Dusk fell upon the world, and the glow of the sunset cast long, black shadows on the street as you drove home. It had been an exhausting day, to say the least, and you breathed a sigh of relief as you pulled into your driveway. Like the sun, you were ready to settle down for the night.

As soon as you got inside, you flipped off your shoes and tossed your car keys onto the kitchen table. After throwing on some more comfortable clothes – your comfiest T-shirt and sweatpants – you curled up on the couch and turned on the TV. The news was on, and you were ready to switch the channel until . . .

You saw his face on the screen. Michael Jackson. The man the media loved to abuse, and your closest friend. The love of your life.

They were reporting about him, the same bullshit they reported the day before and the day before that, running their mouths about things they knew nothing about. They spoke confidently as if they knew him, as if they had a right to his personal life, his privacy. They trashed him for everything from his skin color, to his nose, to his lifestyle, to his home. To the media, Michael Jackson was not a person. He was a target, a dollar sign.

But Michael Jackson was a person. He had emotions. He bled easily and hurt often, and his pain was your pain. His anger was your anger. You stood up, glaring at the TV with hatred in your eyes. A fire of rage ignited within you, and you didn't know whether to scream or cry. You decided to scream.

"You lying bastards! Why can't you just leave him alone?! Hasn't he been through enough!?" In the heat of your fury, you hurled the remote full force at the TV screen. Smash. The TV went black, leaving only the image of broken glass behind. You sat back on the couch and buried your face in your hands, kicking yourself for breaking your TV but mostly worrying about Michael. You knew the ridicule hurt him more than he ever showed.

Talking to him would ease your worry, you knew. You got up and hurried to the phone, but when you went to dial his number, you saw that someone had left a message in your voicemail at 5:00 P.M. You checked the time: 8:00 P.M. Shit. You pressed the playback button, holding your breath, and heard Michael's voice come through the speaker:

"Hi, (Y/n)." He sounded far less cheerful than usual. "I'm sorry to bother you. I know you've been busy," he went on, "But I was wondering if you could come over for a visit if you get a chance. If you can't fit it into your schedule today, don't feel bad. If you could just call me that would be good too. I just need to talk to you . . ." He paused for a long while; it was a heavy kind of silence. "I'm not doing too well at the moment, and I know seeing you would help. Hope to hear from you soon. Bye."

Before Michael's message had even ended, you were already hurrying to put your shoes back on and grab your car keys. Without wasting another minute, you jogged back to your car – still in your pajamas – and headed for Neverland as fast as you could without breaking any speed regulations. Michael needed you, so the last thing you needed was to be pulled over by a cop.

As you drove, your thoughts centered around Michael. His words, "I'm sorry to bother you," echoed in your mind and troubled you to the core. Michael, you could never bother me. How many times do I have to tell you to make you believe me? No matter how many times you did tell him, though, Michael always believed that he was a burden. He couldn't be more wrong, of course. When it came to your priorities, Michael was more important than anyone or anything, but making him understand this was more difficult than you ever thought it'd be. I'll make him understand. Today.

It was a short drive to the Ranch, and you were grateful for that. As you approached the entrance of Michael's not-so-humble abode, you slowed your car to a stop in front of the security guards on duty outside the gate. They immediately recognized you and motioned for you to roll your window down. One of the men approached your car, bent down to the driver's side window and smiled kindly at you.

"Mr. Jackson's been expecting you. Once you pull through the gates, you can park your car in the lot there. I think he left you one of the go carts to use."

You smiled and nodded. "Okay! Thanks!"

The gorgeous, wooden gates of Neverland Ranch opened for you and you were suddenly immersed in a vast land of blooming gardens, trickling streams, and dazzling amusement park rides – or, as you saw it, a piece of heaven on earth. You parked your car as the guard instructed and hopped into the go cart. It was the Batman one, one of Michael's favorites. You grinned as you started it up and began meandering your way along the path to his home.

