the number for the operator.

Luckily, there was a telephone jack right behind Renée's bed to attach the phone to. That way, the rosy-pink phone could sit right there on her nightstand while she could lay comfortably in bed.

"Operator," said a nice woman on the phone. "How may I help you?"

"I'd like to make an international call to Los Angeles, California."

It was Renée's first time working an international call. Just dealing with an operator was anxiety-inducing enough, but it was a fear she'd eventually have to desensitize herself to. Who knew how often she'd be doing this sort of thing?

There was a click on the line.

"Operator," said someone else. "How can I connect you?"

"4641 Hayvenhurst Avenue, Encino," Renée said, then added, "Thank you."

"Wait one moment, please," the operator told her seconds before another click.

"Jackson residence."

Renée mouthed a groan.

Why is this so complicated?

"Hello—"

"Yes," she said perhaps a bit too eagerly. "I'd like to make a call to Michael Jackson, if possible?"

The voice on the other line was gruff, grumbly, and tough sounding. All signs of a tired security guard who was used to getting fan phone calls and having to turn most of them down.

"Name?"

"Renée—"

"Yup," he interrupted. "Transferring."

The ringer went off once, then twice, and almost a third time before the phone clicked again.

Then:

"Hello?"

A very soft voice answered.

It was definitely Michael.

Renée covered the receiver and held it to her chest. Her heart raced—not with any romantic feelings, but with sheer shyness. She took a slow breath before putting the phone back up to her face.

"Michael," her voice came out soft too. "It's Renée."

His small gasp was audible through the speaker. All that stillness disappeared from his voice, replaced with something that could only be described as overjoyed.

"You called!"

"You did tell me to," she chuckled.

"Well, can't I still be happy you did?"

They both laughed over the phone.

Michael's laugh was so sweet. Again, he was nothing like she expected.

"It's been a few days," he began. Renée could hear him pacing somewhere on the other end of the line. "How are you?"

Renée adjusted herself upright against the headboard.

"I'm alright," she told him. "I've just been working at my part-time job, but I did just turn twenty-two last week."

Over the line, he didn't react like she expected. He spoke very calmly, still soft-spoken.

"What did you do—for your birthday, that is?"

"Something small. Just my mom and a few friends." Renée twisted the pink cord around her finger. "My boss got me a cake yesterday too."

The line went silent for a moment.

"What kind of cake?"

"Chocolate."

"I love chocolate," he replied.

Renée could tell when he was smiling. He'd make this small humming noise and a quiet little giggle.

A flush crept up her cheeks.

And unknowingly to her, so did his.

"I don't celebrate birthdays."

"What?"

Now she was really listening.

"How come?"

Before Michael started, he covered the speaker with his hand and hugged the phone to his chest. Renée listened to the deep breath he took before he spoke again.

"I'm a Jehovah's Witness," he told her. "We don't celebrate things like birthdays or holidays."

Now that was a surprise.

"Oh," was her first reaction. "I didn't know you were religious."

Michael hummed in agreement. "Yes, it's more private than it is for the press."

Private? Then why was he telling her?

Renée would've thought he would be more wary, but here she was, getting the scoop on Michael. But it wasn't like she was going to go to the news with it. At the most, Lanna—and she too wasn't the type to tip off the tabloids.

Renée didn't say anything for a few seconds, so Michael filled the space.

"It's surprising, yes?"

"A bit," she admitted quickly. "Not in a bad way, though."

Renée tucked her knees against her chest and rested her chin on top of them, taking a moment to think before continuing.

"But everyone needs something to believe in." She shrugged. "Whether that's something bigger than us, a community, or just some kind of hope."

Her fingers absentmindedly played with the sleeve of her sweater.

"It's human nature, I guess."

"Human nature," he repeated. "That sounds about right."

Their conversation moved from philosophy to her life. Michael was interested in her job, school, and her day-to-day routines. To Renée, Michael was a guy who grew up in the limelight and wanted to know what the world was like outside of that.

"I work at a record store," she told him. "My boss, David, is a pretty chill guy, but he was terrifying when I first met him."

Michael let out a small laugh.

"Terrifying?"

"Well, not actually terrifying," she corrected with a smile. "He just has this very serious face and knows everything about music. During my interview, he basically quizzed me for an hour on albums, artists, producers—the whole thing."

"And you passed."

"I barely passed," she teased.

He laughed quietly.

"I don't believe that."

"What?"

"I don't think you're the type of person to know nothing about music."

That caught her off guard.

Not because he complimented her.

Well, maybe a little because of that.

But because Michael Jackson was sitting somewhere in California, genuinely interested in what she had to say.

"I know enough," she admitted. "I just like learning. I could spend hours in that store looking through old records and reading the back covers."

"Really?"

"Mhm."

"I used to do that too," Michael said, his voice turning softer. "I'd look at who wrote the songs, who played what instrument, who produced everything."

That didn't surprise her.

Of course he did.

He wasn't just someone who liked music. He lived it.

"I guess we're both a little nerdy about records then."

His quiet giggle came through the speaker.

"Maybe."

The conversation flowed on easily after that. They talked about albums they loved, singers they grew up listening to, and all the little details hidden inside records that most people never noticed.

Eventually, the conversation drifted into a comfortable silence.

"Do you like talking to me?"

The question caught her off guard.

Renée's nervous bitten lip relaxed into a small smile.

"I'm just up in my room... talking to you."

He smiled too, even though she couldn't see it.

"That wasn't what I asked."

She rolled her eyes, a small laugh escaping her.

"Yeah, Michael. I do like talking to you."

"I like talking to you too."

Before Michael spoke again, Renée took another moment to look around her room. Photos of Michael were pinned everywhere—magazine clippings, posters, and photos she'd collected over the years. If Michael were to ever see it, she'd die on the spot.

"So... is it late there?" His voice through the speaker brought her out of her daze.

"Mhm," Renée nodded, absentmindedly tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Around ten."

"Oh."

Michael went quiet for a moment.

"That's late," he said softly.

The silence that settled over the line wasn't awkward exactly.

Just the kind of silence that came when neither of them knew what to say next, but neither of them wanted the conversation to end.

"You should probably get some sleep," he said gently. "I don't want to keep you up."

Renée shifted slightly on her bed.

"Oh—okay," she said quickly. "Sorry. I hope I didn't keep you too long or anything."

Michael's eyebrows knitted together.

"What?"

"No, no," he said immediately. "I wanted to talk to you."

There was something almost shy in the way he said it.

"I just don't want you tired tomorrow."

That small confession warmed her more than she wanted to admit.

"Okay," she said quietly.

Before he reluctantly hung up the phone, he said one last thing.

"And Renée..."

"Yeah?"

"I'll make sure your calls go straight to my line from now on. I don't want you having to deal with all those operators and security every time."

A small smile pulled at her lips.

"Okay."

"Goodnight, Renée."

"Goodnight, Michael."

