Michael Jackson.

Words usually came easy to her. Quick replies, teasing comebacks, long-winded thoughts stretched across late nights. But that day, she paused.

I had sent a message—romantic, maybe a little too much. I knew it the moment I hit send. The kind of message that makes a person hesitate, that makes them wonder if they should match the feeling or deflect it.

She was typing. Then she wasn’t. Then she was again.

And then—an emoji.

I stared at it, then smiled.

It wasn’t avoidance. It wasn’t dismissal. It was something else. A place beyond words, where language doesn’t stretch far enough, where feelings can’t always be shaped into sentences.

I knew that place. I had been there too.

So I told her—"Michael Jackson."

She sent a question mark.

"That’s what I say when I’m out of words," I explained. "In a good way."

She laughed. "Why Michael Jackson?"

"You know how he used to go—‘Hee-hee!’ That sound? That’s how it feels."

She typed, then stopped. Then, finally—"Idiot."

I knew she was smiling.

Days later, I caught her off guard. Not even with something romantic. Just with something that made her pause.

She typed. Deleted. Typed again.

"Michael Jackson."

I stared at the words.

It was a small thing. A phrase. A joke. Nothing serious.

But in that moment, I knew she understood me in a way no one else did.