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Michael had originally asked to meet you because he wanted to donate to your wildlife rescue.

That was the official reason, anyway. The real reason was that he’d been watching your animal show for months and had developed the biggest crush imaginable.

So when he finally arrived at your rescue center, he was trying very hard to act normal.

It lasted about thirty seconds. “Would you like to help feed the kangaroos?” you asked.

“Yes.”

“Would you like to hold a baby koala?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like—”

“Yes.”

You laughed while Michael followed you around the entire day like an excited puppy.

Years later, not much had changed.

One afternoon, the two of you were helping treat an injured kookaburra. You carefully wrapped the bird’s wing while Michael sat beside you holding supplies and listening intently.

“So this little guy should be okay?” he asked. “Yep. A few weeks of rest and he’ll be flying again.”Michael smiled immediately.

“Good.”

You glanced over at him and couldn’t help smiling too. For someone who was one of the biggest stars in the world, he looked happiest sitting in the dirt beside you with bird feathers stuck to his shirt.

When the rescue was finished, you both sat quietly outside the enclosure. The kookaburra gave a loud call from its perch.

Michael squeezed your hand. “You know,” he said softly, “seeing how much you love animals is one of the reasons I fell in love with you.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“One of the reasons?”

He grinned.

“The other reason was watching you break up a kookaburra fight on television.” You immediately started laughing.

“Michael!”

“What? It was impressive!” The bird squawked loudly as if agreeing with him. And somehow that only made the two of you laugh harder.

꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦꒷꒦

This would be during one of the darkest periods of Michael Jackson’s life. Every week there seemed to be a new headline.

A new accusation.

A new rumor.

A new tabloid cover with giant letters screaming things that weren’t true. Photographers chased him everywhere. Reporters shouted questions at him.

Some people made entire careers out of twisting his actions into scandals. So when Michael first heard about you, he didn’t believe the stories.

The mute and deaf photographer.

The one celebrities secretly adored.

The one tabloids absolutely hated.

You weren’t famous because you were deaf. You weren’t famous because you were mute. You were famous because you were good.

Unbelievably good.

Somehow, whenever you photographed someone, you captured them exactly as they were.

Not awkward moments.

Not embarrassing expressions.

Not images meant to humiliate them.

Just beautiful photographs.

Human photographs. Photographs that made celebrities feel seen instead of hunted. Even more shocking were your articles.

Every article you wrote was researched obsessively. If someone was accused of something, you checked facts. If tabloids exaggerated stories, you corrected them. If lies spread, you dismantled them piece by piece.

You never defended people blindly. But you never attacked people unfairly either. You simply told the truth.

And somehow the truth often looked very different from what tabloids printed. Actors loved you.

Musicians loved you.

Athletes loved you.

Even celebrities who hated the press made exceptions for you. Because they knew something. If you interviewed them, you weren’t trying to trap them.

If you photographed them, you weren’t trying to embarrass them. If you wrote about them, you weren’t trying to make money from their pain.

You genuinely cared.

The first time Michael actually met you was at a charity event. He arrived already exhausted.

Bodyguards surrounding him. Reporters shouting. Cameras flashing. His shoulders were tense. His eyes tired.

He looked like someone preparing for battle rather than attending a charity gala.

Then he noticed something strange.

One photographer wasn’t screaming his name.

One photographer wasn’t pushing forward.

One photographer wasn’t trying to get an outrageous reaction.

You simply stood there. Camera in hand. Watching. Waiting. Patient.

Michael noticed you signing to an assistant nearby. Quick, graceful movements. The assistant signed back. Michael blinked.

“Oh.”

That must be her.

His bodyguard leaned down.

“That’s the photographer I mentioned.” Michael immediately recognized your name. The articles. The photographs. The stories he’d secretly read.

The ones that actually treated him like a human being. For the rest of the event you never bothered him. You never demanded attention.

You never interrupted conversations. You never tried to force photographs. You simply worked. And somehow you still got the best pictures in the room.

A week later Michael saw your article. Normally he avoided reading about himself. Too painful. Too exhausting. Too risky. But your article caught his eye.

