Have you ever wondered what would Michael Jackson's life look like if some events didn't happen to him? If he had someone he trusted by his side through everything? Someone that had the power to save him from his tormented life?
Hayley "Brit" Thame...
A/N: phew, what a chapter! Spent the night writing it, and it's one of the most important one of this book. I can't wait for you to read it, I tried my best to make this chapter one of the best ones. Tell me what you think is going to happen in the future, I'm actually super curious to know what are your thoughts about this!
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I was almost jumping up and down when I came back to my room to get prepared. I put my pajamas on, which consisted of checkered pants and a black tank top. The night was quite cool, so I put Michael's shirt over my bare arms. I knew that, secretly, he loved to see me in his shirts, which explained him asking his staff to put one of them in my room. These little details, these kind gestures... This was one of the things I loved most about him: he was not afraid to show how much he cared for someone.
My hair was still damp from the shower I had, but I didn't want to waste anymore time by blow drying them. I wanted to join Michael in his room and have one of those sleepover we loved so much where we spend the night talking. I jogged down the stairs and across the house, and entered the room without even knocking since the door was open. Thing I regretted at the minute I saw the embarrassed look on Michael's face when I laid my eyes on his naked chest.
"Oh shit. Michael, I uh— I'm sorry," I apologized immediately, turning around so that he could put his t-shirt over his body. "I—I should have knocked, I'm sorry I barged in like this, b—but the door was o—" I started babbling, but soon I felt a hand being placed on my shoulder from behind me, "—open," I finished my sentence and gulped. I turned around, and looked into Michael's eyes. I could feel my face heat up as I stood there awkwardly.
"It's alright. Take a deep breath," he reassured, giggling a bit. "You just saw me without a shirt on, what's the big deal?"
"I know you're embarrassed too, but you're acting like you're not because I am incredibly embarrassed right now, and that's actually very nice of you to—" I started babbling again, but Michael cut me off. Again.
"Hale," he giggled again, but I didn't look up. "I was embarrassed for a split second, yeah," he admitted, and tilted my chin up so that I could look into his eyes. "But then I remembered it was you, and that I shouldn't be," he told me, and I relaxed a bit at his words. "The reason why I get shy when people see me without a shirt on is my vitiligo. I don't want people to see it because I find it disgusting I... I hate it, I hate myself," he confessed, an I rubbed the side of his arm for comfort as I felt his pain deep in my guts. "But—," he sighed heavily, and looked back into my eyes. "I don't hate myself when I am with you," he truthfully said, looking at his forearm on which were a multitude of little white spots.
"Oh, Michael," I sighed as his words warmed up my heart, and brushed his arm with the tips of my fingers. "Don't let your vitiligo define you. Don't be so harsh on yourself. You're... You're beautiful."