Driving through the wonders of Neverland was an awe-inspiring experience, and you found this to be true no matter how many times you did it. Fountains erupted from blue, rippling lakes, and little waterfalls spilled over rocks into shallow ponds where fish swam. Twisting trees were scattered throughout the Ranch along with statues of children dancing and other charming scenes. The sound of Julie Andrews' voice trilled from speakers disguised as rocks, hidden within the perfectly trimmed hedges and hundreds of vibrant flowerbeds. You turned your wide-eyed gaze skyward to see the mountains in the background of it all, tinted purple in the fading light of evening.

You followed the familiar route to the main house, navigating the winding pathways aglow with lights until you stopped the go cart outside of the stunning house. You ran to the front door and rang the doorbell. You waited, fidgeting nervously as you stood there, but no one came. You tried knocking to no avail.

"Michael?" you called. As if that would work, you thought. Oh well, it was worth a shot.

You looked down at the door handle and, for the sake of trying, attempted to open it. To your astonishment, it was unlocked, and you wondered whether you should just go inside. The security guards at the gate did say that he was expecting you, and you couldn't stand there forever, so finally, you made up your mind. You hesitated a moment before you opened the tall, wooden door, and you stepped into the house.

The first thing you heard was the sound of the piano, and you stopped to listen. You recognized the song immediately: Charlie Chaplin's "Smile," Michael's favorite. Quietly, you followed the sound, stopping outside the archway leading to the piano room. You stole a glance around the corner into the room, and your heart skipped a beat. The room was lamp-lit, but the fading glow of the sunset shone weakly through several large windows, casting a golden-orange radiance on the shimmering, black piano in the center of the room. The space was furnished with chairs, carpets, and statues of all kinds, along with a couch and coffee table in front of an ornate fireplace. Michael was in the middle of it all, wearing a silky red button-down shirt and striped cotton pants – his pajamas. He sat at the piano with his back to you, his long, slender fingers gliding over the keys with ease, and he pressed the pedals with his bare feet.

You stayed hidden in the doorway, admiring the scene in front of you and wondering how to make your presence known to him. You didn't have to think about it too long, however; the wooden floor creaked under your feet and gave you away. Michael ceased playing and turned around to face you. At first, his expression was a mix of surprise and alarm, but when he saw it was you, his countenance softened into one of slight embarrassment, a hint of sadness, and, most apparent of all, delight.

"Hey," he said with a small smile on his face, standing up from the piano. As he drew nearer to you, you noticed the shadows under his eyes. One look at him told you that he hadn't slept well last night. You felt a pain in your chest.

"Hey!" you replied, making your voice as cheerful as possible, walking towards him.

Michael started to laugh. "I guess we're having a pajama party, huh?"

You looked down at your baggy T-shirt and sweatpants and chuckled. "Yeah, I guess so!"

He wrapped you in a strong hug, and you couldn't help but smile and squeeze him tightly. As he held you, he lowered his voice to a more serious tone and spoke in your ear, "Thank you for coming."

You pulled apart and looked up at him. "You're welcome. I'm sorry I didn't come sooner. It's just that I didn't get home until ten minutes ago, and then I got your message . . ."

Michael looked at the floor and shifted his weight as if he were ashamed. "Maybe it's a good thing you didn't come over earlier."

"Why? What happened?" you asked, unable to hide your concern.

"Well," he sighed, running a hand through his hair nervously, "I just got so mad when I saw the news, and I smashed anything I could get my hands on, even the TV. It's happened a few times before. I don't know, I just lose my temper sometimes." He forced a smile and tried to laugh as he said this, but you knew he was embarrassed to admit it. Apparently, though, Michael expected you to react differently to his confession, because when you started laughing he looked totally surprised.

"Want to hear a funny story?" you asked.

"Uhh . . . yeah sure," he replied, totally caught off guard.

"When I got home, before I saw your message, I turned on the TV. Big mistake. The news was on and they were talking about – " you stopped midsentence because you saw the sudden look of pain on Michael's face. You decided to cut right to the end of the story. "Anyway, I was so mad that I went temporarily insane, and I smashed my TV too."