CH:09

Previous: CH:09: "He'll Miss Me?" Disclaimer! This is an persona fic ! Read previous chapters beforehand

Read from the start: PROLOGUE.

Call Me!

Wednesday. Wednesday was a dreadful day.

It's been a few days since Reneé and her mom flew back to Canada from California. A.K.A the best month of her life. Reneé was still left scratching her head. The chances of seeing Michael again was slim to none, unless by some miracle he tours and ends up in her city.

Reneé was now 22-years-old. Earlier into her shift, she was surprised with a cake by David. He was a softie when it counted.

In between stocking shelves, and cleaning up aisles, her mind couldn't stop drifting back to Michael and the time they spent together. Watching him dance at those late night rehearsals, and when he took her back to his place and let her listen to his new song. It was all so surreal...

 Especially when he said he'd miss her. 

That part confused her the most. Thinking back to what Lanna said, he probably saw Reneé as a friend and would miss her because she was a friend. A friend and nothing more.

It was sudden, and Renée jumped when fingers were snapped in her face. It was David, her chill but strict boss. He pointed at the front of the shop and shot it a glance before sticking a thumb behind him. 

"I need to handle some stuff in the back," he nodded over to it. "Watch the store and handle the counter."

Renée, a diligent and hard working worker, nodded and did just that. Man the counter and watch the store. 

Neurotic Records was not big by all means. It's popularity got a boost a few years ago, when Off The Wall hit the shelves, but it's usually quiet. Renée had no idea how this store stayed afloat in this economy. Like said before, David was a softy when it counted. When Renée first applied to Neurotic Records in 79', the first thing he did was grill her on everything music. And not just music, but radios, systems, speakers, even cables—which turned out to be very helpful when it came to rewinding tapes and all. It was about mid day. People were out for lunch break so a few milled around, some boys with their cleats still on, checking out some Pink Floyd and Twisted Sisters. Most of Renée's attention was focused on them, so when a small "hello" was said to her, Renée nearly (again) jumped out of her skin. 

 Professionalism at it's best. 

Renée, in her best employee-of-the-month voice, said, "how can I help you today?"

In front of the counter was this young girl, although not middle school young. Probably grade nine or ten. The girl plopped a small lumpy-looking bag down on the suface by the cash, the bag rattling as it was being set. "Sorry, but, do you guys do swaps?"

 Renée pointed to the bag, "Cassettes?"

The girl nodded. 

"Yeah, we do swaps." Renée brought the bag closer to her, pulling it's draw-string opening wide. Reaching in, she pulled one out. Billie Holiday,  Louis Armstrong, mostly 1930s jazz. "What are you lookin' for?" Renée asked over her shoulder as she got some plastic baskets. Story policy for swaps was put them in a box, count them, and listen for quality. After all that, a reasonable swap could be made. Four, she counted.

"Michael Jackson," she said. 

Momentarily, Renée had to take a short breath. Michael, was a name she hasn't heard so casually said since Los Angeles. All she could do was nod. "Jackson Five or—"

"Off The Wall," the girl finished Renée's sentence. She seemed all so excited too.

Man, why did she have to be so whipped for such an unattainable guy? 

Since 1979's Michosis, most Jackson related albums sold out, but there was a chance they may have it in the back. "Good choice," is what Renée said. "I'll check in the back, but I gotta run a quality check on all four of 'em before I can actually swap with you. Should be—"she checked her watch"—about an hour and a half."

The girl looked a little down, probably only just realizing how swaps work. They were a process, but nothing Renée could glaze over. 

A straight smile came to her lips as she slid across a pen and paper over to her. "If you can fill this out—just so we don't mix up the tapes and all with our stock."

The girl looked up, quickly nodded and took the pen, while Renée set the tapes aside while she quickly handled a kid's Pink Floyd album. After, Renée took the page back and stuck it in the bin with the rest of the tapes, also giving the girl her bag back before she went.

After the girl and the soccer kids left, David returned back to the front and Renée spent an hour and thirty in the back, listening to each tape though nearly sound canceling headsets. Just sitting their reminded her about the night Michael asked for her help. Renée hoped to god she wasn't the make-it or break-it reason for the intro. She'd feel terrible, as not just as a person, but as a die-hard fan. To deprive others ears of such a sweet beat.

For the exception of a few bumps, all four of the young girl's tapes were decent. They'd be put in the pre-owned pile, but were still put on record as swapped. And by the girl came, Renée luckily found a few Off The Wall cassettes in a random box. 

"One Michael," Renée said, sliding the cassette on the counter with the receipt for the swap wrapped around it. "And three coupons for your next purchase." 

Renée's shift was over. Bundled up in her coat and scarf, she hopped on the street car then ran through the rain before finally making it home. She wasn't soaking per say. For it to only be the beginning of November, it sure was wet.

Inside her toasty home, she kicked off her wet boots on the mat and shedded off that sweaty coat. She hated the feeling of a hot sweltering jacket on chilly day. Seconds later, the front door was locked and Renée was upstairs getting dressed for the night.  Her nose sniffled, probably from the gusting wind.

She forgot to mention, the whole time she was battling the rain, she was holding the box containing her cake, praying that it wasn't gonna fall. Thankfully, it was sat on her living room table and promptly ate by Renée in one sitting of cartoons and a random soap opera. But just as she was about to take the last fork-full bite, the doorbell rang. Like most kids (although she was more than an adult at that point) she hid. 

Was in a robber? Psychopath? Nope, a late night delivery. 

Renée creaked open the door, a random weapon-looking-thing in her hand behind the door. Looking down at her was this postal guy. He presented his clipboard to her. "Package from M.J Jackson to Renée—"

"That's me," she timidly open the door further. "Who did you say that was from?" She pointed over to the brown box with fragile stickers all over it sitting just beside the man.

He looked at his clipboard, nearly close enough to taste it. "M.J Jackson," he states. As Renée was sure to say something more, the man shaved the clipboard and now a pen into her face. "Sign here, please."

With that, the box was hers. Since it was a bit heavy, he set it inside her doorway and drove away soon after. Now, leaving Renée with chocolate frosting on the side of her cheek (which she embarrassingly realized after looking into a mirror), and a hefty box.

With her socked foot, she pushed the box along the carpet, further into the entryway before she opened it. There was no return address—just the name M.J Jackson and Los Angeles. 

This couldn't be...from who she thinks it is. 

Renée quickly ran over to the kitchen to grab some scissors, a nice sharp pair, and kneeled down in front of the box. Soap opera still yapping about in the background, Renée cuts through the tape in a few forceful slits and pries the rest of it open. Sitting on top of a whole bunch of packing peanuts lies an envelope.

Blue pen scrolled on yellowed line-paper, it read as follows.

'October 6th, 1982'

'As of writing, it's only been a day since you flew back to Canada, thought it's already grown too dull for me to handle. Everyday is the same old work, and I really do miss talking to you. The way we talked in the recording studio, it made me happy to finally find someone like me who digs music the way I do. Especially since 79', it's hard to find anyone like that.'