The headline wasn’t dramatic.It wasn’t scandalous. It wasn’t cruel. It simply talked about the charity work. The children. The donations. The event itself. And Michael was mentioned as one of many people helping. Nothing more. Nothing less.

He read the entire thing twice. Then a third time. Because it felt strange. Nobody was mocking him. Nobody was accusing him. Nobody was turning a charity event into gossip. It was just… Truth.

A few months later he began seeing you everywhere. Award shows. Fundraisers. Film premieres. Benefits. Industry events.

And every single time the pattern repeated.

A celebrity would spot you.Smile. Walk over. Wave. Want a photograph with you. Want to talk. Want to sign greetings back and forth.

One night Michael watched in amazement as several major celebrities were practically fighting over who got to greet you first.

Not because you were famous. But because you had earned their trust. Something incredibly rare in that industry.

Eventually Michael worked up the courage to approach you himself. You looked surprised.

Then immediately smiled. Warm.

Kind.

Not starstruck.

Not nervous.

Just genuine.

You quickly signed a greeting. Michael obviously didn’t understand sign language. But your assistant translated.

“She says hello.”

Michael smiled.

“Tell her I like her articles.”

The assistant translated. You froze. Completely stunned. Because you had spent years defending celebrities.

Years writing the truth.

Years fighting tabloids. But hearing Michael Jackson say he actually read your work? That meant everything.

After that you slowly became friends.

Michael started requesting you specifically at events. Not because he wanted publicity. But because he trusted you.

Which was something he rarely gave people anymore. Sometimes you’d photograph him laughing with children.

Sometimes you’d photograph him backstage.

Sometimes you’d photograph him quietly helping people when he thought nobody was watching.

And every single time the pictures came out beautiful.

Not because you edited reality. But because you captured moments most photographers ignored.

One evening Michael finally asked through your interpreter:

“Why do you defend everybody so much?”

You thought for a moment.

Then signed slowly. The interpreter translated. “Because the truth deserves someone willing to fight for it.”

Michael got quiet.

Very quiet.

Because by then he knew exactly how much damage lies could cause. How many people believed headlines. How quickly the world judged someone.

And for perhaps the first time in years, Michael felt like someone in the media actually saw him.

Not the celebrity.

Not the controversy.

Not the headlines.

Just Michael.

After that he became incredibly protective of you.

Especially whenever tabloids mocked your disability.

Because occasionally some awful publication would make cruel comments about you being deaf and mute.

Michael absolutely hated that.

The next time one of those tabloids published something nasty, you responded with facts and professionalism as usual.

Michael, meanwhile, was furious. Pacing. Complaining to everyone who would listen.

“She’s one of the kindest people I’ve ever met.” “She works harder than all of them.” “She tells the truth.”

“And they’re attacking her?”

Meanwhile you would just smile and sign:

“Ignore them.”

Which somehow only made Michael more upset on your behalf. Because you never fought for yourself. Only for other people. Years later, countless celebrities would still describe you the same way.

Not as a reporter.

Not as a photographer.

Not as a journalist.

But as a protector. Someone who refused to let lies become louder than truth.

Someone who treated famous people like human beings.

Someone who built a reputation so trustworthy that celebrities would relax the moment they saw you arrive.

And during one of the hardest eras of Michael Jackson’s life, that trust became one of the few things he genuinely valued.

────﹒♡﹒──── ────﹒♡﹒──── ────﹒

The first few years of living with Michael had taught you one very important lesson

Michael Jackson could sleep through anything.

Not metaphorically.

Literally.

You had watched this man sleep through thunderstorms, construction outside the hotel, Janet banging on a door, and once, an entire smoke detector battery screaming from the hallway.

Nothing.

The world could be ending and Michael would roll over, pull a pillow over his head, and continue sleeping peacefully.

At first, you’d tried normal methods. You’d shake his shoulder. “Michael.” Nothing. “Michael, come on.”

Nothing.

You’d open the curtains. The sunlight would hit him directly in the face. He’d simply pull the blanket over his head.

You’d turn on music. Nothing. You’d threaten to eat his favorite snacks. Nothing.

