#etta james

The flash of cameras had followed Y/N from the moment she stepped onto her first stage.

Every ripped leather jacket, every smeared line of eyeliner, every cigarette held between black-painted fingers became another headline for journalists desperate to paint her as the villain of rock and roll. They called her reckless. Dangerous. Corrupting. Churches condemned her concerts. Newspapers described her crowds as riots waiting to happen.

But every accusation was met with the same thing.

Facts.

Y/N sat through interview after interview, legs crossed and posture relaxed, dismantling every rumor with a calm smile and sharp tongue.

No, she wasn't sacrificing goats backstage. No, she wasn't teaching teenagers devil worship. No, she wasn't some drug-addled monster hiding behind stage lights.

She simply liked loud guitars.

And unfortunately for the media, she was smarter than they expected.

Then she met Michael Jackson.

And suddenly the world lost its mind.

When photographs surfaced in late 1979 of the two leaving a restaurant together, reporters practically tripped over themselves trying to get stories printed first.

America's sweetheart.

And rock's favorite menace.

The headlines were merciless.

"She's using him."

"Michael Jackson falls under rock queen's spell."

"Will she destroy the Jackson legacy?"

But Michael never wavered. Not once.

Every interview he did somehow circled back to her.

"She's wonderful."

"She's one of the kindest people I've ever met."

"People don't know her."

He said it over and over.

And every time reporters tried to corner him into admitting she was a bad influence, he'd smile that soft smile and defend her all over again.

Because the truth was simple.

Michael adored her.

The woman that the public saw wasn't the woman who fell asleep on his shoulder during long drives.

She wasn't the woman who quietly read her Bible before bed.

She wasn't the woman who fed stray cats behind recording studios because she couldn't stand seeing them hungry.

And she definitely wasn't the woman who sat beside him during prayer.

Michael knew those parts.

He loved those parts.

And for a while, that was enough.

For a while, they were happy.

But happiness has a way of cracking before it breaks.

The first fracture came quietly.

Diana.

At first it was harmless, at least that's what Y/N told herself.

Michael had always admired Diana Ross.

Everyone knew that.

She'd helped guide him through the industry, encouraged him, supported him.

Y/N respected that.

Until admiration became dependence.

Until every event somehow involved Diana.

Every celebration.

Every dinner.

Every phone call.

Every conversation.

It was always Diana.

Diana this.

Diana that.

"Diana thinks—"

"Diana said—"

"Diana wants—"

And eventually Y/N stopped pretending she didn't notice.

She watched Michael's face light up whenever Diana entered a room.

She watched him drop everything for her.

Watched him laugh harder.

Smile brighter.

Listen more carefully.

The worst part wasn't that Diana got his attention.

The worst part was that Y/N recognized the look in his eyes.

Because he used to look at her that way.

By the end of 1980, she felt herself drifting.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

Quietly.

Like a ship slipping from its anchor.

She still loved him.

But every day it felt more like she was sharing him with another woman.

And every day Michael seemed less aware of it.

Then came a late night in February 1983, at a party hosted by the woman who seemed to have ruined her life.

The party was already overflowing with celebrities when she arrived.

Music pounded through the walls, disco lights spun across crowded bodies.

Champagne flowed like water.

Everyone was dancing.

Everyone was laughing.

Everyone looked happy.

Everyone except her.

She found Michael across the room almost immediately, because she always did.

He was standing beside Diana.

Of course he was.

Y/N felt something twist painfully inside her chest.

Diana's hand rested against his shoulder, her manicured fingers brushing his jacket.

She leaned close.

Far too close.

And then she kissed his cheek.

Once.

Twice.

Lingering.

Whispering something directly into his ear.

Michael laughed softly.

Y/N couldn't hear the words.

But she heard his response.

"Diana, you're such a beautiful soul."

The room disappeared.

The music disappeared.

Everything disappeared.

Because that was what he called her.

Beautiful soul.

His beautiful soul.

The words he'd whispered into her hair.

The words he'd written into letters.

