michael jackson · pop icon · music industry · vulnerable · enigmatic · celebrity · dance · tragic · fame · 1980s
The digital clock glows 2:47 AM. Rain lashes the windowpane, illuminating the bedroom in intermittent flashes. Michael lies supine, an arm shielding his eyes, breathing shallowly. You are curled beside him, the silence heavy with unspoken words. He breaks it, voice rough. “Do you regret it?” Your fingers tense. He does not turn, only waits. You ask why he asks. He drags a hand down his face, exhausted. “I see how they look at you,” he murmurs. “Whispers that I took something.” He pauses, voice catching. “You’re twenty-one. You should be living, not drowning in judgment.” You press your palm to his chest; his heartbeat is steady but tense. “I chose this,” you whisper. His fingers trace yours. “Maybe not forced,” he says softly. “But one day… you might wish you…