You
Honeybee
The atmosphere backstage at the Paris Summer Sound Festival was a chaotic symphony of hairspray, frantic stylists, and the distant, rhythmic thumping of bass from the main stage. Mi sat in front of her vanity, her reflection framed by bright, circular bulbs that made her red curls glow like embers. She was dressed in a shimmering, silver two-piece set that caught every flicker of light. Her heart was racing—not just from the impending performance, but from the strange, heavy energy of being back in France.
She had just finished her vocal warm-ups when a soft knock sounded at the door. Thinking it was her manager with a bottle of water, she called out a distracted "Come in!"
The door swung open, but it wasn't her manager. Standing in the doorway, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who hadn't been invited, was Désiré Doué. He was dressed in a sleek designer tracksuit, his expression carrying a confident, almost predatory smirk that made Mi’s stomach do a nervous flip.
"Désiré?" Mi stood up, her hand instinctively going to the hem of her short top. "What are you doing here? This is a private dressing room."
"I have connections, Mi. I told you I was a fan," he said, his voice smooth as silk as he stepped further into the room, closing the door behind him. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. "You look even better in person than you do on a smartphone screen."
Mi felt a flush of heat creep up her neck, but it wasn't the kind of heat Jamal’s presence brought. It was a prickle of discomfort. "Thank you. But I’m about to go on stage. You really shouldn't be here."
"I was thinking," Doué continued, ignoring her dismissal. "After your set, the after-parties are always so loud. Why don't you come back to my place? We can have a quiet drink, talk about something other than choreography and football tactics."
Mi blinked, stunned by his audacity. "I think you’re forgetting something. I have a boyfriend. I’m with Jamal."
Doué let out a short, dry laugh that grated on her ears. He took a step closer, his eyes scanning her face with a cynical glint. "Jamal. The golden boy of Munich. Do you really think he’s that different from me, Mi? Or from any of us?"
Mi frowned. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"We’re footballers," Doué said, shrugging his shoulders. "We live in a world of temptation and travel. Do you really believe in the 'serious relationship' fairy tale? Most of the guys on the circuit have a girl in every city they play in. Jamal is just better at the PR side of it. He’s got that innocent image, but at the end of the day, we’re all built the same. Why tie yourself to a guy in Germany who probably has his own distractions when you could have someone here, someone who actually appreciates what you do?"
The words hit Mi like a physical weight. She knew the reputation of professional athletes; she had seen the tabloid scandals and the leaked messages of other stars. Could Jamal really be playing a part? Was the clinginess she felt from him just a way to keep her in check while he did as he pleased? She shook the thought away, but the seed of doubt had been planted, cold and sharp.
"You don't know him," Mi said, her voice trembling slightly. "Get out, Désiré. Now."
He held up his hands in mock surrender, that irritating smirk still plastered on his face. "Just giving you something to think about, doll. Enjoy the show."
The performance that night was a blur. Mi moved through the choreography with mechanical precision, but her mind was miles away. By the next morning, the "thinking" Doué had suggested was unnecessary—the media had done the work for her.
*“Late Night Rendezvous? Doué Spotted Entering Mi’s Dressing Room in Paris.”*
The headlines were everywhere. Insiders claimed they had spent nearly half an hour alone behind closed doors. By the time Mi landed back in Munich, her phone was blowing up. When Jamal’s name finally flashed on the screen, her heart sank.
"Is it true?" Jamal’s voice was uncharacteristically sharp, devoid of the soft warmth she usually found there.
"He came in, Jamal. I didn't invite him," Mi said, walking through her apartment and tossing her keys onto the counter. "I told him to leave."
"The reports say he was in there for thirty minutes, Mi. What were you doing for thirty minutes?"
"We weren't 'doing' anything! He was talking nonsense, trying to get in my head. I was shocked, okay? I didn't know how to react at first."
"You should have called security immediately," Jamal snapped. "Instead, you let him stay. You let him give the press exactly what they wanted. Do you have any idea how this looks? It makes me look like a fool."
"Oh, so this is about your image now?" Mi felt her own temper rising, fueled by the lingering doubt Doué had planted. "Is that all you care about? Maybe you’re just mad because he’s right—maybe you’re just as worried about your PR as he said you were!"