The words he'd spoken when nobody else was listening.

And now he was giving them away.

For a moment she thought she might scream.

Instead, she smiled, then walked over.

Diana noticed her first, the older woman's smile stiffened immediately.

Only for a second.

But Y/N caught it.

Michael turned, his face brightened. "Hey, baby."

Y/N smiled sweetly. "Hey."

Silence stretched.

Diana straightened, her hand slowly slipping from Michael's shoulder.

Neither woman looked away.

A silent challenge.

A silent understanding.

Y/N finally broke the tension. "Looks like y'all are having fun."

Diana smiled. "We were just talking."

"Mm."

The response was pleasant.

Diana's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

Michael, oblivious as ever, looked between them. "You okay?"

Y/N nodded. "I'm feeling kinda sick."

Immediately, concern crossed his face. "Really?"

"Yeah." She smiled.

Small.

Controlled.

"I think I'm gonna head home."

Michael frowned. "Do you want me to come with you?"

Before Y/N could answer, Diana spoke. "We were about to meet some people upstairs."

Y/N's gaze shifted toward her. Still smiling. "Oh, were you?"

Diana returned the smile. "I was hoping Michael would join me."

The words were innocent.

The meaning wasn't.

Michael looked completely unaware of the knife sliding between them.

Y/N laughed softly. "Well." she stepped back. "I'll leave y'all to it."

Michael reached for her hand. "You sure you're okay?"

She squeezed his fingers. "I'm fine." Then she looked directly at Diana. "I'll be at home." Another pause of burning heartbreak. "Hope y'all enjoy the party."

And then she walked away.

Neither woman looked back.

Because neither needed to.

The war had already been declared.

As Y/N stepped through the front doors and into the cool February night, the composure she'd fought so hard to maintain began to crack.

Her vision blurred.

The tears she'd refused to shed in front of Michael gathered heavily along her lashes before finally spilling down her cheeks.

She kept walking.

One foot in front of the other. If she stopped, she knew she'd break.

James, her longtime security guard, immediately noticed something was wrong as he opened the back door of the car for her.

She slid into the seat without a word, turning her face toward the window.

The moment the door shut, the first sob escaped her.

Small.

Broken.

Painfully quiet.

The car pulled away from the curb.

For several minutes, only the sound of muffled crying filled the backseat.

James glanced at her through the rearview mirror. "Y/N?"

She quickly wiped at her face. "Yeah?"

"You okay?"

A bitter laugh escaped her, the kind that comes when the answer is obvious. "Yeah."

James didn't believe her, but he didn't push. "Where to, little miss?"

Y/N took a faint, deep, shaky breath, "The studio, please."

James nodded as the car pulled off.

Outside, the city lights streaked across the glass in blurred colors as tears continued slipping down her cheeks.

The hurt she'd spent months burying was finally surfacing.

Not because Michael had chosen Diana.

Not even because the relationship was over.

It was because she had realized she'd been mourning him long before she actually left.

Somewhere between the late-night phone calls to Diana, the lingering looks, and the way his face lit up whenever she entered a room, she'd already felt him slipping away.

Tonight had simply forced her to stop pretending otherwise, and for the first time, she allowed herself to grieve the man she loved while he was still alive.

By the time she got there, the recording studio was empty when she arrived.

She came there for a reason.

Not because she wanted to work, but because the ache in her chest was too large to carry in silence.

The drive there passed in a blur of tears and city lights. Every red light gave her too much time to think. Every song on the radio sounded wrong. Every thought somehow circled back to Michael.

To the way he'd smiled at Diana.

To the way he'd called her a beautiful soul.

Her beautiful soul.

She pushed through the studio doors, her face was damp and her eyes burned.

The room was dark except for a few dim lamps.

Y/N lowered herself onto the stool behind the piano and stared at the keys for a long moment.

Then she started playing.

Slowly.

A deep, mournful progression drifted through the room.

The notes felt heavy, rich, and soulful, carrying the kind of pain that settled deep in a person's bones. Each chord lingered just a little longer than expected, almost as if it was reluctant to let go.

