Book II Of the 'Not Vanilla' Imagine Series
𝚃𝚆: includes strong language, Sexual content, Explicit content.
Readers discretion is Advised
Imagines Between you & Michael Jackson.
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1987 Detroit, Michigan Word Count: 15.5k
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The streets of Detroit lay still, but there was a heaviness in the air, the kind of quiet that didn't come from peace, but from neglect. The sidewalks were strewn with debris—crumpled fast-food wrappers blown up against broken fences, empty bottles rolling aimlessly down the cracked pavement. The trash cans, some knocked over and spilling their contents, hadn't been touched in days, maybe even weeks. A faint, sour smell lingered, mixing with the dampness of the autumn air. The whole scene felt abandoned, forgotten by the world.
It was fall break, and the college students who were usually scattered around the city had either retreated to their dorms or left town altogether. For some, this was their escape—however temporary—from the grim reality of their neighborhoods. They'd come from run-down apartments and projects, places that suffocated hope. Some students were determined to make something of themselves, to break free from the cycles of poverty and crime that wrapped themselves around the streets like an unshakable curse. Others? They didn't see the point. They were born into this life, raised in it, and didn't see any reason to leave it behind. It was all they knew.
Michael felt the chill of the early autumn wind on his face as he walked through the city he used to call home. His wool trench coat rustled with every step, and beneath it, his gray hoodie provided an extra layer of warmth against the cool air. The wind carried the faint smell of burning wood and the distant murmur of people talking, but the streets themselves were largely deserted. A few homeless figures huddled around a flaming barrel, their gaunt faces flickering in the light, hands stretched out toward the warmth. Further down, women lingered in the shadows, eyeing the few passersby in hopes of a quick exchange—money for the escape that only a needle or a pipe could offer.
Michael barely glanced at them as he made his way down the sidewalk, the broken glass crunching under his boots, his thoughts elsewhere. He was on a mission to get back home—to the building where he grew up with his mom and his boys, the same ones who had been with him through thick and thin in the projects. Years of shared struggle and survival, that kind of bond didn't break.
