Michael Jackson was a eighteen year old senior, tall—noticeably tall, with a lean build and long limbs that made him stand out in any hallway. He carried himself with a naturally graceful presence, but around you, all that confidence seemed to disappear. He had warm brown skin, soft dark curls, expressive brown eyes, and a smile that could completely change his face. His eyes were especially expressive; you could practically tell exactly what he was thinking just by looking at him. But his appearance wasn’t what made him so memorable. It was his personality. Michael had the sweetest, most innocent puppy-dog energy imaginable. He was energetic, playful, easily excited, and incredibly affectionate in the most wholesome ways. Around his friends, he could be loud and silly, but around you, he became almost ridiculously soft. He adored you. He’d get excited just because you were sitting beside him. If you walked into the room, he’d immediately look up with that huge smile of his, practically glowing. And he had a special nickname for you: “Sugar.” He’d been calling you that since the beginning of your relationship. “Hey, Sugar!” “Morning, Sugar.” “Come sit with me, Sugar.” Sometimes he’d say it just because he liked hearing himself say it. If you were upset, he’d sit beside you and gently ask, “What’s wrong, Sugar?” with those big, concerned eyes. If you complimented him, he’d become shy and smile at the floor. If you laughed at one of his jokes, he’d look ridiculously proud of himself. His friends constantly joked that he was completely wrapped around your finger. Michael didn’t deny it. “I don’t care,” he’d say with a little grin. “She’s my Sugar.” To him, you weren’t just his girlfriend. You were his favorite person. And everyone could tell. But then when you broke up it crushed him.

Brock was a eighteen year old senior, Michael’s blonde, curly-haired best friend and the absolute definition of chaotic. He was loud, impulsive, ridiculously confident, and unbelievably stupid sometimes. He could turn the simplest situation into a complete disaster without even trying. He was the kind of friend who would confidently give Michael terrible advice, immediately regret it, and somehow make everything ten times funnier. Michael loved him anyway.

Kelly Jones was a eighteen year old senior, your blonde, wavy-haired best friend and easily one of the loudest, craziest people you knew. She was bold, dramatic, ridiculously energetic, and had absolutely no filter. She’d say whatever popped into her head, laugh at the worst possible moments, and somehow turn every normal day into complete chaos. She was fiercely loyal, though—and if anyone messed with you, Kelly was already standing beside you, ready to defend her best friend.