The melody cried without words, rising and falling like someone trying to hold themselves together before finally breaking apart.

It sounded like heartbreak finally coming out, like staring at a front door that wasn't opening.

The piano weaved through aching strings and soft instrumentals, every note soaked in sorrow and longing. It wasn't angry. It wasn't bitter.

It was devastated.

The sound of a woman realizing she had been losing the man she loved for far longer than she'd allowed herself to admit.

Hours later, she recorded the final take.

When the last note faded into silence, Y/N sat there for several seconds, staring through tears at nothing.

Then she carefully removed the tape.

Labeled it.

And hid it away.

A secret little graveyard for a love that hadn't quite died yet—but was already taking its last breaths.

When Y/N finally stepped out of the recording room, the studio had gone completely quiet.

The clock on the wall read well past midnight.

In the foyer, James sat slouched in a chair with his arms crossed, somewhere between awake and asleep. His head jerked up the second he heard the door open.

He immediately sat up straight. "There she is."

Y/N couldn't help the small giggle that escaped her.

His expression softened at the sound. It was the first time she'd smiled all night. James stood and grabbed his jacket. "Home?"

She nodded. "Home."

The drive was quiet.

Not uncomfortable.

Just quiet.

Y/N rested her head against the window and watched the city lights drift past.

For the first time that night, she wasn't crying.

She was simply tired.

The kind of tired that came after your heart finally admitted what your mind had known for months.

Michael had been more than a boyfriend.

He'd been her safe place.

The person she called when a show went badly.

The person she wanted beside her when something wonderful happened.

The person she pictured when she thought about home.

And now he was becoming a memory.

She looked down at her hands and thought about the music she'd left behind in the studio.

Every note had carried him.

The longing.

The heartbreak.

The love she still couldn't turn off no matter how much it hurt.

But anyone who truly knew her would hear the song and understand exactly who it was about.

By the time Y/N's car rolled through the gates of Hayvenhurst, her tears had finally slowed, but the ache in her chest remained.

The familiar house stood exactly as it always had, warm lights glowed through the windows, the gardens were perfectly maintained, the driveway stretched ahead like a path leading home.

But tonight, it didn't feel like home at all.

A few years ago, she'd been reluctant to move in.

She'd fought the idea for months.

She liked having her own place, her own space, somewhere she could retreat when the world became too loud. Moving into Michael's home had felt like surrendering a piece of her independence.

Eventually, she'd done it because she loved him.

Because building a life together was supposed to mean sharing a home.

Now, as she stared up at the house through the car window, she found herself wishing she'd never unpacked a single box.

The realization hurt more than she expected.

This place held pieces of her everywhere.

Her records mixed among Michael's.

Her clothes hanging beside his.

Photographs on shelves.

Books on nightstands.

Little traces of a future she'd genuinely believed would last forever.

James opened the car door for her, but she barely noticed.

Her legs felt heavy as she climbed the front steps.

Each step felt final, like she was walking toward the end of something she wasn't ready to lose.

The house was quiet when she entered.

She hated that.

Normally she'd hear music somewhere in the distance or Michael humming to himself.

Tonight there was nothing.

Just silence.

Y/N swallowed hard and headed upstairs.

The bedroom door stood slightly open.

Their bedroom.

The room that had once made her feel safe. The room where they'd stayed up until sunrise talking about dreams and music and everything they wanted from life.

Now it felt unfamiliar.

Almost cold.

She stood in the doorway for several seconds before stepping inside.

A lump formed in her throat.

Everything looked normal.

That was the worst part.

Nothing in the room reflected how badly her heart was breaking.

The bed was neatly made.

His jacket still hung over a chair.

A book she had been reading sat untouched on the nightstand.

The ordinary sight of it all made tears sting her eyes again.

Because the room looked like it belonged to two people in love.

And she wasn't sure that was true anymore.

Slowly, she crossed to the closet.

The moment she saw her clothes hanging beside Michael's, something inside her cracked.

