Tangerine 🍊

"I just don't understand why it has to be Prince." Michael said as he walked through the living room of Neverland. "Because MTV asked him." You answered for the hundredth time.

"They could have chosen someone else."

You sighed in frustration. "Michael, it's a duet. Artists do that all the time."

He turned to you. "With him?"

"Yeah, with him."

His jaw tightened. Prince, his professional rival. Not personally, but for years the media had pitted them against each other. And now his fiancée would perform with him in front of millions of viewers.

"Do you realize what this looks like?" He asked.

"Like a performance?"

"As bad publicity."

You rolled your eyes. "Because I'll sing with Prince?"

"Because my fiancé sings with Prince." The emphasis he put on that last word only made you angrier.

"I'm not your property, Michael."

"I'm not saying that."

"It sounds like that tho."

He was silent for a moment. "You're becoming more and more famous."

You frowned. "What does that have to do with this?"

"Everything." For the first time you heard something other than jealousy in his voice, fear. But you were too angry to think about it.

"My album is selling well, so now that's a problem too?"

"I didn't say that."

"No? Then what are you saying?"

Michael took a deep breath. "You have the whole world at your feet. Only two more albums and everyone is talking about you."

"And?"

"And maybe soon you'll realize that you don't need me."

The words made you freeze. "What?"

"Maybe you realize that you can get someone closer to your age."

There it was, the twelve years between you. You were 25, he was 37.

"You don't mean that."

"I only say—"

"That I'm going to leave you?"

"I didn't say that."

"That's exactly what you're saying!"

The argument became louder and louder, more and more vicious. All you heard was that he didn't want you to be successful, that he was jealous of Prince, that he thought you would cheat on him. And Michael only heard his own fears that he couldn't control.

Then he closed his eyes. As if he forced himself to make a decision. "Please leave."

You stared at him. "... What?"

"Go back to your apartment."

"Micha—"

"I need time."

"No." You could already feel the tears coming up. "No, Michael."

"I can't do this now."

"I live here!" Your voice broke completely. "We're engaged!" The first tears ran down your cheeks. "You can't just send me away, can you?"

Michael looked away. That hurt more than if he had screamed. "Until the MTV Awards."

You started crying louder. "Please." No response. "Michael, look at me." Nothing. "Please."

He picked up the phone, before you understood what was happening he called security. "Take her to her apartment."

You felt your heart breaking, literally. As if something in your chest was ripped loose.

When the security guards arrived, you resisted at first. Not physically, but you kept begging, kept crying, kept asking why he did this. Why he didn't just understand you, why he didn't trust you.

But in the end you let it happen, with tears that wouldn't stop you were escorted outside. The door of Neverland closed behind you. And for the first time since your engagement, it felt like you didn't know if you would ever return.

The first week after you left Neverland, you lived almost entirely on autopilot. You hardly slept. Hardly ate. Cried way too much. Your apartment, which had once felt like a safe place, now felt empty. Too quiet. Too small.

Especially because Michael was missing everywhere. You tried to convince yourself that it was temporary. That he just needed time, that he would eventually call.

So you called, every day. Sometimes several times a day. By now, you almost knew his voicemail by heart. But Michael never answered, and he never called back.

When you tried to reach Bill or Quincy Jones, you always got the same answer.

"Michael is busy."

"Michael is in the studio."

"Michael has interviews."

"Michael has rehearsals."

Always a reason, never a solution.

In the meantime, the engagement ring stayed on your finger, in the beginning it gave you hope, later only pain. More and more often, you stayed at home because you didn't want paparazzi to take pictures of you while you looked like you hadn't slept in weeks.

The media didn't know anything yet and you didn't want to be the one to confirm the story. So you stayed inside, wrote music, a lot of music. For the first time in years, you didn't write about falling in love. Not about dreams. Not about Michael.

You wrote about sadness, about uncertainty, about waiting for a phone call that never came. You filled notebook after notebook with texts that might one day end up on your next album, it felt like the only way to breathe.

The only times you saw Michael were on television. Interviews, award shows, press conferences. And every time it hurt.

Because he looked normal, he laughed, made jokes. Talked about HIStory. As if his life went on, as if nothing happened.