Michael's eyes brightened. "Really?"

"Really!"

He started to cackle, Michael's laugh in its truest form. Music to your ears. "That's fantastic. Maybe it's best if neither of us has a TV," he said. Gosh, it was such a relief to hear that laugh, and because it was contagious you started laughing too.

"But seriously, Michael," you said, putting a firm hand on his shoulder. You looked him in the eye and smirked. "Considering all the shit you go through, I would be astonished if you didn't lose your temper and break things every once in a while."

He looked away and smiled, but you could have sworn you saw tears brimming in his eyes. "Yeah, I guess you're right."

"I am right. Don't worry about it, man," trying your best to sound upbeat but failing miserably, mostly because your heart was breaking for him. You needed to change the subject. "That was 'Smile' you were playing before, right?" you asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yeah! I love that song," he said as he turned to the piano again and took a seat on the bench. You sat down beside him as he started to play. He sang the lyrics quietly, almost as if he was singing himself a lullaby, which, in a way, he probably was.

"Smile, though your heart is aching. Smile even though it's breaking. When there are clouds in the sky, you'll get by . . ."

You kept your gaze fixed on his face, unable to ignore the fact that tears were still brimming in his eyes. He was visibly trying his hardest to keep his composure, to somehow suppress those tears, to keep himself outwardly strong even if he was breaking on the inside. No matter how hard he tried, though, he couldn't hide his true feelings from you, and he couldn't keep his voice from shaking as he sang:

"Light up your face with gladness. Hide every trace of sadness. Although a tear may be ever so near – "

"Why are you doing that?" you asked gently, interrupting him.

He was silent for a moment and never looked away from the keys. "Doing what?"

"Pretending you're okay."

Michael's body tensed, and his playing became a little choppier. You looked down at the keys. His fingers had lost their listless, graceful manner; they now moved more stiffly, as if he was channeling his pain through his fingertips, letting it escape into the music. And then . . .

Tap. Tap. Tap.

One by one, his tears began to fall onto the keys with tiny splashes. His playing slowed and slowed until he stopped playing altogether, and the two of you were left in heavy silence, broken only by the sound of Michael trying not to sob. Tears slid down your cheeks. You wrapped an arm around his trembling shoulders, took his hand in yours, and held it tight.

"You don't have to hide your sadness from me, Michael. I know the song says you should, but there are times when you just need to cry. So, don't hold back, alright? Talk to me." It took a few minutes, but eventually, Michael spoke in a voice filled with sadness, frustration, and agony.

"Why do they do this to me?" he cried. "Why can't they just leave me alone? What have I done but good? I don't understand . . ."

"Michael . . ." You squeezed his hand tighter and rubbed his back. He wasn't done.

"They spread all these lies about me. They say I'm ashamed of my own race. They say I hurt kids. They make the world believe I'm a freak! But they're wrong. They're all so wrong . . . That's not who I am." He broke down. "I'm the most misunderstood person in the world!"

It was true. Everything he said was true, and you couldn't fathom the degree of his pain, the depth of his despair. You looked at him – his body shaking with sobs, and his eyes shadowed from lack of sleep – and you saw the most misunderstood person in the world . . . but you also saw the most beautiful person in the world. My beautiful Michael.

"You may be the most misunderstood, but you're also the strongest, the kindest, and the most resilient person I've ever met." You lay your head on his shoulder, and the two of you sat there for a while. Then, you stood up from the piano and said, "Come on. Let's go sit on the couch." He looked up at you with wide, teary eyes and then nodded.

You grabbed hold of his hand, stood up, and pulled. He shakily got to his feet, and as soon as he did, he began wiping his eyes as if he was trying to destroy evidence that he had been crying at all. "I'm sorry," he said. "I haven't slept in days, and I'm so tired and . . . well, I'm a mess. I'm sorry."

"I don't ever want to hear you apologize for being a mess ever again. Like I said, there's nothing to be embarrassed or ashamed about. It happens to everyone. Okay?" He gave a slight nod, and you grinned. "Good. Now, you sit right here." Michael practically collapsed onto the couch out of exhaustion. "I'll be right back."