For years they had existed side by side.

His sequined jackets brushing against her leather coats.

His loafers beside her boots.

Their lives intertwined so naturally that she'd stopped noticing it.

Now she couldn't see anything else.

With trembling hands, she grabbed an empty suitcase and laid it on the bed.

Then she began packing.

One shirt.

Then another.

Each item felt less like clothing and more like evidence.

Proof that she'd loved him completely, and proof that she was about to leave it all behind.

By the time the suitcase was half full, tears were sliding silently down her cheeks again.

Not loud sobs.

Just quiet grief.

The kind that settles deep inside a person when they're finally forced to accept a truth they've been avoiding for far too long.

She wasn't packing because she stopped loving Michael.

That would've been easier.

She was packing because she loved him enough to recognize that his heart belonged somewhere else.

And that realization hurt more than anything she'd ever experienced.

The bedroom door opened quietly.

Michael stepped inside. His smile vanished instantly.

Suitcases.

Clothes.

Boxes.

Y/N stood beside the bed folding shirts, her eyes were swollen, her cheeks stained from crying.

Michael froze. "What's going on?"

She didn't answer immediately. Just folded another shirt.

"Baby?" His voice cracked. "What's wrong?"

Finally she looked up, and the sadness in her eyes nearly stopped his heart. "How long?"

Michael blinked. "What?"

"How long have you known?"

The room felt colder.

"Known what?"

She laughed bitterly. A sound completely unlike her. "That you loved her."

His face drained of color.

Silence.

Terrible silence.

Michael looked away first.

And that was all the answer she needed.

Tears filled her eyes.

"Oh."

"Y/N—"

"How long?"

His throat tightened. "I don't know." Michael stepped forward desperately. "But I love you."

"No." Her voice cut through the room like broken glass. "You love me, but you cheat on me?"

"Y/N—"

"I don't think that's love."

He looked devastated.

Guilty.

And finally the truth came out.

"I thought it would go away."

She stared. "What?"

His voice was barely audible. "I thought if I loved you enough..." He swallowed hard. "I'd forget about her."

The words hit harder than any scream ever could.

For several seconds Y/N simply stood there.

Motionless.

Then she laughed.

Not because anything was funny, but because if she didn't laugh, she'd collapse.

"You thought what?" Tears streamed down her face. "You thought getting with me would fix that?"

Michael looked away.

Ashamed.

"I didn't mean for this to happen."

"Then what did you mean for?" Her voice rose, for the first time. "You should've told me."

Michael flinched.

"You should've told me from the beginning."

"I was trying—"

"No." She pointed toward him. "You were hiding."

The room fell silent again.

Y/N shook her head. "Do you know how stupid I feel?"

Michael's eyes filled with tears.

She grabbed the final suitcase. "You should've just told her."

His brow furrowed. "What?"

"You should've told Diana." She wiped her face. "Instead of dragging me into this."

The suitcase wheels rattled across the floor.

Michael stared.

Watching.

Realizing.

Understanding.

She was leaving.

His voice came out broken. "You're leaving me."

Y/N stopped.

Her hand tightened around the suitcase handle.

Then she nodded. "Yeah."

Michael looked shattered.

"You can't."

"I can."

"Please." His voice cracked. "Please don't go."

She turned toward him.

And somehow that hurt worse.

Because she wasn't angry.

Just tired.

"I watched you choose her every day."

Michael cried openly now.

"Y/N—"

"You love her."

The truth hung between them.

Heavy.

Unavoidable.

"And maybe you always did."

She swallowed.

Hard.

"You deserve her."

"No."

"I do."

"You deserve the person you've been chasing this whole time."

Michael shook his head desperately.

"Don't go."

Y/N closed her eyes.

Then opened them one final time.

"It's done, Michael."

His shoulders collapsed.

"You can't lie about who you love."

The tears finally slipped free again.

"And you love her."

The room fell quiet.

Y/N expected him to argue.

Expected him to deny it. Expected him to tell her she was wrong.