One time, you dumped an entire pile of stuffed animals on top of him. Michael had somehow hugged one in his sleep.

After years of this, waking him up became less of a routine and more of a personal battle.

One morning, you walked into the bedroom already annoyed. It was nearly noon. Michael had promised he’d be awake by ten.

The room was quiet except for his soft breathing. He was sprawled across the bed, one arm hanging off the side, hair all over the place, completely unconscious.

You stood there for a moment. “Michael.” Nothing. You folded your arms. “Michael.” Still nothing.

You pulled the blanket. He pulled it right back without opening his eyes. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

No response.

Then your eyes landed on the notebook sitting on the nightstand. One of his song notebooks. The sacred notebooks.

The ones filled with unfinished lyrics, melodies, random ideas, and notes he refused to let anyone touch. A slow smile appeared on your face.

You picked it up. Still no reaction. You opened to a random page. “Dear Prince,” you said loudly.

Michael didn’t move.

You continued.

“If you’re reading this, it means Michael refused to wake up today, so I’ve decided to donate his unfinished songs to you.”

A twitch.

Just a tiny one.

But you saw it. Your smile widened. “Oh, look at this.” You flipped another page. “This one sounds pretty good.”

Another twitch.

“Maybe Prince could finish it.” Michael’s eyebrows pulled together. You were getting somewhere.

You sat on the edge of the bed. “Hmm…” You pretended to read. “‘Song idea number seventeen.’”

The sleeping figure suddenly groaned. You nearly laughed. “Oh?”

No response. So you kept going.

“‘Potential hit single—’” A hand emerged from beneath the blanket.

Just a hand.

Searching.

Trying to locate the notebook without opening its owner’s eyes. You immediately pulled it away.

“Nope.”

The hand disappeared.

“Anyway,” you continued cheerfully, “I’m sure Prince would appreciate these.” The blanket suddenly lowered.

One eye opened.

Just one.

Michael stared at you.

You stared back.

“Good morning.” The eye narrowed. Then closed again. The blanket went back up.

You gasped dramatically. “Oh wow.” You flipped another page. “This one is really good.”

No response.

“Maybe I’ll call Prince personally.”

The blanket flew off.

Michael sat straight upright. “What?!” You burst out laughing. “There he is!” Michael looked horrified. Actually horrified.

Like you’d threatened a national emergency.

“You can’t do that!” “Do what?” “You know what!” He pointed accusingly at the notebook. You held it above your head.

“You were asleep.” “I was awake.” “You had one eye open.” “That counts!”

Michael immediately lunged for the notebook. You moved it away. He lunged again. You stood up.

“Nope.”

“Give me that.”

“Why?”

“Because those are my songs!”

“Not if Prince gets them first.”

Michael looked genuinely offended. The betrayal on his face could have won awards. “You are evil.” “You slept until noon.”

“I was tired.” “You promised you’d be up by ten.” “I changed my mind.” “You were unconscious.”

Michael finally managed to grab the notebook and immediately hugged it to his chest. Like you were actually going to mail it away.

“You wouldn’t really do it.” You shrugged. “I don’t know.” “You absolutely would.”

“Then wake up when I tell you to.”

Michael groaned and flopped backward onto the mattress.

After that day, the method became legendary. You didn’t even have to open the notebook anymore. A few months later, you’d walk into the room.

Michael would be asleep.

You’d quietly place a hand on the notebook.

And from somewhere under three blankets, a tired voice would immediately appear.

“…don’t.”

You’d grin.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t touch it.”

“I wasn’t gonna do anything.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m literally standing here.”

“You’re thinking about it.”

The studio had a rhythm of its own during the Bad era different from the polished chaos of earlier years. This was sharper. More intense. Like everything had to be perfect, or it didn’t deserve to exist at all.

And at the center of it all was Michael barefoot half the time, pacing the control room, replaying the same five seconds of a track until everyone else felt like they were losing their minds.

Including you.

Except you weren’t in the studio.

You were on the phone. A lot.

It usually started around late afternoon. The studio secretary—Calm voice, clipped tone, always slightly overworked—would pick up.

