𝗧𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗠𝗼𝗼𝗻 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗕𝗮𝗰𝗸

𝗡𝗶𝗻𝗲 | 𝗔 𝗩𝘂𝗹𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆

𝘿𝙪𝙚 𝙩𝙤 the chaotic scheduling of foreign press conferences, public appearances and the shift in time zones, Mallorie began to see less and less of Michael outside of magazine pages or in passing backstage. That, along with the fact that her life had changed drastically in what felt like such a short amount of time, had her feeling crazed, unsure if she had just imagined everything that had happened between them. For a moment, she considered their time apart a blessing; she was still reeling over how she felt about him, and not being swayed into bias by the touch of his lips or the sense of safety in his arms was helping her figure it out. However, the answer simply wasn't the conclusion she wanted to come to.

Getting acquainted to living out of hotels and the city life in Tokyo left her with more than enough time to think. Too much time to think. Each day fell into a sort of a pattern. By sunrise, she'd be alone in her hotel room, scarfing down an unusual breakfast of miso soup and rice while memorizing every piece of text in her textbooks in preparation for her upcoming exam. The task would often be followed up with faxing documents and corresponding to her celebrity patient's other doctors and specialists to continue providing the care he needed. By nightfall, she would be swallowed up by the frenetic thrill of the start of Michael Jackson's concert.

So far, he had performed three concerts, each one approaching two hours, completely energized from start to finish and all back to back. At the start, watching his concert from the green room with a handful of others was like a celebration of all their combined efforts with Michael automatically at the center of it. Mallorie happily danced and sang horrendously off-key to Wanna Be Startin' Somethin' with Karen as Michael opened the show with palpable power and charisma. But the concert quickly transformed into an almost spiritual experience, and it wasn't because of the team prayer that Michael would hold before taking the stage each night.

It was because of his essence. Mallorie had never witnessed anything similar to the phenomenon of his concerts outside of church. Men and women, those that didn't even share the language of the lyrics or their singer, formed the frantic mass that was the crowd. From what she'd read before they travelled, Japanese people were polite and quiet. But for Michael Jackson, they pushed and screamed. They would faint and sob from just being in his presence. He would give his performance every iota he could summon from his body through dance and vocals, and his audience would give it right back. It was just like being a confused little girl in the pews during a service. People were wailing, deeply moved by the otherworldly being that brought them together. Together in rapture.

That was when Mallorie was forced to relearn the meaning of object permanence. The Michael she came to know seemed to vanish as soon as he was the spectacle of 135,000 fans, and it made her miss him. She, along with them, was watching a performer and professional command the stage—his home, from what he'd called it. Without a slimmer of doubt, the Michael Jackson on stage was just as charming. In fact, he oozed and flexed a certain sex appeal that wasn't too gaudy, but subtle and unique to him. Yet he wasn't going to hold her or share a laugh and a conversation. He was there to do what he had done for the entirety of his life: sing and dance for entertainment. And he did it flawlessly, captivating everyone from start to finish with every note and motion that flowed from his body, as if he were born to do it.

Despite the pride that filled Mallorie's chest and the smile that would never leave her lips as she watched him, the end of the show had easily become the hardest part for her. Frank was still clueless to the fact that she and Michael had shared a bed on the plane thanks to Michael leaving her side to join everyone else in the main cabin as soon as she had fallen asleep. But she wouldn't be surprised to discover that Frank was intentionally whisking Michael from his dressing room to their private transport to the hotel as fast as possible to keep her from him. She had lost virtually any quality time she could ever hope to have with him.