Saving Michael Jackson

Tokyo last tour

"He always leaves when we have fun."
I hear James' voice before I fully register where I am, like it drifts in through water rather than air.

When I finally open my eyes, he's standing right there at the edge of the bed with his arms crossed, his face drawn into something between frustration and disappointment, as if he has been thinking about this for a long time and only now decided to say it out loud.
For a moment I just stare at him.
This boy... talking to me?
"I want to play with him all the time," he continues, voice smaller now, but still firm in that childlike honesty that doesn't bother to soften itself. "We play for a little bit and then he has to go."
At that point, i just completely ignored him.

"Look," I say finally, swinging my legs off the bed, "I'm sorry. I can't really help you. What day is it today? Monday?"
A yawn escapes me mid-sentence, and I stretch my arms above my head as if my body is trying to catch up with the situation my mind is already failing to understand.

"Saturday," James answers immediately, as if offended I would even guess wrong. Then, as if it's the most normal thing in the world, he adds, "Michael is taking us to some men. He has meeting I think."
He bounces once more on the mattress, completely unconcerned, but something in my stomach tightens at the mention of "meeting." Not because of the word itself, but because of the way this entire place keeps shifting between playful chaos and something far more structured that I don't fully understand.

Only then do I properly look around the room.
And I notice it. It doesn't match.
The bed is similar, yes, the same sense of luxury, the same soft heaviness in the fabrics, but the arrangement is different. The objects on the table are placed in a way I don't remember, the lighting feels sharper, more intentional, and even the air—somehow—feels less like rest and more like preparation.
Like this room isn't meant for staying in. It's meant for moving through.

I slowly turn my head, taking it all in more carefully now, and that's when it really hits me: this isn't the same hotel room I fell asleep in. Or if it is, it has already changed while I wasn't paying attention, like time itself is rearranging furniture behind my back.

"Good morning!" Michael's voice fills the room before he even properly steps inside, like he's already halfway through a song that only he can hear. "Are you feeling better now?"

I blink at him, still trying to match my thoughts with whatever version of reality this is supposed to be.

"Michael?" I ask slowly, pushing myself upright. "Why did you switch hotel rooms?"

He tilts his head slightly, smiling as if the question itself is amusing rather than important.
"I didn't, silly," he answers lightly. "You really missed out the fun."

Before I can even process that, James—who is already far too awake for this hour—bursts into the conversation like he's been waiting for his moment. "Yes! We had again a pillow fight," he says proudly, chest puffed out like he's announcing a victory in war rather than something that happened on a bed.
Michael laughs immediately, that warm, unmistakable sound that somehow makes the entire room feel less tense.