While you still fell asleep crying every night, during the rehearsals for the MTV Awards, you tried to keep yourself professional. That worked surprisingly well. Prince treated you as an equal. Not as Michael Jackson's fiancée. Not as an emerging star, just as an artist.

One evening, after a long rehearsal, you finally told him what had happened. Not everything, but enough. Prince listened attentively, then shrugged.

"If my fiancée had to sing with someone." He said quietly. "I would trust her enough to do it." You knew it wasn't an attack on Michael. Prince said it without anger.

Without judgment, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. But the words stuck.

For days.

For weeks.

Because the more you thought about it, the more you started to realize that the problem had never really been Prince. It was trust, or rather the lack of it.

Meanwhile, Michael was not happy at Neverland either, he hadn't touched any of your stuff. Your clothes were still hanging in the closet, your books were still in their place, even your favorite mug was still in the kitchen. As if you could come back at any moment.

He listened to your albums all the time. Sometimes just to hear your voice, sometimes because he wanted to remind himself of the woman he had fallen in love with.

He missed you terribly, but no one knew.

Not the media, not his fans, almost no one. Only Janet knew the truth. He regularly asked her how you were doing.

If you ate.

If you were sleeping well.

Whether you were still sad.

And whenever Janet told him that you had tried to call again, he felt the same twinge in his chest. Yet he never called back.

He waited.

You waited.

And the distance between you only increased. By the time the MTV Awards were just a few days away, you finally knew what to do. You still loved him, that had never changed.

But you didn't want to marry someone that didn't trust you, not someone who pushed you away when things got tough, not someone who hadn't made any effort to get you back for two and a half months.

On the night of the MTV Awards, you would see Michael again, and then you would finally tell him what you had decided.

No matter what. This time you would be the one to say goodbye.

The night of the MTV Awards had finally arrived, for the first time in two and a half months you were in the same room as Michael. Only you hadn't looked at him yet.

You sat in the front row, as agreed, to be able to get on stage later on. The room was full of artists, actors, producers and journalists. Cameras flashed everywhere. Your fingers nervously played with the engagement ring that was still on your left hand.

Just a little longer.

A few more hours.

After that, everything would be over.

After a few award ceremonies, the next artist was finally announced.

Michael Jackson.

The room almost exploded with applause. You looked up as he walked onto the stage. It felt strange, painful. Because despite everything, he still looked like the man you loved.

The music began.

Billie Jean.

Than The Way You Make Me Feel, Dangerous and Smooth Criminal.

As always, he had the audience completely in his grip, the audience hung on his every word. Even you couldn't deny how good he was. But then came the last song.

You Are Not Alone.

A song that used to be your song. You felt your stomach contract. Michael slowly walked to the front of the stage as the last notes floated through the room.

And then it happened, his gaze found yours. Right in the front row, the audience suddenly seemed to disappear. The camera automatically turned in your direction.

Michael sang softly. "Though we're far apart..." And point to you, a clear message, a message that millions of viewers would see at home. For a moment you were speechless. Then you felt the anger rise again.

Two and a half months.

For two and a half months he had made no effort to get you back, no phone call, no letter, no visit.

But now, in front of the cameras, he suddenly wanted to send a message?

You looked at him angrily, so angry that even the camera couldn't miss it, and at that moment you made a decision.

Fine.

Then you would do the same.

Almost an hour later it was finally your turn.

Behind the stage you tried to keep yourself calm, Prince stood next to you while technicians made the final preparations. He looked at you. "You're ready."

You nodded. "I hope so."

Prince smiled. "Don't worry. You go on that stage and you show everyone why they asked you here." For the first time that evening, a small smile appeared on your face. "Thank you."

An employee gave the signal, time to go on.

When you walked on stage, Michael automatically looked up, and for the first time since your fight, he really saw you. Not on television, not in a photo. But here, in real life.

You looked beautiful, your eyes were no longer red from crying. You no longer wore comfortable sweatpants in which you had walked around for weeks, your make-up was perfect, your dress sparkled under the spotlights.

For a moment it seemed as if the past few months had never happened. Michael felt his heart beat faster.