“Westlake Recording Studios, how may I help you?”

And then:

“Hi… is Michael there?”

There would be a pause. A familiar one.

“Oh one moment.”

But it wasn’t ever just one moment. Because Michael wasn’t just “there.” He was in the zone, and in the zone meant

No food

No breaks

And absolutely no concept of time

So the secretary would look over the glass wall into the control room where Quincy Jones was usually sitting arms crossed, listening carefully, already looking like he knew this call would become his problem too.

Quincy would tilt his head slightly.

“Is it her again?” he’d ask, already amused.

The secretary would nod.

And Quincy would sigh like a man who had seen this exact storyline too many times.

“Put her through,” he’d say. “Let’s see if he listens this time.”

Inside the studio, Michael would barely notice the phone ringing at first. He was too busy adjusting a vocal layer. “Mike,” Quincy would call casually, “you’ve got a call.”

Michael wouldn’t even turn around. “Tell them I’ll call back.” Quincy would raise an eyebrow. “It’s her.”

That would always do it.

Michael would pause mid-step.

“…Her?”

And suddenly he’d be at the phone faster than anyone expected, like the entire studio could burn down but he’d still answer that call. “Hi,” he’d say immediately, softer now. “I’m working.”

And you would already know what that meant.

“I know,” you’d say. “Did you eat?”

A beat.

Then the lie

“Yes.”

Quincy, in the background, would quietly mutter, “He didn’t.” Michael would shoot him a look like betrayal. But he’d stay on the line with you anyway.

“I had something earlier,” he’d insist.

“Michael.”

Silence.

The kind of silence where even the music in the studio felt like it paused.

Then “…I’m fine.”

You’d let out a slow breath on your end of the line. “I don’t believe you.” And that’s where it usually ended.

Not because the call was over but because you knew him. And he knew you knew. Still, he’d say, “I’ll eat later.”

Always later.

Always.

It went on like that for days. Sometimes Quincy would take the call first, just to soften it.

“Now listen,” he’d say into the phone once, leaning back in his chair like a judge in court, “he’s lying again.” Michael would groan immediately. “Quincy”

But Quincy would just keep going.

“He’s been surviving on water, vibes, and stubbornness.” From your end, you’d laugh a little.

Then you’d say, “Put him on.”

And Quincy would hand it over like passing a responsibility he didn’t ask for but absolutely accepted. One day, though, the secretary almost didn’t transfer your call.

It was busy. Two producers arguing in the hallway. Quincy deep in playback. Michael locked into another vocal take.

The phone rang.

She picked up.

“Westlake Recording—” Your voice came through immediately. “Hi, it’s me again.”

She paused.

She already knew.

She looked toward the studio glass.

Michael was mid-conversation with Quincy, completely focused.

She hesitated.

Because she’d seen this before the cycle

You call

He lies

Quincy finds out

Michael pretends it’s fine

So she made a decision.

“Hold on,” she said quietly.

Then she pressed the line. But instead of switching it straight to Michael…

She switched it to Quincy first.

Quincy picked up.

“…Don’t tell me,” he said immediately. “It’s her,” the secretary confirmed. Quincy closed his eyes for a second like a man preparing for impact.

“Put her through.”

Then he stood up.

Walked into the studio.

And right into Michael’s line of sight.

Michael frowned. “What now?” Quincy didn’t answer him. He just held up a finger.

And said into the phone, “Tell him what you just told me.”

From your end, your voice came in clear.

“I think he’s lying again.”

Michael froze.

Quincy slowly turned the phone toward him. And that’s when Michael realized something important

This wasn’t a casual check-in anymore. This was intervention.

He sighed.

“…I didn’t want to worry you,” he said quietly into the phone. “You’re worrying me more by lying,” you replied.

That landed. Even Quincy didn’t interrupt that one. Michael leaned his head back for a second, staring at the ceiling like it personally betrayed him.

Then finally

“…I haven’t eaten since this morning.”

Quincy nodded like finally, the truth arrives. From the phone, your voice softened instantly.