'It's a stretch, but I want you to call me. I hope you like red, because that's the phone I bought you. Though, I think it's more pink than a firetruck-red like it showed on the box. Anyways, you don't have to worry about international fees or anything. It's a private line too so we call call whenever we want! And a guy should come by to set it all up for you.' 

'Hopefully the package wasn't delayed in transit because I want you to call me as soon as it's working, ok?'

'I'll write my personal line below this.'

His name was signed underneath, 'Michael Jackson'

Renée stares at his signature, finger feeling the indents on his pen on the oposite side of the paper. "I guess...this means he actually missed me."

Written: Jun 08 2026 (I've been doing nothing but flipping from wattpad to tiktok and consuming nothing but MJ content) / June 19 2026

Edited: June 19 2026 (didn't fully edit—lmk if there's any errors)

Masterlist

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"He'll Miss Me?"

Previous: 1982: Side Stories Disclaimer! This is an persona fic ! Read previous chapters beforehand

Read from the start: PROLOGUE.

"He'll Miss Me?"

The Night Before, Michael gently pulled Renée's back before she could duck into the car. His deep brown eyes, barely visible if not for the glimmer of the moonlight reflecting a beautiful silver. 

Michael's voice filled with sincerity and hesitation:"Renée," he said. "I'm gonna miss you."

Crickets quietly buzzed and filled the silence. 

Renée looked at him and for first time, he didn't look away. Vulnerable and nearly yearning, nothing she would've expected from a man like him. He wasn't Michael Jackson then, he was just Michael. Renée's chest tightened. Her heart panicked, and throat dried.

"I'll miss you too, Michael."

She left.

 Next morning, Renée and her mother pact their things and headed to the airport. Their time in Los Angeles came to a close. The whole flight back, Renée just gorged on salty peanuts and fruit cups, with her thoughts constantly drifting back to what Michael said her last that night.

'I'm gonna miss you,'  she replayed.

Was Renée all that special? Michael's known her for less than a month, yet seemed sad to see her go. There was something behind those eyes in the way he looked at Renée, like he wanted to say more but didn't trust himself to. The whole situation made her head spin. She was in need of a good hashing-out with Lanna later, but all she could do was wait.

Five hours in the air came to an end, and the plane would finally touch down on the runways of Canada's largest airport. Renée fussed with her seatbelt before it finally clicked open. Now able to comfortably gather her magazines and walkman into her bag. 

Isabel, on the other hand, collected put her things, and began to pull out their carry-on from the overhead bins. 

Renée—not having a carry-on—hauled both their bags through the plane's jetway. The airport was chilly, almost like the AC was turned up too far, when in reality it was just the coldness of a Canadian Autumn. Moving on to the bag pickup, Isabel spotted and captured their bulging blue suitcase. Letting it fall onto the scuffed floors, they pulled out their jackets, ready to face the chill. 

Out into the cold they went. Renée all cosy in her green bomber jacket, the fuzzy Insulation hugging her body close and warm. Traveler's left and right, all trying to hail any car that would take them

"Taxi!" Isabel would yell. A hand raised to wave one down. 

And with in a few stressful seconds, a yellow-red car finally drives by and pulls over. A man appearing from its drivers side, already making his way to the trunk  to load in their luggage. After watching the driver haul their bags into the trunk, she joined Renée in the back seat, already buckled up with her headset on and Michael Jackson's Off the Wall cassette already rolling.

Winding highways, turned into dense city, turned into small time suburbia. In some ways, Renée felt better to be back home. Finally reuniting with her bed, music and posters. On the other hand, almost grieving her time ended with Michael. 

Afternoon eventually rolled around and most of Renée's things were put away from the month long trip. No more living out of a suitcase, wearing the same shirt twice and no more palpitating heart rate. Just as she was about to put on a Jackson 5 cassette, her mother called her from downstairs.

"Lanna's here!"

Next thing Renée knew, thumping feet ran up the carpeted stairs, and body slammed her door open. Lanna was practicly bursting with excitement. Her green eyes glimmering with curiosity. 

She too was quick to run over and tackle Renée to the ground. 

"I was dying to call you," she cried. "But I'm poor as hell to pay the fees, and you didn't even tell me where you were staying!"

"There was an NDA," Renée pouted. 

Lanna to hung off her shoulders and rock her bestie back-and-forth.

"Now that you're back in the freezing north..." Lanna scrambled over to sit in front of her... "you gotta tell me everything that happened in L.A." 

"Well," Renée bit her lip with a giddy smile. "Something did happen yesterday and I don't really know what to make of it."

That was it. Lanna squealed to her hearts content: "Now you HAVE to tell me."

"Okay—okay—okay," Renée said, her own excitement bubbling into her voice. She fluttered her hands between them, trying to settle Lanna down despite looking just as worked up herself. "Just—listen."

"Yes," Lanna straightened up. "I am sat and ready to listen." Her hands together in her lap like an eager kid.

Renée exhaled softly, preparing both herself and Lanna for what was to come.She's never felt so anxious in her life, and just the retelling of her and Michael's growing acquaintanceship made her heart flutter all over again. Though, she decided against telling Lanna about that momment in the dance studio. Seeing him looking at his reflection all poorly. Michael's been in the spotlight ever since he was a kid. His whole life has been for the public eye. René felt the she'd keep mouth shut on that.

"He was kind," she told her. "And giggly."

Lanna blinked once or twice. "Giggly?" She's watched Carol Burnett re-runs, variety shows, interviews, and read magazines, but nowhere had they mentioned he was giggly.

"And shy too," Renée added."Whenever we'd lock eyes, he always look away like—"she snaps"—that"

A mischievous smirk appears on Lanna's lips. "Ooo," she teased. "Seems like there were some sparks?"

"Shut up," Renée's face flushed. "Lemme finish—I need your help deciphering some things."

"Fine," Lanna sighed. "I'm ready. Spill the beans, girl."

"Okay..."

Renée told her everything.

How he'd walk her to her seat every evening. Tried to teach her how to dance, and how she fell into his arms. And how he asked if he could take Renée back to his recording studio. 

She fiddled with her fingers, "then before I got into the car," she tried to explain, "he said he'd miss me."

Lanna stared at Renée for what seemed like forever. Then her jaw dropped. 

Renée braced herself. Once you got Lanna riled-up, there was no way to stop her.

"Oh my GOD—Renée!" she squealed. "Did he really say that? How did he say that? What did he look like—" She fired in rapid succession, while the actual victim buried her face into her hands

"Lanna," Renée whined. "Shut up, and just tell me what he meant—"

"I can't tell you until you answer my questions," she snapped. "what did he look like saying it?

"Well," Renée dropped her hands into her lap. "He looked all sad, and a bit lonely." she shrugged, "like he'd actually miss me when I was gone."

