belfe(gore).

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀∧⠀ ,,,⠀∧

 ⠀ ⠀⠀=⠀⠀mood boards ⠀ =

cream 𐂯 soon…

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀∧⠀ ,,,⠀∧

 ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀=⠀⠀years ⠀ =

-1960 𐂯 1961

1962 𐂯 1963

1964 𐂯 1965

1966 𐂯 1967

1968 𐂯 1969

1970 𐂯 1971

1972 𐂯 1973

1974 𐂯 1975

will add more later !!

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀∧⠀ ,,,⠀∧

 ⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀=⠀⠀other ⠀ =

dylarrison 𐂯 gifs

more gifs 𐂯 hmmmmm

The old home movie began with the sound of laughter. Not the polite laughter people used for cameras or interviews, but the genuine kind that escaped before anyone had a chance to stop it. The image shook violently for several seconds before finally settling into focus. The first thing visible was Michael's face, much older now than the boy he used to be, though some things had never changed. The smile was still there. The expressive eyes were still there. The inability to hide exactly what he was feeling was definitely still there. "You better not tell that story," he warned from somewhere behind the camera's lens, already sounding suspicious before you'd even answered. His reaction only made your laughter grow louder.

The years had softened the memory, but they hadn't erased it. Nothing could. Some moments became permanent fixtures in a relationship. Not because they were happy, but because surviving them changed everything afterward. You settled beside him on the couch and nudged his shoulder lightly. "I have to," you replied. "It's the story that proves we were both idiots." Michael immediately groaned and dropped his head back against the cushions. "Mostly me," he corrected, though there wasn't much conviction behind the protest. His hand found yours without either of you consciously thinking about it. Decades later the habit remained automatic. "No," you said quietly, squeezing his fingers. "Mostly me."

The smile disappeared from his face then, replaced by something softer. Understanding. Because even now he remembered exactly how things had been back then. He remembered what it felt like to be eighteen years old and hopelessly in love with someone who was already halfway convinced they would eventually be abandoned. The two of you had found each other because your hurts looked similar. Neither of you spoke openly about the pressure waiting for you at home. Neither of you knew how to explain the exhaustion of constantly trying to be enough for people who always seemed to expect more. There had been comfort in finding someone who understood without explanation. There had also been danger in it. Hurt recognized hurt. Fear recognized fear. Whenever Michael felt scared of losing someone, he held tighter. Whenever you felt scared of losing someone, you pulled away first. Neither of you understood the pattern while you were living it. Looking back, it seemed painfully obvious.

The breakup happened in the summer of 1976, though "breakup" wasn't quite the right word. Looking back, both of you agreed it had felt less like ending a relationship and more like two stubborn teenagers trying to prove something neither of them actually believed. Michael remembered every detail because he'd spent weeks trying to make things work. Rehearsals consumed most of his days. Interviews consumed what little remained.

Fame was becoming larger than either of you had anticipated, and with every new obligation another piece of his time disappeared. The problem wasn't that he stopped trying. The problem was that he never seemed capable of doing enough. Every free afternoon became an attempt to see you. Every late-night phone call became an attempt to reassure you. Every argument became an attempt to fix whatever had gone wrong. Somewhere along the way he began noticing something painful. He was always the one trying to close the distance. Always the one calling first. Always the one apologizing first. Always the one asking whether the two of you were okay.

You hadn't done it intentionally. At seventeen, most of your decisions were driven by fears you barely understood. The closer Michael became, the more terrified you were of eventually losing him. Instead of leaning into the relationship, you began retreating from it. Calls went unanswered. Plans were forgotten. Excuses became easier than honesty. Deep down you expected him to leave eventually anyway. It felt safer not to need him too much. Unfortunately, Michael noticed every inch of distance you created. The more you withdrew, the harder he worked. The harder he worked, the guiltier you felt. The guilt made you retreat even further. By the time summer arrived, the relationship was trapped inside a cycle neither of you knew how to break.