“I’m coming.” Michael straightened. “No, no—don’t”

But you had already hung up.

By the time you arrived, the studio was still running but something had shifted. The secretary didn’t even stop you.

She just pointed.

“He’s in there.”

Quincy saw you first when you walked in. He smiled slightly. “Good. You brought food this time?”

“Yes.”

“Smart girl.”

Michael turned at the sound of your voice, looking both guilty and relieved at the same time.

“You didn’t have to come all the way here,” he said.

You walked past him and set the bag down on the table.

“I did,” you replied simply.

Then you looked at him.

“Sit.”

Michael blinked. “That’s not—”

“Sit.”

Quincy leaned back in his chair, amused. “Listen to her, Mike.” Michael sighed like a man losing a debate he didn’t realize he was in.

Then he sat.

You opened the food.

The smell filled the room instantly. And for the first time all day, Michael stopped moving.

He ate slowly at first. Like his body was remembering how.

Quincy watched for a moment, then quietly turned back to the controls like he was giving the moment privacy without leaving.

The secretary, outside the glass, smiled a little and finally picked up the next incoming call without hesitation.

Because this time, she already knew the answer.

And in the studio, Michael finally said it—muffled slightly through food, almost embarrassed:

“…You really came because of that?” You leaned back. “Because you were lying? Yes.”

A pause.

Then softer

“And because you don’t eat when I’m not here to make you.”

That made him go quiet for a second.

Even Quincy looked over briefly at that.

Michael swallowed, then muttered

“…I’ll stop lying.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Try starting with eating.”

He nodded.

And for once, he didn’t say “later.”

────﹒♡﹒──── ────﹒♡﹒──── ────﹒

The second the car pulled into the long driveway of the Jackson residence, You were already unbuckling her seatbelt before the engine fully stopped. The Chicago air still clung to your clothes, cold and windy compared to California, and Bill laughed from the driver’s seat as you practically shoved the door open.

“Relax,” he said, getting out and walking around to the trunk. “The house isn’t going anywhere.”

“Yes it is,” You shot back dramatically. “Michael could decide to move to another planet while I’m gone.”

Bill snorted as he lifted your bags out. “You’ve been gone two weeks, not two years.”

“Exactly, Tragic”

He carried two of your bags while you balanced her smaller one on her shoulder, walking quickly up the front steps. Before You could even reach for the handle, the front door flew open.

“Y/N!”

Janet practically launched herself at you.

“Oh my God, I missed you so much,” Janet whined dramatically into your shoulder.

“I missed you too,” You laughed, hugging her back tightly. “You’re crushing my ribs.”

“I don’t care”

Bill shook his head, grinning as he carried the bags inside. “I’m leaving before this gets emotional.”

“Bye Bill!” Janet yelled.

“Thanks for the ride!” You added.

The second you stepped inside, the house sounded exactly the same as always music somewhere downstairs, people yelling over each other, somebody laughing too loud.

And right on cue

“GIVE ME THE REMOTE!”

“NO, YOU WERE WATCHING IT FOR TWO HOURS!”

In the living room, Tito and Marlon were practically wrestling across the couch over the TV remote.

You blinked.

“…I’ve been gone fourteen days.”

Tito looked over first. “Oh hey, Y/n.”

Marlon immediately lit up. “LOVER GIRL!”

You groaned loudly. “Stop calling me that.”

“You almost died over Michael’s vinyl,” Marlon defended, finally yanking the remote free. “That nickname is staying forever.”

“It was one stair,” You argued.

“You tumbled down like a cartoon character.”

“I was reading!”

“You were reading the back of his record like it held the secrets of the universe!”

“It was important!”

Tito laughed while Marlon pointed dramatically at her. “See? Lover girl.”

Janet was already dragging you toward the stairs. “Ignore them. They’ve been annoying all day.”

“I can hear you!” Marlon yelled.

“That’s unfortunate!” Janet yelled back.

You laughed the entire way upstairs, practically skipping the last few steps. Your stomach was fluttering with excitement now. You hadn’t seen Michael in person since leaving for Chicago, and every phone call somehow made you miss him more.

