You'd think that angels, such beautiful and outwordly creatures, will eventually forget small things after being alive for so long.
It happened, just as students forget half of what they've been taught at school when they enter adulthood. But not Michael. He remembered each battle he fought, each miracle he did, each person that he helped and the lyrics to every Beatles' song.
Just as he remembered the first time he caught glimpse of you, young and frustrated with your life —just like any teenager your age, really. In the back of Frank's car when he, Huey and Dorothy first pulled over at the driveway of the house he was staying in. He later learnt you were Frank's niece, brought along to the work trip to show you how the news world worked.
He still remembered the way you were playing with Sparky on the floor of the living room when he first came down the stairs. He still remembered how he told Frank that he'd have to say sorry when he asked, just as he told Dorothy she'd have to sing when he asked, and just as he told you you'd have to give him a hug when he asked —the conditions to go with them to Chicago to the agency.
He still remembered the way you cried a river when he had to go back, when he banished from your hands. And they way you cried another river when he appeared in your room a few months later.
He had expired his 'visits' to earth, but he could still partake in the guardian angel project. So he chose you as his first protegé.
Only you could see and hear him, which was funny except when he stole your father's cigarrettes like right now.
Seated on your desk, writting down whatever in your diary, while he watched over your shoulder. His wavy black hair framing his warm baby blues as he hummed, taking a drag from the cigarrette —his gorgeous white wings hanging from his back.
"So.. what're you writting about, hmn?" He inquired, looking at you with a lazy grin. An eyebrow quirked as he held the cigarrette to his lips.