The final argument started over something small. Looking back, neither of you could even remember exactly what it was. A forgotten plan. A missed phone call. Another disappointment added to a growing pile of disappointments. What Michael remembered was the feeling. He remembered standing in his bedroom at Hayvenhurst after hanging up the phone, staring at the wall while anger and heartbreak battled for control of his thoughts. For the first time since falling in love with you, he felt exhausted. Not exhausted by loving you. Exhausted by being afraid he was the only one fighting for the relationship. He spent the entire night trying to convince himself he was done. By morning, he'd almost succeeded.

Almost.

For nine days he didn't call.

For nine days he avoided every place he thought he might run into you.

For nine days he threw himself into rehearsals with a determination that bordered on desperation. Every hour of every day became an attempt to outrun his own feelings. If he stayed busy enough, maybe he wouldn't think about you. If he stayed distracted enough, maybe the ache in his chest would finally disappear. At first he thought it was working. The first day passed. Then the second. By the third day he started reaching for the phone before remembering why he wasn't supposed to. By the fifth day every song reminded him of you.

A laugh heard across a room sounded like yours. A jacket left on the back of a chair reminded him of the one you'd stolen months earlier. Tiny memories attacked him constantly. The worst part was realizing how impossible it was to stop them. Every morning he woke up determined to move on. Every night he found himself lying awake thinking about you anyway.

Years later, sitting on the couch beside you while the home movie continued recording, Michael laughed softly at the memory and shook his head. "I was trying so hard to be angry." The confession made you smile immediately because it sounded exactly like him. Even as a teenager, anger had never lasted very long where you were concerned. Michael looked down at your joined hands and continued speaking, his voice carrying the same affection it always did when discussing those years. He remembered pacing around his room on the seventh day, giving himself entire speeches about self-respect and moving forward. He remembered telling himself he deserved someone who would fight as hard as he did. He remembered deciding, with absolute certainty, that the relationship was over. Then he remembered sitting on the edge of his bed ten minutes later wondering whether you'd eaten lunch. The realization had irritated him so much that he'd thrown a pillow across the room. Looking back now, it was almost funny. At the time it felt miserable.

By the ninth day he finally admitted the truth. No amount of pride, frustration, disappointment, or common sense could change what he felt. He was hurt. Deeply hurt. He was tired. More tired than he'd ever been. Part of him knew getting back together might simply restart the cycle. Yet none of those things mattered enough. Every attempt to picture his future without you felt wrong. Incomplete. He could imagine being angry with you. He could imagine arguing with you. He could even imagine wanting to shake some sense into you. What he couldn't imagine was not loving you. That was the problem. Every road he followed eventually led back to the same conclusion.

So he called.

And when you answered, he immediately forgot every speech he'd prepared.

Because despite everything, hearing your voice still felt like coming home.

The ninth day ended exactly where Michael had promised himself it wouldn't. Standing outside your front door with his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans, staring at peeling paint and a porch he'd spent the entire week avoiding. He hated that he was there. Hated that after all the speeches he'd given himself, after all the frustration and hurt and disappointment, he'd still ended up right back where he'd started. For several seconds he considered leaving before you answered. Then the door opened. The moment your eyes met his, every prepared speech vanished. Neither of you spoke immediately. The silence stretched between you, heavy with nine days of separation and months of unresolved feelings. "I thought you were done with me," you finally said, your voice quieter than he remembered.

Michael laughed softly at that, though there wasn't any amusement in it. "Yeah," he admitted, looking down at the porch before shaking his head. "I thought so too." Something in your expression tightened immediately. "Then why are you here?" The question should have been simple. Instead it felt impossible. Michael dragged a hand through his curls and exhaled sharply. "Because I spent nine days trying not to be here." His eyes finally lifted back to yours. "And somehow that didn't work."

The two of you ended up in his room at Hayvenhurst less than an hour later. Looking back years afterward, neither of you could remember who suggested it. What both of you remembered was the tension. Michael stood near the window while you remained by the door, as though neither of you fully trusted yourselves to close the distance. The room felt smaller than usual. Every emotion seemed amplified. "You keep acting like this is all my fault," you said eventually, folding your arms across your chest.

