MJ IMAGINES (World with Applehead) ON GOING

Photoshoot

                                                                                            1987
   

You are working at the entertainment company where Michael Jackson was scheduled for a photoshoot for his upcoming Bad album. You had been assigned as the official photographer for the entire project. Four years in the company had taught you how to stay composed, professional, and focused. But nothing quite prepared you for working closely with him.

You had been a fan long before you ever stepped into this industry as someone who knew every lyric, every performance, every quiet detail the world often missed. And now, somehow, that same person stood only a few feet away from you, real and present.

Not a memory. Not a screen. Just him.

Despite everything he carried, fame, attention, expectation, he remained gentle in a way that never felt performative. Soft-spoken. Observant. Warm in the smallest gestures. And you hated how easily your heart reacted to it.

"Y/N, you're one of the best photographers here. I trust you with this," the director said, handing you the final briefing.

You nodded quickly, forcing professionalism into your voice.

"Of course, sir. It's an honor to work with you. I'll do my best."

But your hands tightened slightly around the camera equipment anyway. Because today wasn't just another shoot.

It was him.

The studio slowly filled with controlled chaos. Lights being adjusted, assistants moving quietly, makeup artists finishing final touches.

Then the room shifted. Not loudly. Just... noticeably.

"Okay, Michael, we're ready," the assistant director called.

A pause.

Then he stepped out.

There was always something about his presence that didn't demand attention but naturally drew it anyway. Calm, effortless, almost unintentional. He greeted the staff softly, thanked his makeup artist, and adjusted his jacket as if trying to settle into the moment.

Then his eyes found yours. And everything else faded just a little.

A small smile formed on his face. "Hi, Y/N," he said gently. "You're the photographer?"

You nodded too quickly.

"Uhm—yes, sir. I'll be taking the—"

"Y/N," he interrupted softly, not unkindly. His smile deepened slightly. "No formalities. Just Michael."

The way he said your name made you forget your next sentence.

"...Okay," you managed. He didn't push further. He simply nodded and stepped onto the set.

But for some reason, your chest didn't fully settle.

"Alright, Michael," you said, adjusting your focus. "Give me your first pose in three... two... one."

The camera clicked.

And just like that, the world narrowed.

Between you and the lens, there was distance again, although it was safe, controlled, and familiar. But every time you lowered the camera slightly, reality slipped back in. The way he moved wasn't just performance; it was intention. Every glance, every angle, every pause between expressions felt like something carefully lived in, not just performed.

And you found yourself holding your breath more than you should. The shoot continued in waves: light directions, pauses, adjustments, quiet approvals from the director.