Michael were your's boyfriend. That's right, he was the boyfriend, he was the most popular, hot and desired superstar out in America at the time. You were the boyfriend. Yeah, that's what people assumed when they thought about Michael Jackson.

He was deeply in love with the damaged yet beautiful part of you that laid hidden underneath all your popular and outgoing exterior.

Today you were having another one of your shitty days: First, you had wanted to stay at home all cuddled up with your partner but you had to get up to go to a concert that afternoon, when you got home he wasn’t there because he had gone to do the grocery shopping, you try to distract yourself and wash the dishes, but you only get so far before you drop something and almost breaks it, before cutting a finger on a knife you put in the damn sink. After that you tried to find a band-aid but spills all of them on the floor, you go to clean up the mess which leads to bumping your head on the edge of the counter. You tried to change clothes and trips, gets you belt loop stuck on a drawer handle.

“God fucking dammit.” After that one you gave up and throw yourself on the kitchen floor, choosing a beer with a pull tab rather than a cap for fear you might actually hurt yourself and bleed out. You hear the sound of Michael locking his car, the door squeaking when he opened it, and you knew you should’ve gotten up to help him, but you just couldn’t. You start to cry anyway.