Michael Jackson ┊40┊

You are mute

The rain was falling hard that night. Everyone had run out of the studio when the storm started, but you were sitting under the small awning at the entrance, your backpack on your knees. Michael watched you from his car, the windshield wipers moving like crazy. He stood there for a moment, watching you play with the straps of your backpack, not intending to move.

He got out of the car without an umbrella. —What are you doing there?

he asked, crossing his arms. His hair was damp and he was frowning slightly.

You just looked at him and shrugged. It was obvious: you couldn't talk. He knew it. But that didn't stop him from continuing to talk to you as if you could. —Are you waiting for someone? Or do you just like getting soaked while the rest of the world goes home?

You didn't respond, of course. You just looked down. He sighed and crouched down in front of you, at eye level. —You don't have to act strong, you know? Not with me.

He looked at you for a second longer, and then stood up. —Let's go. It's not an invitation. It's an order.

You didn't move. —Oh, you want me to get down on one knee and ask you with flowers? Not happening. I'll get in the car in five seconds… and if you're not behind me, I'll come and pick you up. What do you prefer?

You hesitated. But you got up.

He smiled, satisfied. He opened the car door for you as if you were made of glass. —I knew you'd cooperate. You always do when it comes to me, right?

He got in, started the engine, and turned the heater up high. He watched you put on your seatbelt, your hands shaking with cold. —Next time you leave me alone like that, I'll lock you in the house. I'm not kidding.

He didn't mean it. Or maybe he did. It was hard to tell with him.

What was clear… was that he cared about you more than he ever admitted with words.