God, how he had missed you.

The music began. First you sang Forever Yours, the love song you once wrote for him.

This was followed by Kiss, When Doves Cry and Let's Go Crazy. The room went completely crazy, but Michael hardly noticed the audience. He only looked at you. And to Prince, especially to Prince.

Because throughout the performance you were remarkably close to each other, sometimes you almost danced against each other. Sometimes Prince held your hand, sometimes he pulled you closer to him. It was almost like Dirty Dancing.

It hurt Michael a lot more than he ever expected, and that's when Purple Rain started.

The room became quiet, you slowly walked to the front of the stage.

You knew exactly what you were gonna do, your gaze found Michael's. Just as he had done before. And while you sang the words. "It's such a shame our friendship had to end..." You pointed at him.

The whole room reacted, but you didn't look at anything else, only at Michael. This time he didn't look back angry, not even jealous.

Only sad, as if he finally understood what you were trying to tell him. That this was no longer a warning, not an attempt to make him jealous, but a farewell.

Still, you kept smiling as the music continued, you kept dancing with Prince. Stayed close to him, continued to enjoy the performance. Because for the first time in months you felt free, and Michael could do nothing but watch.

The applause of the audience still echoed through the corridors behind the stage as Michael hurriedly made his way through the crowds.

Artists, managers and camerapeople walked back and forth everywhere, but he hardly saw them. His thoughts were completely with you. At the way you had looked at him during Purple Rain, at the words you had sung, at the look in your eyes.

He needed to talk to you, he needed to explain that he had been wrong. That he had missed you, that he still loved you.

Maybe it wasn't too late, maybe he could still save this. But even before he started looking for you, he saw you coming, as if you had expected him, as if you already knew where he would be.

You walked calmly in his direction, confident, calm. That made him more nervous than any argument had ever done.

"Can we talk?" He asked softly.

You nodded. "Yeah." For a moment there was a silence between you.

For the first time in two and a half months, you were back on opposite sides. No cameras, no audience, no music. Only you.

Michael swallowed. "I missed you."

You looked at the ground for a moment. The words still hurt because they came too late. Way too late. "I tried to call you, Michael."

His shoulders slumped a little. "I know."

"Almost every day."

He closed his eyes briefly, because of course he knew.

"Why did you never answer?" You asked.

Michael had no answer, at least not a good one. Because the truth was that he had been afraid, afraid to hear that you were angry, afraid to hear that you didn't want him anymore, afraid to be confronted with his own mistakes. So he had done nothing. And that was exactly why everything had become worse.

You smiled sadly. "In the end, it all came down to the same thing."

Michael looked at you. "What do you mean?"

A tear stung behind your eyes, but you didn't drop it. You had already cried enough. "You were afraid that I could live without you." The words struck him immediately, because they were true. From the beginning, that had been his biggest fear. Not Prince. Not the MTV Awards. Not even your success.

But the idea that one day you would realize that you didn't need him. That you deserved better, that you could go on without him. You looked straight at him. "But after two and a half months of silence..." Your voice broke for a moment. "... you have proven that I can do that."

Michael felt his heart contract in his chest, as if all the air was being knocked out of his lungs. Because suddenly he understood, you didn't leave him for Prince.

You didn't leave him because you became famous.

You didn't leave him because you were younger.

You left him because he had never believed you, never really. Not when you loved him. Not when you wanted to stay with him. Not when you tried to reach him over and over again.

Slowly you looked at the engagement ring on your finger, the ring you had worn for months. Even when you doubted, even when you were sad, even when you started to realize that your relationship might not be salvageable.

Carefully you slid it off. Michael immediately felt what you were going to do. "Please..." He whispered.

But you shook your head softly, then you put the ring in his hand. The same hand in which he had shoved him with so much love months ago. "I still love you."

That only made it worse, because he knew you were telling the truth. "But I can't marry someone who only trusts me when everything is going well."

Michael looked at the ring in his hand, could hardly breathe, could hardly think. For the first time he saw the truth clearly. He had had everything he had ever dreamed of, and he had chased it away himself.

Not because of lack of love, but because of lack of trust.

You took a step back, then another. "Goodbye, Michael." He wanted to stop you, call your name, beg for one more chance.