Instead, he simply sat down on the edge of the bed.

His hands folded together. Staring at the floor.

When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.

"I never wanted to hurt you."

Y/N felt fresh tears sting her eyes. "I know."

"I really do love you."

The words hurt.

Because she believed him.

That was the tragedy of it all.

She believed every word.

Michael looked up at her then.

His eyes red.

Exhausted.

Filled with regret.

"I thought I could give you everything." His voice cracked slightly. "But part of me was always somewhere else."

Y/N closed her eyes. Hearing him finally admit it somehow hurt more than the lies. When she opened them again, Michael was still looking at her.

Not with desperation.

Not with panic.

Just sadness.

A deep sadness that came from finally accepting something he had been avoiding for years.

For a long moment, neither of them moved.

Then Michael nodded. A small, defeated nod.

As if surrendering to a battle that had already been lost.

"If leaving is what you need..." His voice faltered. "...then go."

Y/N's breath caught.

Michael looked away first. A tear sliding down his cheek. "You deserve somebody who chooses you every time."

The room went still.

Neither of them had expected those words.

Because they were true.

Michael managed a weak smile. One filled with sorrow rather than happiness.

"I'm sorry I wasn't that person."

Y/N pressed her lips together to keep them from trembling.

For years she had imagined a hundred different ways this relationship could end.

None of them looked like this.

Two people still loving each other.

And still saying goodbye.

Michael stood slowly, His eyes lingering on her face one last time.

Then he nodded again. "Take care of yourself."

The words sounded strange coming from him.

Final.

Like the closing line of a chapter neither of them wanted to finish.

Y/N swallowed the lump in her throat. "You too."

Then she turned.

Walked through the doorway.

Down the hallway.

Out the front door.

And never looked back.

The cold February air greeted her like freedom and heartbreak all at once.

She loaded the suitcases into her car.

Started the engine.

And as Michael stood frozen somewhere behind her, she drove away.

Toward somewhere safe.

˖ ݁♬⋆.˚𝄞

It's now April, one month. Sixty days, if she was counting.

And unfortunately, she was.

The studio smelled faintly of coffee, old tape reels, and warm electronics. It had become a second home over the past several weeks, a place where nobody asked her if she was eating enough, sleeping enough, or surviving the constant flood of headlines that seemed determined to tear her apart.

Y/N sat perched on the edge of the massive soundboard while Quincy Jones shuffled through sheets of paper and adjusted a few controls.

The room hummed with quiet activity.

Outside the control room glass, musicians were packing up after laying down the final instrumental tracks.

Quincy looked over his shoulder. "You sure about this one?"

Y/N didn't hesitate. "Yep."

Quincy raised an eyebrow.

The answer came far too quickly.

He picked up the lyric sheet again.

"You've known me forever, Q." She folded her arms. "Just trust me."

He stared at her for a moment before glancing back down at the page. "'I was just sitting here thinking of your kiss.. and warm embrace.'" He lowered the paper. "Who exactly is this about?"

Y/N groaned. "Oh my God."

"I'm serious." Quincy laughed. "You don't normally sing over tracks like this." He tapped the lyrics. "Especially not lyrics like these."

Y/N looked away.

Toward the recording booth, toward everything she'd been avoiding saying out loud.

"It's something different."

Quincy studied her. "And?"

"And who cares who it's for?" Her voice softened. "I just want people to know I'm human."

The room grew quiet.

Y/N swallowed.

"They think I don't hurt." The words barely made it above a whisper. "They think because I get on stage and scream into a microphone and shred a guitar that nothing gets to me."

Quincy didn't say anything.

"They think I don't cry."

Her eyes drifted toward the floor.

"They think I don't break."

The older producer's expression softened immediately, For the first time all morning, the joking disappeared.

Because he understood.

The tabloids had been brutal. Absolutely brutal.

Every week there was another headline.

Another rumor.

Another lie.

Some claimed Michael had dumped her because she was impossible to love, others insisted she'd cheated.

