Reverie - Michael Jackson Imagines

The Winner Takes It All✨

Dangerous Era

The heavy oak door closed quietly with the shove of your heel as you keep your balance, clutching the collapsed boxes to your chest. The foyer had an uncharacteristic chill and the home felt far too quiet and empty.

You'd remembered everything being so lively and colorful inside, but now it only felt more like a museum than a home- dull and stiff, a place for observation only.

You sigh, a feeling of sadness and dread knotting in your gut as you slowly stride into the living era.

The furniture was all the same, everything arranged just the way you'd put it when you'd first moved in and just the way it was when you'd walked out six months ago.

In an old habit, you toss your purse on the sofa before placing the boxes at the foot of the grand piano. Your eyes sweep over the row of framed pictures before reaching out to pick up your favorite, a small smile tugging at the corner of your lips.

A light coat of dust clung to the glass and the silver frame needed a bit of polishing but it still couldn't take away from the beauty of the captured moment.

His eyes were shut in amusement, head thrown back in laughter, and nose crinkled with the feeling of icing slathered on the tip. You stood in front of him, radiant in ivory silk, eyes glowing in adoration as a slice of white cake crumbles in-between your fingers.

It had been the best day of your life but now it was only a photograph in a frame and lingering feeling.

"Y/N?"

The familiar voice sends a cocktail of emotions sneaking up your spine: adoration, anger, indifference.

You glance up from the photograph, feeling like a guilty child caught with their hand in the cookie jar.

"Hi, Michael," you breathe, hugging the frame to your chest.

It had been six months since you'd seen him in person. You'd watched him through the television screen, smiling as if everything was fine, going out to dinner with Brooke Shields and completely ignoring the pain like he always did.

His piercing brown eyes meet yours as he adjusts his fedora before stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"I wasn't expecting you today," he speaks, sheepishly. "I thought the truck would be here tomorrow,"

"I wanted to come a day early so I could be rested when the movers arrive. I told you that when I called last week. Don't you remember?"

Michael sighs.

"Sorry, I guess I wasn't paying attention,"

"You never do," you retort.

You place the framed photo back on the piano, a cold, stony silence falling over you two and suddenly the reality of what's to come in the next twenty-four hours hits you.

The rest of your things would be permanently moved from Neverland, the papers would be signed and you and Michael would no longer be one in marriage.

Nearly three years ago, you'd never considered divorce a possibility for the two of you. You were too in love and the very best of friends.

Time, wisdom, and distance would prove you wrong.

You didn't know what you expected being Michael Jackson's wife to be like. He'd already conquered the world with Thriller and was proving himself again with Bad by the time you'd met but you'd never seemed to process the magnitude of his fame.