Michael's immediate reaction wasn't anger. It was exhaustion. "Because I'm tired," he admitted. "I'm tired of pretending everything's okay when it isn't." You rolled your eyes and looked away. "There you go again." His brow furrowed. "What does that mean?" The frustration in your chest finally spilled over. "It means every conversation turns into me apologizing. Every fight ends with me being the bad guy." Michael stared at you for several seconds before laughing bitterly. "You really think that's what's happening?" The question caught you off guard. "Isn't it?" His jaw tightened. "No." The answer came immediately. "What's happening is that every time something goes wrong, I'm the one trying to fix it."

The accusation hung heavily between you. You hated how quickly it found its target because part of you knew he wasn't entirely wrong. Michael saw it happen. Saw the guilt flicker across your face before you managed to hide it. "See?" he said quietly. "That's exactly what I mean." You looked away again. "You don't know what you're talking about." Michael laughed once. "I don't?" The hurt in his voice was becoming impossible to ignore now. "I've spent months wondering whether you even want to be here anymore." The confession immediately stole the air from the room.

You opened your mouth to respond, only to realize you didn't know how. Michael continued before you could. "Do you know how many times I've called first?" he asked. "Do you know how many times I've sat by the phone waiting for you to call and nothing happened?" His voice wasn't getting louder. Somehow that made it worse. "Every time we fight, I come back. Every time you pull away, I chase after you. Every time I think we're falling apart, I'm the one trying to hold us together." He swallowed hard. "And the whole time I'm wondering whether you even care enough to notice."

The words hurt because they were true. Not completely true, but true enough. Your eyes dropped toward the floor. Michael immediately saw it. His expression softened for a brief second before frustration reclaimed it. "That's the thing," he continued quietly. "I know you love me." The statement startled you enough to look up. Michael shook his head. "I do. That's what makes this so confusing." He laughed bitterly and paced away from the window. "Because if you didn't love me, this would be easy." Another restless pass across the room followed. "I'd be angry, I'd get over it, and that would be the end." He stopped walking and looked directly at you. "But I know you do." The conviction in his voice made your chest ache. "Then why isn't that enough?" you whispered.

For a moment neither of you moved. Michael's expression crumpled slightly at the question. When he finally spoke, his voice sounded heartbreakingly young. "Because loving somebody and making them feel loved aren't always the same thing." The honesty knocked the breath from your lungs. You could tell immediately he'd been carrying those words for a long time. "Michael..." He shook his head before you could continue. "No, let me finish." His eyes glistened slightly under the afternoon light pouring through the window.

"I spent the last nine days trying to convince myself I was done." A sad smile appeared. "I really tried." The confession sounded almost ridiculous now that he was saying it aloud. "I threw myself into rehearsals. I stayed busy. I told myself I deserved somebody who wouldn't make me work this hard." He laughed again, this time entirely at himself. "And every single day I failed." His shoulders slumped. "I'd hear a song and think about you. I'd drive past somewhere we went together and think about you. I'd wake up in the morning planning not to think about you and somehow end up doing it anyway." He shook his head slowly. "I couldn't stay mad. I couldn't stay away. I couldn't stop loving you long enough to actually leave."

By then tears had begun gathering in your eyes. Michael noticed immediately. He always noticed. Some part of him softened despite everything. "See?" you whispered, wiping furiously at your face. "This is why I pull away." Confusion crossed his expression. "What?" You laughed shakily. "Because you make it sound so easy." Michael stared. "Easy?" The word sounded almost absurd. "Nothing about this has been easy." You shook your head. "You don't understand. You keep fighting for us because you actually believe I'm worth fighting for." The confession slipped out before you could stop it. Silence immediately followed. Michael looked stunned. Not because he'd never considered it. Because suddenly everything made sense.

And that, more than the argument itself, became the conversation neither of you ever forgot.