"Where are you going?"

"Don't worry. I'll be back in two seconds."

A childlike glint returned to his eyes, and he began counting the seconds, "One . . . two . . ."

You rolled your eyes and laughed. "Correction: I'll be back in a few minutes! Just sit tight and don't go anywhere!" As you left the room, you could hear Michael giggling, a much needed step in the right direction as far as his mood was concerned.

Now, where can I find a blanket? The bedroom seemed like the obvious answer. You went to Michael's bedroom and almost gasped out loud when you saw the state it was in. It was trashed. Like Michael had said, the TV was on the floor, broken. Books had been thrown from shelves, and the items on tables and desks had been swept onto the floor, undoubtedly by Michael's arm. You grabbed a blanket from his bed and decided that you would help him clean the room later, after he had regained some energy.

Next, you stopped in the kitchen and poured a glass of orange juice. Finally, you made your way back to where Michael sat. He was still on the couch, craning his neck to see you when he heard you came in. He saw the blanket and the glass of orange juice, and his expression changed into one of gratitude and minor confusion.

"What's all that for?" he asked, smiling.

"It's for you, silly." You placed the glass of orange juice on the coffee table in front of the couch. "Drink this. You'll feel better." Then, you stood in front of Michael and covered him with the blanket up to his chest. You leaned over him and began tucking the blanket in around his torso and his legs so that he was wrapped snugly. As you did so, Michael sat completely still and gazed up at you with wide, doe eyes, filled with loving wonder. You met his eyes, those gorgeous, dark brown eyes, and you grinned timidly as your face grew hot.

Suddenly, he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close to him. He leaned forward and kissed you like you were oxygen and he was drowning. For the second time today, you both lost control of yourselves, only this time you weren't throwing things and breaking TV's. You were lost in the way he caressed your face, lost in the feeling of his hands running through your hair. He was lost in the feeling of your hands pressed against his chest, and the way you slowly lowered yourself onto the couch, straddling his legs with your knees. And for the first time in a long time, he felt truly happy, and his happiness was yours as well.

Finally, you pulled away from each other. Michael beamed up at you. "Thank you, (Y/n). You're the best."

"No, you're the best." You placed one more quick kiss on his lips before standing up again. You went over to the fireplace and, in a few short moments, you had a fire going. You took a seat on the couch beside Michael, wrapped in the blanket like a burrito except for his arms, which he needed to sip on his orange juice and cuddle with you.

Michael looked at you a little guiltily.

"What is it?" you asked.

"I just feel bad for taking up so much of your time. You had such a busy day, and right when you were ready to relax, I asked you to come over here. I just feel bad."

You gave him a look that said, Really? "There was no way I could relax while I was worried sick about you."

Michael grinned. "Then don't worry about me so much."

You shook your head. "Sorry, love. That's not going to happen."

Michael was clearly tickled pink that you called him 'love.' "Okay then. Still, I think I've taken up enough of your night as it is. If you want, you can go home. I know you have another busy day tomorrow."

He said this, but his eyes were begging you not to leave.

You pretended to consider his words for a second. "Nah, I think I'll just stay here with you."

"But don't you have a doctor's appointment early tomorrow morning?"

You shrugged your shoulders. "I'll cancel it."

He rolled his eyes. "Don't let me interfere with your plans."

There he goes again, Mr. I'm-Such-a-Burden. You smiled and said, "Honestly, the way I see it, the appointment is interfering with my plans to spend the night with you. Do you know why? Because you are the most important thing in this world to me. You come before anyone and anything else."

"But, (Y/n) . . ." he objected, but the tears welling in his eyes told you that, truthfully, he was grateful you had chosen to stay.

"There are no 'buts' about it, Michael. Say the word, and I'll come running, no matter what. I don't care if it's in the middle of the night, or in the middle of work, or in the middle of a doctor's appointment. If you need me, I'll be there. I prom –"