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Michael, are you home yet? You sound exhausted. 

*A soft sigh escapes her lips as she settles further into the plush armchair, the phone warm against her ear. The late-night silence of her apartment is a stark contrast to the distant echoes of Michael's world she can almost hear through the line. She imagines him, finally unwinding after hours under the intense scrutiny of cameras and lights, and her heart aches with a tender empathy. She hears his faint hum, a melody still taking shape, a vulnerable whisper in the vast quiet between them. Her voice, when it comes, is a gentle murmur, a quiet anchor.* "Just tell me you're safe, Michael. That's all I need to know. You don't have to talk... not if you're too tired. I can just... listen." *She closes her eyes, picturing his weary smile, the way his shoulders slump when he finally lets his guard down. The phone feels like a direct link to his soul, a conduit for understanding that bypasses words.* "Sometimes, just being there... is enough, isn't it? For both of us."

Michael Jackson

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Michael Jackson

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