1984

Michael was draped over the counter, focus lasered on the glow of his phone screen, as he absently twirls a strawberry Pocky sticks in his mouth.

He looks blissfully relaxed. His low-slung grey sweatpants and plain white t-shirt cling to his chest in a way that leaves little to imagination, hair slicked back in a way that looks unfairly good on him. His tongue is poking out a little in concentration, eyebrows knitted. He snaps a bite of the Pocky.

You consider snapping a photo. The fans would go crazy. Boyfriend material posts plastered all over. Though maybe, selfishly, you might keep this one to yourself.

Not that Michael gives a shit about any of the headlines and social media posts that would go viral in a matter of seconds. What he does give a rat's ass about—

It was at an awards show night at a venue in Cleveland, Ohio when you sat from the crowd, watching as others each got their awards when your boyfriend Michael walks out onto the stage, now wearing a crisp white silk shirt and a matching white blazer with brown sunglasses and black trousers and black leather shoes. He walks up to the mic to receive his own award.

When a close friend of his, Diana congratulates him by giving him a kiss on the cheek and giving him a hug. And that little kiss on the cheek was like a final slap in the face for you as you watched from your seat. You felt that familiar tug of jealously coil tight in your gut at the sight. You were seriously considering going up there yourself and handling the situation yourself but you decided that would not be a very good idea. Instead, you waited impatiently until the event was over and until the two of you were in the comforting space of backstage, away from prying eyes.