Lanna folded her arms and sat crosslegged in contemplation. 

"I'm thinking of two thing's here."

Renée leaned in.

"One," Lanna stuck up her index finger. "He likes you—in a friend way—and was gonna miss being around you all the time. And, two..." she dramatically paused—then smirked. "He has a crush on you and didn't want you to leave him—"

"Lanna!" Renée pushed her over. "It wasn't like that."

"But he was touchy, hm?"

"Shut up!"

Written: June 05 2026 / June 08 2026

Edited: June 17 2026

Masterlist

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@elvishoe69

Previous: Chapter 07 Disclaimer! This is an persona fic ! Read previous chapters beforehand

These are SIDE STORIES that are not apart of the main storyline! I'm certain you will not understand any of this unless you read from the PROLOGUE.

1982: Side Stories

01: Meeting Quincy Jones

Most Canadians hated the extreme weather, though they would never admit it properly acclimatized them to the cold. Now, however, it was safe to say that that assumption had been proved wrong. While most L.A. locals opted that morning for a light jacket, Isabel wore a blue long-sleeved shirt and jeans.

When Isabel first arrived at the café, a familiar man was already sitting in a booth. Not the same thirty-nine-year-old she remembered from 1971—his hair was shorter now, his beard neatly trimmed.

He raised a hand in greeting.

At the table, Quincy stood and warmly hugged her. It wasn't as though they were close friends, more like old acquaintances. Still, it had been over a decade since they had last worked together.

"Isabel," he said. "Great to see you again."

They sat down on opposite sides of the table.

"Quincy, I wanted to thank you in person—"

"Don't worry 'bout it," he said. "Just happy to pass along good work."

"And about work," she said, settling into her seat. "How did Michael even find me?"

Quincy snorted a chuckle, stroking his beard before resting his elbows on the table.

"He found Fin's old tape and got me to play it. Heard your footwork," he clapped once, "and boom."

"Huh." She clicked her tongue. 

"Did you know about him before?" Quincy asked. "After the solo album, Mike's pretty much everywhere."

Isabel nodded, a small smile playing on her lips."Renée and her friend are big fans of Michael. Can't go a day without hearing his voice."

"—your daughter?"

"Mhm," she hummed.

"How's she doing then?" he asked. "Being that close to Michael all the time has gotta send the girl into a frenzy."

Isabel rolled her eyes. "You have no idea."

In the past few days, she'd seen her daughter grow closer to Michael. But Isabel had to admit—they were both quite shy. Quincy was Michael's producer, but it still felt strange not to tell him outright that there was something happening between them... or at least something forming.

Now he leaned forward slightly over the table.

"Oh really?" he smirked. "I think you've noticed by now, but Michael's a shy guy."

"Yes," she admitted. "They're a bit awkward, but I've seen them talking when I leave the room."

"Well," he said with a small grin, "looks like Mike might get a friend outta this. Good for 'em..."

02: A meeting with John Branca

The receptionist led Isabel and Renée into a Century City office overlooking Los Angeles. Gold records lined one wall, framed movie posters another. John Branca was already waiting at the table, several folders spread out in front of him.

"Mr. Branca," the woman said. "Michael Jackson's choreographer." She stepped aside, allowing Isabel and Renée to enter behind her.

John Branca stood tall in a grey suit and yellow tie, his smile as firm as his handshake. "Please—both of you—have a seat."

Renée sat in the chair beside her mother, hands folded tightly in her lap to keep her jean skirt from riding up. She did not feel dressed for a lawyer's office.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you," her mother said.

"The pleasure's all mine," he replied, already gathering the papers in front of him. "All I need from you are signatures on a few basic forms, and both of your signatures on some non-disclosure agreements."

"Of course."

He handed Isabel the first booklet, then glanced up from the paperwork.

"So, Isabel," he said lightly, "have you spent much time in California before?" He slid two more forms across the table.

Isabel nodded. "About a decade ago," she answered. "I recorded with Quincy back in '71."

"Quincy Jones, you say?" John's eyebrows lifted in interest. He glanced down at his notes, then back up.

"And what about you?" he asked Renée.

"Me?" She hesitated, then gave a small polite smile. "Yes, I've been here. But I was really young. I don't remember much of it."

"Ah," he said with a soft click of his tongue. "Well, it's quite a lot to take in at any age." A pause settled over the table as the papers were quietly slid forward. Then, almost casually, he added, "You've been spending some time around Michael lately, haven't you?"

Renée blinked. Her hands tightened slightly in her lap."Oh—yeah," she said, trying to sound normal. "A little bit."

John nodded like it was nothing more than a passing comment. "First impressions?"

Renée felt her face warm immediately, but she kept her voice steady."He's... really nice," she said carefully. "Easy to talk to, and a really good dancer."

Isabel glanced at her daughter from the corner of her eye but said nothing.

John gave a small approving hum, as if filing the answer away. "That sounds about right," he said. "He tends to keep good company."

The tension eased just slightly.

"Just sign here," he added, tapping the page. "And here."

Renée picked up the pen, glancing once at her mother. Isabel gave her a small reassuring nod.

Outside the window, Los Angeles shimmered in the late morning light—bright, distant, and suddenly very real. And for a moment, she tried not to think about how easily she had just said his name out loud.

Written: June 02 2026

Edited: June 13

Masterlist

CH: 07

Previous: Chapter 06 Disclaimer! This is an persona fic ! Read previous chapters beforehand

Pinky Promise

September 27th, 1982

They were nearing the end of their stay in Los Angeles. It had been an intense month of dancing, business meetings, and dinners. Renée and Michael's relationship never went much further than a few words.

That night, Renée didn't nod off this time. She was tired but awake, though completely blind to the fact that Michael was walking toward her. He was flushed and heavy-footed, using the neckline of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face.

"How was it today?" he asked.

Renée looked up at him standing over her while she remained seated. Over the past few weeks, she'd learned many things about the man behind the name. Firstly, he was an even better dancer than she'd thought. Secondly, he was a lot like her. Soft-spoken until he laughed, and shyer than a mouse at times. Still, he was a man through and through. A real professional.

"It was really good today," she said. "And that spin and toe stand is really cool too."

"You think?" he asked, and she nodded. "You wanna try?"

She blinked.

What?

Before she could protest even a little, Renée was pulled to her feet and hurried toward the centre of the room. He let go of her arms—which hadn't even registered in her mind that he'd been holding in the first place—and began showing her the step.

"First, you wanna swing your right leg to your left side and use your arms to propel yourself around. You wanna cross your legs in the spin."

He demonstrated.

Perfectly spinning three times in a row before hopping onto the tips of his loafers.

He dropped back down and looked at Renée.

Her eyes were bugged out and her nose scrunched.

It made him giggle.

"Don't look at me that way," he said, bashfully hiding his face in his hands.

"How do you expect me to do that?" she laughed, although serious in her question. She's to uncoordinated for all of that.

