Michael Jackson | 1982

1982.

Of course, there were countless global hits vying for the title of most listened to, sold, and acclaimed song of the year. Among them were Michael Jackson with his sixth album, Thriller, and you, one of the most successful pop singers of the moment.

Since then, the press had not stopped comparing them.

And just when it seemed impossible for the situation to get any worse, Grammy week arrived.

A place where you could never tell what stood out more: the glamour or the rivalries capable of turning friends into enemies and enemies into something much worse.

Among those rivalries was yours.

Neither could tolerate the other long enough to maintain a conversation for more than thirty seconds without ending up arguing or walking away.

The awards weren't going to help.

Once inside the gala, it was all flashes, cameras, and outfits that cost more than some people would earn in their entire lives.

As soon as you arrived, journalists and photographers pounced on you with an endless barrage of questions.

You smiled for the cameras.

Dazzling.

Perfect.

As usual.

You tried to keep that smile on your face when something caught your attention.

You had to be an idiot not to notice.

The flashes began to multiply.

The screams grew louder.

The crowd completely lost their minds.

You knew it.

He had arrived.