A few had even suggested she'd corrupted him.

Then came the stories claiming she was spiraling out of control. The stories claiming she was hiding in hotels. The stories claiming she'd suffered a breakdown.

And every single one of them had been fiction.

But fiction sold magazines.

The truth didn't.

Quincy reached over and patted her leg.

A silent gesture.

Get moving.

Y/N sighed dramatically. "Bossy."

"Booth."

She rolled her eyes. "Fine."

Quincy pointed. "Go."

A small smile tugged at her mouth despite everything, she climbed off the soundboard and headed toward the recording booth.

The heavy door clicked shut behind her.

Silence.

The microphone stood waiting.

The headphones settled over her ears.

Then the music began.

Soft.

Soulful.

Heartbreaking.

The opening notes wrapped around her like a memory.

And suddenly she wasn't standing in a recording booth anymore.

She was back in Hayvenhurst.

Back in hotel rooms.

Back in dressing rooms.

Back in late-night phone calls.

Back when Michael still looked at her like she was the only woman in the world.

Her throat tightened.

The first lyric left her lips.

Raw.

Delicate.

Painfully honest.

Quincy immediately sat forward.

Because this wasn't her usual voice.

There was no swagger. No attitude. No rock-star confidence.

Just vulnerability.

The sound of someone bleeding directly into a microphone.

Every line seemed pulled from somewhere deep inside her chest, every word carried months of heartbreak.

Months of humiliation.

Months of missing someone she desperately wished she could stop loving.

By the second verse, her voice began to shake.

Not enough to ruin the take, just enough to reveal the truth.

Tears gathered in her eyes, she blinked them away.

Kept singing.

The lyrics grew heavier, the longing became impossible to hide.

And somehow that made the performance even better.

Because it was real. Every ounce of it.

Then movement caught her eye.

Outside the booth and beyond the glass.

Y/N froze for half a second.

Michael. And Diana.

Standing together in the hallway.

Michael's eyes were already fixed on her.

Watching.

Listening.

Completely still.

Diana looked confused.

Michael leaned toward her and quietly said something.

Y/N couldn't hear it.

But she watched Diana's eyes widen, watched her look through the glass.

Toward Y/N.

Then Diana slowly nodded.

Turned around.

And disappeared down the hallway.

Leaving Michael standing alone.

Y/N's chest tightened, but she didn't stop singing.

Couldn't stop.

The chorus outro arrived.

The emotional climax.

And suddenly every feeling she'd buried over the last two months came crashing out.

Her voice cracked.

Just slightly.

A tiny fracture.

But it carried enough pain to make Quincy close his eyes. Because that wasn't acting, that wasn't performance; That was heartbreak.

The final note lingered.

Shook.

Then disappeared.

Silence.

The track ended.

Nobody spoke for several seconds.

Finally Quincy pressed the talkback button. "You wanna listen back?"

Y/N stared through the glass. Directly at Michael.

Then looked away. "No."

"You wanna cut anything?"

She shook her head. "No."

The booth door opened, and before anyone could stop her, she walked out.

Straight past Michael.

Close enough to smell his cologne.

Close enough to hear him breathe.

But she never looked at him.

Never spoke.

Never slowed down.

She simply kept walking.

The studio door slammed shut behind her.

Quincy watched the entire thing unfold, then slowly turned toward Michael. A knowing expression crossing his face. "This must be about you, huh?"

Michael rolled his eyes.

The answer was obvious.

Then he turned and followed her, the back of the building was quiet.

Far quieter than the front.

Y/N stood beside the fence with her arms folded tightly across her chest. The cool spring air helped.

At least a little.

She focused on breathing. Focused on staying calm. Focused on not crying again.

Footsteps approached.

She already knew who it was.

"Can we talk?"

Michael.

Y/N stared ahead. "About what?"

"Us."

A hollow laugh escaped her. "There is no us."

The words hit him immediately.

She finally turned.

Her eyes tired.

Exhausted.

Angry.

Hurt.

"I'm no good for you, Michael."