"Come on," he pleaded. "I'll help you."

"Fine." She puffed out her cheeks—not in anger or annoyance, but teasingly. "But it's your fault if I fall."

"You won't fall."

He stuck out his pinky.

"I pinky promise."

The look of pure excitement on his face was hard to miss, and even harder to ignore.

"You better," she teased, looping her pinky around his.

Like last time, Michael showed her the step. He spun around five times in a row like it was the most natural thing in the world. Then he turned to her expectantly.

There was no way she was topping that.

Renée felt wobbly even without the turning. She took a shallow breath before attempting a spin. Starting from a wide stance, she drove her right leg inward.

She must've looked like a fish out of water.

One turn had her stumbling.

Michael nearly burst out laughing before he caught himself, almost keeling over before rushing forward to help Renée regain her balance.

"Michael," she groaned.

His laugh was so giggly she couldn't help laughing too.

"You're making me do the impossible here—"

"It's not impossible," he said, stumbling into her space. "It just takes practice."

"Says you."

She poked him in the chest.

Neither of them reacted.

"You're the one who's been practicing your whole life."

Teasingly, he pulled her in by the arms.

"Were you too not dancing all your life?"

"Not like that, I wasn't," Renée told him as she rocked slightly in his grasp. Their sudden familiarity went completely unnoticed in the moment. "I can't even spot while I turn."

"I don't spot either," he whispered dramatically.

Then he realized how he was holding her.

At the time, it had felt natural.

Now his cheeks flushed even redder than they already were.

Following his gaze, Renée looked down to where his hands rested against the fabric of her sleeves.

Her own hands had apparently forgotten they were holding onto his arms.

His skin was so beautiful, she found herself thinking.

Smooth and blemish-free. His arms slimmer and longer than her own.

Their eyes met again.

Then immediately darted apart at the sound of someone clearing their throat.

He'd never felt like such a nervous wreck.

Renée's mother was dressed in her street clothes and ready to head back to the hotel. It wasn't as if she was a strict mother constantly guarding her daughter from any boy who got too close. On the contrary, Isabel had never seen Renée with a boy—not since elementary school, anyway.

His level of fame did bother her.

Although, after spending the past month working with the young man, he seemed sweet enough. Maybe he could take care of her baby if something ever came to be between the two of them.

A mother could only hope her daughter would be happy.

Like children, they jerked away from each other as if proximity itself was illegal.

"Renée." Isabel flicked her head toward the door. "Michael must be pretty tired after tonight. We should get going—"

"Actually," he interrupted. "If it's not too much trouble, I'd like to show Renée some songs for my new album at my home studio."

Isabel blinked.

She wasn't expecting that.

Judging by the look on her daughter's face, neither was Renée.

"I mean..." Isabel nearly tripped over her words. "It's up to Renée if she'd like to."

Great. Thanks for putting me on the spot, Mom.

Renée looked between him and her mother.

Realistically, she only had one answer.

She'd get to listen to new music, and she'd get to spend more time with Michael.

"Sure."

Dumb idea, Renée...

12:45 A.M.

One minute they were laughing, and the next they were completely silent during the nearly thirty-minute drive.

She kept glancing over and accidentally catching his eyes.

Each time, he'd flinch away.

It was almost like he didn't want anyone looking into them.

The last time Renée could remember being in a car with another guy was when she carpooled with a bunch of classmates.

To say that riding with Michael was more nerve-wracking than being crammed into the backseat of a Honda Civic with a bunch of college kids was an understatement.

After what felt like forever, the engine purred to a stop inside the gated community known as Encino.

Rarely had she seen homes with such luxury.

Especially ones with fountains and the biggest driveway she'd ever seen.

The car now stopped, Michael stepped out and extended a hand.

"Y'coming?" he asked, ducking his head back into the car.

Renée stared at his hand for a second before placing hers into his.

Then she stepped onto the pavement, illuminated only by the street lamps along the path.

Surprisingly, it was much cooler than she'd expected this early in the morning.

Books and movies had always taught her California was supposed to be hot all year round.

A constant heatwave.

Unlike Canada's nine months of cold.

She shivered in her T-shirt and jeans.

"Cold?" he asked.

She looked at him and sheepishly admitted, "More than I expected."

Michael smiled gently and placed a hand on her back.

"Then let's get inside the studio before you freeze."

Before they could leave, Michael turned around suddenly.

"Bill, can you—"

"I'll wait around for a while," Bill interrupted, tipping his bucket hat.

Bill.

That's what his name was.

The same man she'd met back in '81.

Ginger, middle-aged, and nice enough.

Michael led her forward.

Rounding the back courtyard, he opened the door to a surprisingly large home studio.

Dark-stained wood.

A giant soundboard.

Another recording room visible through the glass.

With the door shut behind them, they sat side-by-side in front of the console with more switches and knobs than any producer could ask for.

Renée had used one before, but only to turn up the volume.

"So..." She dragged her fingertips along the bottom edge of the board. "This is where you record all your songs?"

"Some." He grabbed a pair of headphones and handed them to her. "I'm working on something, but Q keeps saying the intro's too long—"

"And you'd want me to listen to it?"

"Yeah." He sighed. "I think the intro fits it, but I don't know anymore. I mean..." He slid a cassette into the player. "Q knows what he's doing, and I don't wanna rock the boat too much, but I really think the introduction should stay as it is."

His stress was obvious.

He'd probably been worrying about it for days.

Renée felt stressed too.

Could she really be the make-or-break reason for this intro?

The pressure was hot.

Still, she put on a brave face.

"Okay." She slipped on the headphones. "I'll listen to it if you promise me one thing."

Eagerly, he nodded.

"What is it?"

"You gotta promise me you won't let me influence your final decision."

She held out her pinky.

What compelled her to keep making pinky promise's would remain a mystery.

In hindsight, it became an ongoing trend in their friendship.

Michael looped his pinky around hers.

"I promise."

One button pressed.

The tape machine began to reel.

Another click.

Then the music started.

At first, it was a kick drum and hi-hats.

Familiar sounds.

The intro was long, but worked. That gradual build-up, synth and that bass. It was everything. And the best part was that she was the first one to ever hear it.

Renée quietly vocalized the beat without even realizing it, as if Michael Jackson wasn't sitting right beside her. The seriousness in her furrowed brows, narrowed eyes, and pursed lips fascinated him.

Not romantically. Not yet.

But the way she listened to music was something usually reserved for producers, like Quincy. Though on a completely different level. She was a fan and he knew it, yet she never acted like one. Right now, in his studio, they were simply two people who loved music.

She removed her headphones, the song had long since faded.

"I like the intro," she said. "And I really like the song."

Michael shot to his feet. "I knew I was right when Q said he wanted to shave it!"

He was ecstatic, and somehow, seeing him that happy made her happy too. She'd spent years reading magazine articles, convinced they would prepare her. They hadn't.