You reached his bedroom door and pushed it open without knocking.

“Hey Mik—”

Your scream could’ve shattered glass.

“AAAAAAAAAH!”

You physically jumped backward into the hallway, clutching the doorframe with wide horrified eyes.

At the side of Michael’s bed sat a chimpanzee.

A REAL chimpanzee.

Just sitting there.

Looking at you.

Michael shot up from the bed instantly, excited. Michael looked like he’d been waiting by the door for hours.

“Y/n!” he grinned, rushing toward her.

But you pointed accusingly past him.

“Why is there a monkey on your bed?”

Michael gasped. “He is NOT a monkey.”

The chimp blinked at you.

“He’s a chimpanzee,” Michael corrected seriously. “And his name is Bubbles.”

“…That did not help me.”

Michael looked genuinely offended as he crouched beside the chimp. “Bubbles, she hurt your feelings already.”

Bubbles smacked Michael lightly on the shoulder.

You stared.

“…It HIT you.”

“He’s sensitive.”

“I’m sensitive because there’s an ANIMAL in your room!”

Michael laughed so hard he bent over slightly, and honestly that made it worse because now you were standing there betrayed while he laughed at your suffering.

“You didn’t tell me you got a chimpanzee!”

“I wanted it to be a surprise!”

“That’s not a surprise, Michael, that’s a threat!”

Bubbles suddenly stood up on the bed.

You nearly screamed again.

Michael burst into louder laughter. “He likes you!”

“He likes me too aggressively!”

Bubbles tilted his head curiously at you, making small chirping noises.

Michael walked over carefully, taking your wrist and tugging you inside despite your resistance.

“No no no no—”

“He’s nice,” Michael insisted.

“That’s what people say before something bites them!”

“He doesn’t bite.”

Bubbles immediately opened his mouth near Michael’s hand.

Michael paused.

“…Usually.”

“MICHAEL!”

By now Michael was laughing so hard he could barely breathe, leaning halfway against your shoulder while you glared at him.

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

“No I don’t,” you muttered.

Michael’s smile softened then, all warm and excited as he finally pulled you into a real hug. Tight. Immediate. Like he’d been holding himself back all day waiting for this.

“I missed you,” he said quietly into your hair.

You melted instantly despite the chimpanzee situation. “I missed you too.”

Behind Michael, Bubbles made a noise and climbed closer across the bed.

You peeked over Michael’s shoulder.

“…Why is he moving.”

“He wants to meet you.”

“I don’t wanna meet him.”

“You have to.”

“I absolutely do not.”

Michael pulled back just enough to grin at you . “Come on. Be nice.”

You narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “If he attacks me I’m suing you.”

“You can’t sue me.”

“I’ll find a way.”

Michael carefully guided you toward the bed while Bubbles watched curiously. You looked like you were approaching a live grenade.

“Bubbles,” Michael said softly, “this is Y/n”

Bubbles reached a hand toward you.

And you stared at it like it was cursed.

Michael whispered, “Shake his hand.”

“That sentence is insane.”

“Shake his hand.”

Very slowly, you reached out one finger.

Bubbles grabbed your entire hand immediately.

“AAAAAH—”

Michael doubled over laughing again while Bubbles chirped happily.

“Oh my God,” You gasped, staring at the chimp holding her hand. “…His hands are weirdly human.”

“Because he’s a chimpanzee,” Michael said patiently like a kindergarten teacher. “Well I don’t like that!”

Bubbles suddenly climbed off the bed and wrapped himself partly around Michael’s leg.

You blinked.

Michael looked down proudly. “See? He’s affectionate.”

“…So am I and I don’t have fur.”

Michael smirked immediately. “You jealous?”

“Of a monkey?”

“Chimpanzee.”

“Whatever!”

Michael laughed again before walking over and kissing your cheek quickly. “You’ll love him eventually.”

You looked down at Bubbles, who was now staring at your shoes.

“…If he touches my suitcase I’m moving back to Chicago.”

Bubbles immediately waddled toward her luggage.

“MICHAEL.”

────﹒♡﹒──── ────﹒♡﹒──── ───