𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐑 𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄

UTOPIA

Sometimes, names are deceiving.

▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃▃

Diana went to the studio earlier than usual that morning.

One, because she couldn't sleep. And two, because she knew—despite everything that had happened Sunday—that he would still be there.

And she'd been right.

Aside from the early morning cleaning crew, they were the only ones there, and it would likely stay that way for another half an hour.

The first thing she typically did was drop her things off in her dressing room. But instead, she'd gone straight to Michael's. Getting in hadn't been easy.

"Don't you ever do that again." The moment the straps of her bag left her hand, the words had come spilling out.

Earlier, after giving in to her request to open the door, Michael had been somber. Now, he looked at her, eyes wide with panic.

She sighed, walking toward him. "And I'm not talking about the kiss."

Kiss. She took a deep breath.

He'd kissed her. And instead of pushing him away, she'd let it continue. She was supposed to have some level of responsibility, some sort of caution, but it seemed as if she'd cast both aside months ago.

"Now, I suppose I could've run after you and stopped you, but I didn't out of respect for what you wanted. But I want you to know that you never have to run away from me. And that you can talk to me about anything." She sighed, sifting her fingers through her curly, cropped hair. "Even if it's about me."

He looked away. "I don't want to talk about—"

"But we are."

She grabbed a chair and sat down. Now, she and Michael sat across from one another. It was a bit silly having to look up at him while he sat in his dressing room chair, but that was the least of her worries.

He wouldn't look at her. He kept his eyes trained on the row of makeup supplies on his vanity, his mouth pressed into a line and his hands locked together in his lap.

Diana frowned. She stared down at her hands, then his, remembering. Remembering how soft and warm they had been the night she'd crept her fingers along his open palm as he slept beside her. How it had felt to hold them last night as they'd danced to song after song in the center of her living room.

She wished she could hold them right now, but she was afraid. Not of him, but of herself.

"Michael, there's been a lot of... things that have happened to both of us lately. My divorce, The Wiz... Along the way, we've gotten closer. Closer than we've ever been before. And it's been the best thing that's ever happened to me. You're so sweet, so loving. So kind." Diana laughed softly, shaking her head. "You've always been that way." Her brows sank. "But things are... different now."

"How different?"

The sound of his voice cut through the tension in the room. Diana followed the groove of her open palms, slowly lifting her head.

Finally, for the first time since she'd entered, they met eyes. His sadness and fear appeared to be gone—at least for now. Aside from the attentive look he gave her, he otherwise wore a mask.

For a moment, she pressed her curled knuckle to her mouth. Then, she lowered her hand and inhaled slowly, quietly, gathering the will to go on.

"A lot of people lose that part of themselves when they grow up especially in show business." She paused. "And considering all you've gone through, it's a miracle that it's still a part of you. So, you're walking around carrying all this... light. And all this time you've been giving it to me. Whenever I've felt alone or like I was losing my grip, you've somehow been there to lead me out of the darkness."