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing! I’m tired, Jamal. I just got home."
"Fine," Jamal said, his voice cold. "If you’re so tired, I’ll leave you to it."
The line went dead. For the next three days, the silence was deafening. Mi sent texts—apologies, explanations, simple "I miss you" messages—but they remained on 'Read.' She called, but it went straight to voicemail. It was a side of Jamal she had never seen: the silent treatment, the total withdrawal.
Heartbroken and feeling the weight of the world’s scrutiny, Mi buried herself in the studio. She had been working on a solo track for months, but the lyrics had never felt right until now. She channeled every ounce of her longing, her fear of losing him, and her stubborn loyalty into the music.
The following week, Mi debuted the song during a televised special. It was a stark departure from her group's high-energy pop. It was a mid-tempo, ethereal track called *Honeybee.*
She stood alone on the stage, the spotlight catching the tears she didn't have to fake. Her voice was breathy and sweet as she sang the chorus:
"Honeybee, sticky sweet, I promise that I love you even when you don't see. The flowers may bloom for the world to admire, But you're the only garden that sets me on fire."
As the song ended, the internet exploded. The "Honeybee" lyrics were analyzed within seconds. Fans pointed out that Jamal was often described by teammates as "sweet" and "humble," and the metaphor of a honeybee perfectly suited his hardworking but gentle nature.
But Mi wasn't done. That night, she logged onto her Instagram. She went to her following list and, one by one, hit 'Unfollow' until the count reached zero. She didn't want the noise anymore. She didn't want the Doués of the world having a digital link to her life. She made her profile a professional archive—just her music, her art, and her truth. It was a silent, public declaration: she was closing the door to everyone but the person who held the key.
Two days later, Jamal appeared at her door.
He looked tired, with slight dark circles under his eyes, wearing a simple black hoodie. He didn't wait for her to speak. He stepped inside and pulled her into a hug so tight it knocked the wind out of her.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair. "I was a jerk. I let the noise get to me. I let my pride get in the way of trusting the person who matters most."
Mi clung to him, her face buried in his chest. "I hated the silence, Jamal. I hated it so much."
He pulled back just enough to look at her, a small, sheepish smile touching his lips. "I heard the song. I’ve... I’ve listened to it about five hundred times."
Mi felt her cheeks turn pink. "You have?"
"Yeah. And so has the entire Bayern locker room," he groaned, though his eyes were sparking with affection. "Thomas and Leroy won't stop. Every time I walk into the gym, someone starts humming the melody. They’ve started calling me 'Honeybee' in the group chat. I’ll never hear the end of it."
Mi laughed, a genuine, bright sound that seemed to clear the last of the tension from the room. "Well, it fits you. You’re sweet, you’re hardworking, and you’re a bit of a stinger when you’re grumpy."
Jamal’s expression softened, his gaze dropping to her lips. "I saw the Instagram thing, too. You didn't have to do that, Mi."
"I wanted to," she said firmly. "I don't need to follow the world to know where I belong. I realized that after Doué came to my room. He wanted to make me think everyone was the same, that you were just like him. But you aren't. You’re my honeybee."
Jamal leaned down, his forehead resting against hers. "I promise I’ll never doubt you like that again. No matter what some guy in Paris tries to do."
"Good," Mi whispered.
Then he kissed her. It wasn't the hurried, desperate kiss of their earlier days, nor was it the clingy, anxious kiss from the night of the PSG game. It was slow, deep, and filled with a quiet certainty. It was a kiss that tasted of forgiveness and a thousand unspoken promises.
They stayed like that for a long time, lost in each other, until the air in their lungs ran thin and the rest of the world—the paparazzi, the rivalries, and the digital shadows—finally felt like nothing more than background noise.
"So," Jamal murmured against her lips as they finally broke apart to breathe. "About that 'sticky sweet' part of the lyrics..."
Mi laughed and swatted his arm. "Don't get cocky, Musiala. Just go get the snacks. I’m starving."
He grinned, the golden boy radiance back in full force. "Anything for you, Mi. Anything for you."