Michael wasn't some mystery that needed to be solved. He wasn't a puzzle. And was far more than what tabloids and talk-show hosts claimed.

Shy and awkward. Funny and kind-hearted. Having a sweetness that would just melt your heart.

Michael was much more than just his name.

Written: May 30 2026 / June 1 2026

Edited: June 11th

CH: 06

Previous: Chapter 05

Rehearsal

Trigger Warnings: Body dysmorphia

Seven o'clock came quicker than expected, and by then Renée and Isabel were already on their way to the studio. Why the rehearsals started so late, Renée had no idea.

If it was anything like the night before, they probably wouldn't get back to the hotel until midnight. Maybe later. And the fact that Michael had specifically wanted her there—just to watch—still made absolutely no sense. The more she thought about it, the faster her heart raced.

By the time the car pulled into the parking lot, it had gone into complete overdrive. The drive had only been fifteen minutes long, but it had given her nerves plenty of time to marinate. Every possible scenario had already played out in her head. Most of them embarrassing. Renée had never been so nervous in her life.

The car door clicked open, forcing Reneé to leave the safety of the enclosed space. Canvas bag clutched so very close to her chest. And like her mother so effortlessly and embarrassingly reminded her, Reneé made absolute sure no magazine would be brought along.

Security escorted them through the doors of Debbie Reynolds Dance Studio in North Hollywood. The moment Studio D's doors opened, her legs nearly gave out.

The room was enormous.

Mirrors stretched wall-to-wall. Bright fluorescent lights reflected off polished floors. Speakers sat stacked in the corners. Dance bags, water bottles, and cassette tapes were scattered around the edges of the room. And there he was.

Michael Jackson.

A loose white T-shirt clung to his shoulders, damp around the collar from rehearsal. Black joggers. Black loafers. Simple, although somehow that made him look even better.

He was talking to one of the dancers when he spotted Isabel, then soon after, Renée.

"You came," Michael said so quickly it almost sounded like he'd been holding his breath. Crossing the floor, he greeted Isabel first. "Thank you for being here, again." 

"Of course, Michael." Isabel smiled.

Michael looked to Renée. Instantly, that confidence disappeared, his voice becoming a bit softer then how he spoke to her mother. "It's nice to see you again," he said.

Renée smiled. "Thanks for inviting me." Once the words left her mouth, she wondered if she sounded stupid. Too casual? Eager? Too—

God.

Stop.

Michael simply smiled. "I'm glad you came."

The nervous flutter in her chest immediately doubled.

"Come on."

Before she could think of a response, he lightly placed a hand against the middle of her back and guided her toward the back of the room. The touch was brief. Polite. But Renée was pretty sure her heart stopped beating for a full second.

"There," he said.

The chair sat near the corner of the studio, close enough to see everything without being in anyone's way. It was like he set it up specifically for her.

Her brain had temporarily forgotten how chairs worked.

"Please sit." His eyes met hers.

Big mistake. They looked even warmer up close. Brown, soft, and ridiculously unfair.

"Oh," she quickly looked away. "Thank you." Reneé sat down before she embarrassed herself any further.

He smiled one last time, and ran back to his dancers. 

Renée released a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. God, he was cute—It was physically painful how cute he was.

Lanna would've exploded if she'd seen that interaction. But the realization made her groan quietly. She couldn't. There was no affordable way to call Canada every night, invariably forcing her to sit with festering feeling.

Then, she remembered what she packed. In place of her magazines, she brought her journal. Quickly, she dug through her bag until she found the hunter-green notebook she'd brought from Canada.

Maybe writing would help. Maybe if she got everything onto paper, she'd calm down.

'September 5th, 1982.'

I''m currently sitting less than five meters away from Michael Jackson. Yes. THE Michael Jackson. I still don't understand why he wanted me here. Mom said he asked about me last night, but my question is why?'

'Mom kept saying we'd get along, since—I guess—we're similar in a way. Although, she thinks I'm this big introvert—in some ways I am—but I can't help but have introverted hobbies. Writing, listening to music all day, reading and drawing. She should at least be happy that I have a job.'

'Anyways, I know I'm supposed to be excited and all because I'm a huge fan, but instead, I'm starting to realize that I like this normal version of himself more. Michael's a hard-worker, and most of all kind.' 

'Last year, when I met him backstage, I was probably starstruck. It never registered how different he was than his portrayal on TV. Michael's quieter than expected. Shyer, and sweeter and a bit awkward, too. Really, he's just a normal guy that dances and sings really well.' 

'Honestly, I've never meet someone like him. Not just because he's this amazing singer from this legendary group. But because of this melting sensation you feel whenever he's around. You're both nervous and excited, but you burn from the inside out and all he has to do is just look at you. It's addictive.'

'Dear diary—journal, whatever—let this trip being a turning point in my ever so boring life.'

When she finally looked up from the page, her eyes drifted toward the mirrors.For one brief second, she caught Michael looking in her direction. Their eyes met, but his immediately looked away. Michael's face already flushed pink from the rehearsal that has now been going on for thirty minutes.

A second later, the reel-to-reel machine whirred to life, and music filled the room. Something unfamiliar. Nothing like anything on Off the Wall.

Immediately, with Isabel's lead, she marked time to the beat. Keeping the background dances in strict check, whereas Michael needed none of the sort. Unlike the discotheque rhythm he used to keep, his moves had an edge and new generation feel. Now, there was no way Reneé could ever stop her staring. He looked effortless.

Hours disappeared into days, and late-night rehearsals became a new routine. A consistent sleep schedule became impossible to keep.

One night, about a week later, exhaustion caught up to her. For a 22-year-old adult, it was embarrassing to admit she fell asleep.

Right there.

On the chair. 

She'd meant to rest her eyes for only a minute, but she awoke to fluorescent lights shining brightly as she blinked awake. The studio was nearly empty. Most of the dancers had gone home, and even her mother was nowhere to be seen. Just as Reneé almost considered she may have been forgotten, she stopped. Her breath tightly held. 

Before the mirrors, Michael stood. 

The energy he'd carried all evening was gone. He looked small, and perhaps a little lonely. This wasn't the same man she'd met in '81, nor the one who always took the time to walk her over to her seat every day.

For the first time all week, nobody was watching him.

Renée watched as he raised a hand to his face.

First stretching his cheek, then touching the bridge of his nose, and pressing against it.

Again and again, until it looked so uncomfortable, it seemed painful, even. It broke her heart.

Without thinking, she spoke.

"Michael?"

Michael jumped—actually jumped.

His eyes shot to hers through the mirror. 

Immediately, his shoulders tensed. "Renée," his face flushed over. He was caught and embarrassed.

Reneé felt horrible, like she'd walked in on something private.

"I was just—" he stopped. then tried again. "Sinus issues."

Renée slowly stepped up and approached. Not to close, not too far. Just a few paces behind him. "What do you mean?"

