this is it ❉ michael jackson

━ PROLOGUE!

Screaming. Tens of thousands of voices collided into one sound.

A headset crackled. "Stand by."

Metal rod cases rolled across the concrete. Somewhere, overhead, a microphone squealed with feedback before disappearing beneath the roar of the crowd.

Security rushing through crowded hallways. Gold stage lights bleeding through the smoke.

A woman's 14k diamond bracelet catches the light for half a second as her heels clack elegantly against the concrete. 
 
Then—     

Tokyo.
1987.
Bad Tour. 

Backstage, the noise felt distant there.

Laminated signs printed in Japanese lined the concrete walls.

Michael Jackson stands surrounded by stylists, bodyguards, and assistants.

"Five minutes!"

"Watch the cables!"

"Where's the wardrobe?"

A quiet voice reached him. "She's here."

His expression shifted. Barely. His shoulders eased first.

The black heeled boots continued against the concrete, slow and measured. A white dress beneath a black leather jacket hugging everything.

Gold diamond-studded earrings shimmered beneath the lights.

Black curls slicked back into a voluminous ponytail, bouncing as she walks. Dark sunglasses covered her eyes as she moved through the corridor untouched by the chaos around her.

Nobody says her name, but people move aside anyway.

A security radio crackled.

"Clear the hallway."

Someone whispered. "Excuse me?"

Her heels answered with another measured click against the concrete.

Then finally—

Solana.

She looked exactly as composed as the headlines always imagined. She didn't feel anything close to it.

Michael rounded the corner and stopped. The hallway seemed to contract around them. Security continued moving, assistants continued talking. Somewhere down the corridor, a production manager shouted into a headset.

The smile reached her mouth first.

The curls she'd spent weeks forcing herself to ignore still fell across his forehead the same way they always did.

Michael blinked once. Then smiled.

"You came."

"I'm following through."

Before either of them could move, a stage coordinator came rushing by.

"Michael, 1 minute!"

"Rolling camera three!"

Applause thundered through the walls. Tape ripped from a roll somewhere behind them.

People squeezed between them. Someone nearly bumped Michael's shoulder. A clipboard brushed Solana's arm. Neither looked away.

Michael reached for her without thinking, and her fingers folded around his just as instinctively. People hurried past as if they weren't standing in the middle of the hallway.

"Move!"

Someone jogged past carrying a garment bag. The wheels rattled over a seam in the concrete.

He looked toward the stage entrance, then back at her. Still, he didn't move. She gradually stepped back.

"You should go."

"Solana—"

"They're waiting."

His eyes lingered. She smiled.

"Places!" A voice shouted from a distance.

"Give me a kiss."

Conversation around them didn't stop, but a few nearby crew members instinctively looked away, suddenly aware they were witnessing something private.

Michael smiled faintly. His thumb brushed the beauty mark beside her mouth. Like he'd remembered exactly where to find it. Then he kissed it.

For half a second, the hallway seemed to hold its breath. Several crew members looked away before the kiss even happened.

"...Michael, you're on!"

Then he pulls away, looking at her one last time before he disappears into the stage lights— the crowd instantly screams.

Solana remained where she was.

Watching. Waiting. Listening as eighty thousand voices screamed at his presence.

She smiled to herself. Then...

She let herself remember where it all began.

The screaming never stopped. Then or now.