His face fell. "You don't mean that."

"I don't?" She gestured wildly. "You've seen the press." Her voice rose. "For crying out loud, they said I got you hooked on drugs."

Michael winced.

"And I don't even do that stuff." The frustration she'd spent months swallowing finally surfaced. "They found where I was staying."

Her eyes glistened.

"I couldn't even go get coffee without somebody yelling that I needed rehab."

Michael stared at her, because he'd seen it.

All of it.

The interviews, the photographers.

The cruelty.

He'd watched her walk onto stages and transform into the fearless woman everyone expected.

Watched her shut down rude reporters, watched her answer questions without actually answering them.

Especially when those questions were about him.

About them.

"But you know it isn't true." His voice was quiet.

Gentle.

"I do love you."

Y/N looked away.

Michael stepped closer. "I've done a lot of thinking."

Silence.

"I know I can't have two women."

Her jaw tightened.

"And I know you're the one I want."

For a moment she looked genuinely shaken.

Then she laughed softly, not because it was funny.

Because it hurt.

"We're no good for each other."

"Y/N—"

"We aren't." She pointed between them. "I'm on a completely different planet than you."

"The media wants you with someone—"

"I don't care what the media wants." He cut her off immediately.

The conviction in his voice surprised even her.

"I care."

Michael stopped.

Y/N's eyes filled with tears. "I care way too much about what people think of me." Her voice broke. "Maybe that's part of the problem."

She looked down.

Then back at him.

"Think about it."

Michael didn't answer.

"I don't want to ruin anything you have."

"You won't."

"You are a star."

"So are you."

She shook her head. "No." A sad smile appeared. "I don't wanna be the person who puts your light out."

For a moment neither moved.

Neither spoke.

The distance between them felt impossible to cross.

Then Y/N turned. Walked toward her car.

Michael watched helplessly.

The same way he'd watched her leave a month earlier.

She opened the driver's door.

Paused.

But never looked back.

A moment later the engine started.

And she drove away.

Leaving Michael standing alone beneath the fading April sunlight, watching the taillights disappear into the distance once again.

‧₊˚♪ 𝄞₊˚⊹

The summer of June 1982

The song was everywhere. Every radio station. Every record store. Every late-night music program.

People couldn't stop talking about it.

Critics called it a return to the great soul ballads of another era. Music magazines praised the vulnerability in her voice. Even people who had spent years mocking her suddenly found themselves admitting that the song was beautiful.

What nobody could agree on was who it was about.

Though most people had their suspicions.

A few of the Jackson brothers were gathered in the backyard of Hayvenhurst when the familiar piano introduction drifted from a nearby radio.

The afternoon sun hung low over the property.

Marlon lounged in a chair.

Jackie was flipping through a magazine.

Jermaine had one arm draped over the back of a lawn chair.

Michael sat quietly beneath a tree.

The radio host's voice filled the warm air.

"Today we have the rockstar turned emotional diva herself here to talk about her new hit single..."

Immediately, Michael looked up.

The sound of her voice followed.

Soft.

Dangerously familiar.

"It's just something I wrote."

His chest tightened.

"I got tired of people saying things about me. About my personal life."

The host laughed. "And that's all it is?"

A pause.

Then her voice again. "The song has two meanings."

The brothers exchanged looks.

"One of them I'm not willing to talk about." Another pause. "But... you can probably tell it's about somebody."

The host laughed louder. "Well, you heard it here first Stay tuned for more inside scoop!"

The interview faded.

The music began, and nobody was talking anymore.

"Something told me it was over..."

Michael froze.

"When I saw you and her talking..."

The lyrics hit like a punch to the chest.

Across the yard, Jermaine slowly lowered his drink.

Marlon blinked.

Jackie looked directly at Michael.

Nobody said anything for several seconds.

The song continued.

Raw.

Heartbroken.

Honest.

Then Jermaine broke the silence. "Damn."

Michael didn't move.

Jermaine shook his head. "I didn't know your girl had pipes like that."