But the words did not come, so he stood still, motionless.

With the ring firmly in his hand, and he watched you walk away. Without looking back one more time, when you finally disappeared from sight, Michael was left alone in the silent hallway.

With nothing but memories and the ring he had once given to the woman he thought would marry her.

The woman he hadn't lost to Prince, not to her success, not to her career. But of his own fear.

Because Michael had been afraid that you would leave him because you became successful. In the end, you left him because he never believed you when you said you were staying.

--

Michael stood in the middle of the living room staring at the shoes like they had personally disrespected him. One foot was tilted at an awkward angle as Michael tried to see if they looked better from a distance.

The matte black Crocs you’d bought him sat on his feet like two oversized rubber ducks. They looked awkward on his feet to him and made his billion dollar ankles look completely unprotected.

“Back in my day these would’ve just been called clogs,” he said, staring down at them with the same expression he used when he didn’t like a song in the studio. “House shoes. You don’t wear house shoes outside. My mama would have killed me. My ankles don’t feel secure in these things.”

You were already biting your lip so hard it hurt. Sometimes he showed his age so much that it reminded you he was getting older.

“You’re showing your age, Mike.”

He glanced up at you, eyes soft but completely serious. “I don’t wanna hurt your feelings, baby… but I think they’re ugly.”

You couldn’t hold it. A laugh slipped out before you could catch it. You palmed your forehead through the giggles. “You don’t wear them for cuteness. They’re just comfortable to run errands in.”

Michael tilted his foot again, turning it side to side like he was inspecting a crime scene. His whole life he’d been taught by his elders that when you stepped outside, your shoes needed to protect you — real support, real coverage. These looked like something you’d slide on to check the mail... and prayed nobody saw you.

“Like… meant to be worn outside?” he asked, voice full of genuine curiosity. “Or house shoes?” He was truly puzzled. Fashion these days was so odd to him. The sagging pants. The big gaudy clothes. The way everything looked like it was trying to swallow the person wearing it. He just didn’t get it.

“They’re meant to be worn outside,” you told him, stepping closer. “And look, you can put stuff in the holes.” You held out the little pack of custom jibbitz you’d picked out for him. Tiny rhinestone gloves. A glittery “M.” A little crown.

Michael’s eyes lit up despite himself as he took the pack. “Oh wow… these are so neat.” He started sorting through them right there, completely focused on figuring out how to push the little charms into the holes, tongue poking out as he focused.

That’s when it slipped out of you, low and teasing.

“Coochie so good it made you put some jibbitz in your crocs.”

Michael’s head snapped up. Heat crept up his neck and across his cheeks. For a second he just stared at you, then his face lit up with pure amusement, a boyish grin spreading across his face.

“What?” he said, voice cracking into the start of a laugh.

You didn’t stop. You started jokingly rapping the line, shoulders moving with the beat.

Michael lost it. A fit of giggles hit him so fast it turned into full, uncontrollable laughter. He covered his face with both hands, shoulders shaking hard.

He tried to compose himself, turning slightly away like that might help, but the chuckles kept coming. Every time he tried to straighten up and catch his breath, another wave hit him. He peeked at you through his fingers once, still grinning, clearly trying to keep a straight face and failing completely.

“Stop— stop it,” he managed between laughs, still struggling. “You’re embarrassing me.”

You stepped behind him and wrapped your arms around his waist, laughing with him now. “I’m just saying… you out here customizing shoes now.”

Michael turned in your arms, still chuckling softly and eyes sparkling with adoration. He leaned down to press a kiss to your forehead, then your lips. Gentle, lingering, and a little breathless from all the laughter.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, girl” he murmured against your mouth, voice warm and fond. “I can’t believe you got me in these things.”

You smiled against him. “They’re comfortable though, right?”

He glanced down at his feet, wiggling his toes inside the Crocs, that same boyish smile still tugging at his lips.

“…They’re actually kind of nice,” he admitted quietly, like he was confessing something scandalous. “Don’t tell nobody.”

You laughed and pulled him closer. Outside, the world still expected Michael Jackson in his signature loafers and militaristic sharp suits.