Michael rubbed the back of his neck. "I broke my nose a while ago." his fingers briefly touched it. "I had surgery, but it's still hard to breathe sometimes."

She could tell he wasn't telling the whole story, but she too knew better than to push. 

"Like smelling?" Reneé asked. 

Sneakers squeaked on the  polished wooden floor as she moved closer. 

"Yeah." he nodded. "Something like that."

"Then," she began. Words flying out her mouth without any warning. "Wouldn't you want it bigger?"

"What?" Michael blinked. 

Sometimes, Renée had a habit of saying whatever came to mind. In this case, what came to mind seemed perfectly logical. Smaller nose meant smaller airway. She'd never broken her nose before, but the answer felt obvious enough to her.

"You keep pushing it inward." She pointed at his reflection in the mirror. Standing close behind him, her chin nearly level with his shoulder. "Wouldn't breathing be easier if it was wider?"

For a moment he just stared.

Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.

A real laugh.

Soft.

Surprised.

Before anything more could be said, the studio door opened. Isabel stepped inside carrying her bag.

"Renée." Her mother's voice echoed through the room. 

Both of them turned. Both looking guilty as if proximity in itself was illegal. Isabel wanted to laugh, but knew not to. That would only further embarrass her daughter and Michael.

"Ready to go?" She asked Reneé. 

And just like that, the moment was over.

Later curled against her mother's shoulder in the SUV ride back to the hotel, Renée struggled to keep her eyes open. The city lights blur together outside the window. It was beautiful, and some how different than back home.

 But, still, all she could think about was Michael. His voice. His smile, and the way it became low whenever they spoke alone.

Also the way he'd looked at himself in the mirror when he thought nobody was watching. It made her sad. Not because she understood exactly what he was feeling, but because she understood enough. Everyone had things they wished they could change about themselves. Even beautiful people. Especially beautiful people, like Michael.

By the time they got into the hotel, and Reneé stumbled into bed, one question refused to rest. How could someone so handsome look himself in the mirror and think he needs to change.

Written: May 26 2026 

Edited: June 07 2026

Masterlist

CH: 05

Previous: CH 04

Disclaimer! This is an persona fic ! Read previous chapters beforehand

Yes, 100%

Michael wanted to work that very night.

It was nearing sunset when the hotel phone rang. On the other end, a soft voice.

"Isabel," he—Michael—said. "I'm so sorry to call you this late, but I'd like to work on a few things at the dance studio tonight—only if you're not too tired?"

Isabel was incredibly tired, but how could she say no to Michael Jackson? "Of course," she answered, suppressing a yawn.

"Thank you," Renée overheard through the receiver. "I'll have the front desk call you when the car gets downstairs. I'm sorry." He sounded genuinely apologetic.

"Michael," she cooed. Isabel, sounding more like a mother than a choreographer. To be fair, Michael was only three years older than Renée. He could be her son. 

"You don't have to apologize. I'm happy to work on a few things tonight."

There was a brief pause, then a soft: "Okay."

When her mother hung up the phone, she turned toward Renée. Before she could say anything, Renée beat her to it.

"It's okay, Mum." Being home alone wasn't exactly new to her. She'd gotten used to it over the years. "I'm tired anyways."

Isabel's expression softened. "I'm sorry, Renée." She leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Next time, sweetheart."

With Isabel gone, Renée spent the rest of the evening flipping through magazines and watching television. While changing channels, she nearly skipped past CBS.

Nearly.

A rerun of The Jacksons was playing. It was mostly silly seventies slapstick comedy, but that didn't stop her from scrambling back to the couch and pulling a blanket over her knees. She immediately spotted Michael. Even with the matching outfits and matching afros, he was impossible to miss.

"Aww."

The word slipped out before she could stop it.

Man, he was cute.

Funny, too.

As the evening dragged on and bedtime finally came around, her thoughts refused to leave him alone. What was he really like? Was he serious? Focused? Calculating? Or was he as soft-spoken as he'd seemed the first time they'd met? Somewhere between those questions and the steady hum of the hotel air conditioning, Renée drifted off to sleep.

She wouldn't have to wonder for much longer.

Morning arrived far too quickly. By the time Renée rolled out of bed, the suite was already empty. Her mother had left early for a meeting with someone. Renée didn't care nearly enough to remember why. The sun had already climbed high into the sky by the time she shuffled out of her bedroom. The room was enormous. Bigger than her room back home by a ridiculous amount. Pink morning light spilled through the curtains, filling the space with a warm glow. Everything was carpeted, but Renée still wore the complimentary hotel slippers. Squinting against the sunlight, she pulled the curtains open. Her room sat so high above the city that she could see distant hills and clouds drifting lazily across the horizon.

She wandered into the living room and opened those curtains too. Instant sunlight flooded the suite.

California was warm. Warmer than she'd expected. Especially out on the balcony.

Brunch had already been delivered. Poached eggs covered in hollandaise sauce, toast, sausage, and a bowl of fresh fruit. Not a bad way to start the morning. Renée sat in a lounge chair, lazily flipping through magazines while stealing strawberries from the fruit bowl. Then she heard the click of the suite door unlock.

"I'm back!" her mother called.

Renée stuck one foot through the open balcony door and waved it dramatically. "I'm outside!"

A few minutes later, Isabel joined her. Unlike Renée, who was still in her pyjamas, her mother looked completely put together. Hair done. Makeup done. Ready for the day.

"Y'know," Isabel said casually, settling into the chair across from her, "Michael asked about you last night."

Renée nearly dropped her strawberry. "Qué?"

Her mother laughed. "He asked if you were at the hotel and if you'll be come to rehearsal today."

Renée stared. Michael Jackson had asked about her? Not her mother. Her. Why? And why would he want her at a private rehearsal? When she didn't answer right away, Isabel smiled.

"He wants to see you, sweetheart. I mean, he did invite you to come along."

Renée immediately looked down at her plate. "He really asked about me?"

"Mhm." Her mother took a sip of coffee.

"He sure did. And he looked pretty disappointed when you weren't there."

The strawberry suddenly became very interesting. Renée poked at it with her fork.

This was insane.

She wished she could call Lanna and scream about it. Unfortunately, international phone calls cost a small fortune.

"Are you sure?" she asked. "Like... one hundred percent sure?"

"Yes," Isabel laughed. "One hundred percent." She leaned back in her chair. "Michael's a very nice kid. Passionate, polite, a little shy." Her smile grew. "You'd get along."

A flush crept across Renée's cheeks.

Her mother said it so casually too, like she was trying to play matchmaker.

"I guess I'll come today," Renée mumbled.

"Great."

A mischievous look appeared on Isabel's face. "And don't bring those magazines."

Renée gasped. "Mom!"

Written: May 25 2026 / May 26 2026

Edited: June 06 2026

Just learnt that a neighbours I've known for nearly my whole life think's Michael was a child abuser. It just fucking irks me how stupid people can be in this world. On top of that, her own kid is neurodivergent.