Marlon laughed softly. "No kidding."

The song kept playing.

Every lyric seemed to grow heavier.

More personal.

More painful.

Marlon glanced at Michael. "She must've really been hurt."

Michael swallowed.

Hard.

"There's no way somebody writes something like that just because."

The words stung because they were true.

Jackie finally spoke quietly. "This is about you, huh?"

Michael immediately stood. The movement was abrupt enough to startle everyone.

Nobody stopped him, nobody needed an answer because they already had one.

He walked back into the house.

Straight upstairs, straight to his room.

Closing the door behind him.

The song still echoed inside his head.

He sank onto the edge of his bed, staring at the floor.

He remembered promises, late-night conversations, future plans. Everything they'd talked about.

Everything he'd broken.

The worst part wasn't hearing the hurt.

The worst part was knowing he'd put it there.

After several minutes, he reached for the phone.

He knew the station. He'd heard his father mention it in the past for an interview.

The number took two tries because his hands wouldn't stop shaking.

A woman answered. "Good afternoon, WQRS."

Michael cleared his throat. "Can you connect me with Y/N?"

A pause.

"She's in the middle of something right now I—."

Relief immediately flooded him. "It's Michael Jackson, she was supposed to call me before she started." He interrupted

It wasn't true.

But it sounded believable enough.

"Oh." Papers shuffled. "One moment."

Then silence.

Michael's stomach twisted.

The wait felt endless.

Finally, a click.

Then her voice. "Hello?"

For a moment he couldn't speak.

Just hearing her again hurt.

"Can we talk?"

Silence.

Then a sigh.

A tired sigh.

One he'd heard countless times before.

"Michael...I told you." Her voice softened. "I'm not meant for you."

His eyes closed. "Don't do this."

"I'm serious."

"You aren't bad for me."

"You don't understand."

The frustration wasn't directed at him, it sounded directed at herself.

"If the media is getting to me this bad..." Her voice cracked slightly. "Then it'll be ten times worse if we're together."

"I don't care."

The words came immediately. Without hesitation. Without thought.

"I do."

Silence.

Heavy silence.

Then Michael spoke again. "The moments we had were real." His voice dropped. "They mattered."

A long pause followed. When she finally answered, her voice sounded heartbreakingly gentle. "I know they were."

Michael gripped the phone tighter.

"I cherish them."

Another pause.

"I really do."

His throat tightened. "I love you."

The words escaped before he could stop them.

On the other end of the line, silence, then a shaky breath.

And— "I know."

Michael's eyes filled with tears.

"And I love you too."

The admission nearly broke him.

"But that's why I have to do this."

He leaned forward. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm protecting you."

Michael laughed bitterly. "From what?"

"Everything." Her voice finally cracked.

"The press, the tabloids, the rumors, the people waiting for me to mess up."

He listened, unable to interrupt.

"You are too sweet for this world, Michael." The words sounded painfully sincere. "And I'll be damned if I become the reason your light gets dimmed."

His eyes shut.

Because even now— Even after everything, she was thinking about him.

Not herself.

Him.

"You'll always be important to me."

The words felt final.

Like goodbye.

Forever.

Then her voice softened one last time.

"Best of luck, Michael."

Click.

The line went dead.

Michael sat there staring at the receiver.

Listening to nothing.

For several minutes he didn't move. Didn't speak. Didn't cry.

He simply sat there.

Thinking.

Understanding.

For the first time, he truly understood why she'd left.

It wasn't because she stopped loving him. It wasn't because she hated him. It was because she loved him enough to walk away.

The realization hurt.

But it also changed something.

Months later, sitting alone with a notebook and a melody that refused to leave him alone, Michael found himself writing about tenderness.

About devotion.

About a woman who stayed in his heart long after she was gone.

A woman who saw goodness in him even when he couldn't see it himself.

A woman who protected him while breaking her own heart.

The lyrics came easier than expected.

And as he wrote, a small smile touched his face.

Because no matter where life carried them, some part of her would always live between the lines.

The end . ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