The reason why the media called him weird is BECAUSE he was going through an age regression. Are people that dirty minded that when they hear 'sleep' they think sex? Michael was a very religious man. He wrote songs about healing the world, the discrimination of our society, he donated to hundreds of thousands of charities around the world, paid anonymously for the treatments of sick children, and lots more. How could a man like that molest children? On top of that, he literally has children. A man who literally wanted children so much so that he had surrogate mothers, and even married the first woman because that's what Michael's very religious mother wanted. So now loving children is weird? Building a literal amusement park on your home and inviting thousands of under privileged children (WITH THEIR PARENTS AND GUARDIANS) is weird?

Soo me being friends with the little kid at my dance school is weird? Her treating me like a big sister is creepy? Her parents inviting me to her play makes me a pedo?

on top of that, why would these ppl accept a paycheck before accusing Michael? If my child was molested, I wouldn't accept money. He was famous, mysterious, therefore a target.

If he really were a child predator, why would he confess to all those things? SLEEPING in beds, etc. His house was illegally bugged by the FBI (without his knowlage) for TEN YEARS and nothing was found. There's explanations for literally everything.

DONALD FUCKING TRUMP IS A CHILD SEX ABUSER, PREDATOR, AND RAPIST, YET HE'S YOUR FUCKING PRESIDENT!!! Hollywood protects these abusers.

The most disappointing thing is that I can't change their opinions. Once their mind is set on a bias, they're gonna resist change at all costs.

I could send her videos, studies, and she'd say the same thing. And too, I've known her since I was a kid. What if I just come out and see she touched me when I was younger? I'm the young one in that situation. Her whole family could testify but since I put myself in a victim stance, everyone will believe me.

Anyways, I hated this neighbour from the start. She's annoying, a middle aged nuisance always asking my mother for money for her stupid jewellery business won't lift off the ground, and overall a piece of shit.

this all stemmed from me posting something MJ on my instagram and her responding "and he's also a child molester." I unfollowed her, got her to unfollow me, and deleted the chat. It might be brash, but I put a thing on my instagram. A poll so I know who are biased pieces of shits so I can unfollow them. Hopefully it's not any of my high school friend group because this is a severing ties sort of thing. At this point, if someone thinks like a biased piece of shit, they're not gonna be in my life anymore. It is that serious.

I should probably look into this more so I can defend him at the flip of a dime.

CH: 04

Previous: CH 03

Disclaimer! This is an persona fic ! Read previous chapters beforehand.

CH: 03

Previous: CH 02

Disclaimer! This is an persona fic ! Read previous chapters beforehand.

MICHAEL? PRETTY?

Lanna sat cross-legged on top of Renée's bed the morning after The Jacksons concert.

As Renée's best friend—and the second-biggest Michael Jackson fan she knew—it was her duty to make sure Renée didn't pass out in her sleep from excitement.

In fact, it was quite the opposite.

Renée had been rambling nonstop about how amazing the concert was and how soft Michael's hands were when he'd shaken hers.

In the meantime, Lanna fiddled with the picture posted beside the bed with blue sticky tack: a backstage Polaroid of Renée and Isabel posing with Michael Jackson.

Lanna had to contain her excitement, if not for herself, then for Renée.

Suddenly, the photo was snatched away.

"Careful," Renée hissed. She held the picture protectively against her chest. "This thing is a family heirloom. It'll be passed down from generation to generation."

"I was being careful," Lanna said sourly. "I was just looking. I wasn't gonna rip it or anything."

Renée leaned over and tacked it back onto the wall. High enough that it wouldn't get damaged, but low enough that she could stare at it every time she rolled over in her sleep. Then she turned around and sat back down beside Lanna.

"I know..." she sighed.

Rolling her eyes, Lanna scooted back and leaned against the wall next to her. "You're obviously excited." she squeezed Renée's arm. "But if you keep talking, I'll kill you out of jealousy."

Unseriously, of course. Lanna was jealous, but not that jealous.

The two dissolved into laughter, flopping onto each other as they wheezed and convulsed.

"Shut up," Renée laughed, shoving her.

It took them a moment to wind down.

Now both of them were staring at the ceiling with their legs propped against the wall. Michael's Off the Wall played softly in the background.

"So..." Lanna started. "You think your mom's gonna say yes? To the L.A. gig?"

The sheets shifted when Renée shrugged. "She's meeting with him this afternoon."

"Really?"

"Mhm." She hummed. "And if my mom says yes, hopefully she can take me."

"There's no way your mom's going to L.A. without you." Lanna rolled onto her stomach. Renée did the same. "If it were up to me, you'd be on the first flight outta here."

"Their tour isn't even over yet, genius." Renée hung her arms off the side of the bed, her fingers brushing the pink carpet below.

"Then tell me."Lanna poked her. "You're obviously still excited, so just tell me already."

Renée stood, and thumped back onto the bed, her face squished between two soft pillows.

"Mmff—he said my name was pretty," she mumbled into the fabric.

There was a pause.

"WHAT?" Lanna launched herself across the bed. "WHO? WHY? EXPLAIN!"

Renée groaned and finally rolled onto her back, her hair a mess across the pillows.

"Michael," she admitted. "He said, 'Renée... that's a really pretty name.'"

"MICHAEL?!" Lanna shrieked so loudly she nearly fell off the bed. She scrambled back up and grabbed Renée's arm. "HE CALLED YOU PRETTY?!"

Renée couldn't even keep a straight face anymore. She buried her face behind her hands."He said my name was pretty, not that I was pretty."

Lanna flopped down beside her. "But he basically implied it."

"Y'think so?" Renée peeked through her fingers.

Lanna grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her closer. "Of course," she scolded playfully. "And just imagine it—your first boyfriend. A famous guy like Michael Jackson—"

Renée shot upright.

"WOAH!" She waved her hands frantically in front of her face. "You're moving way too fast. And on top of that, I barely know the guy!"

"So?" Lanna propped herself up on one elbow.

Renée already recognized the mischievous glint in her eyes. There was no stopping Lanna's teasing once she got going.

She was relentless.

"You're setting me up with the most untouchable man of our generation," Renée said. "Plus, he could have any girl he wants, so why me?"

"Pff—stop being so shy."

Lanna knew Renée like the back of her hand. She'd always been shy and stubborn, but even more so since their last year of high school. When Renée dropped out of college, that record store became her whole life. Most of her social interactions were limited to customers, her manager, her mother, and Lanna herself. Her shyness ran deep.

"At least try and take risks," Lanna said. "You can't live like a hermit for the rest of your life, hm?"

Renée didn't answer.

"So don't be so negative all the time." Lanna didn't need to look at her to see the embarrassment written all over her face. She gently released her arm. Touching her would only make things worse. "Be optimistic," she said. "'Cause you'll never know what could happen."

Little did Renée know just how right Lanna would be.

Written: May 23 2026 / June 1 2026

Edited: June 1 2026