Dear Michael: A Fan Letter and Tributes 16 Years After MJ’s Death

It’s been sixteen years. Sixteen whole summers without your smile. Sixteen birthdays we couldn’t celebrate with you. Sixteen times the calendar has rolled around to June 25th, and still, the world isn’t over you. How could we be? You didn’t just make music. You made moments. You weren’t just a performer. You were a portal.

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Through you, we escaped pain, found joy, danced through grief, and believed in the impossible. You gave your heart, your voice, your body, your soul. And in return, the world took and took – until it took you. But even in death, you kept giving. In the years since you left, your presence has only grown. The world you left still spins to your rhythm. You top Forbes’ highest-paid dead celebrity list almost every year, pulling in hundreds of millions. In 2016 alone, your estate earned $825 million – the biggest annual posthumous payday in history. Artists still call you their North Star. The Weeknd, Chris Brown, Usher, BTS, and even Billie Eilish credit you for their artistry.

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TikTok found you: Gen Z discovered the moonwalk and made it go viral all over again. Schools still stage MJ musicals. Street performers still channel your moves. Stadiums still echo your sounds. Your protest anthem, “They Don’t Care About Us,” became a battle cry in global demonstrations from Brazil to Minneapolis. You’re gone, but your voice still fights. Your music has now surpassed 7 billion streams! Sixteen years later, your legacy isn’t fading. It’s exploding.

The Shoes You Left Behind Are Impossible to Fill

People try, Michael. They really do. Every award show features someone attempting your spin. Every dancer has studied your silhouette. Every pop album contains a whisper of your DNA. But no one, no one, wears your crown. You were a king who ruled not just with sound, but with soul. You carried childhood pain, media crucifixion, and unimaginable fame with quiet grace. You made us believe in childlike wonder, even when the world treated you like a monster. You were cancelled before cancel culture. You were misunderstood before we had the words for it. And yet, when the beat dropped, all that faded. There was just music. Magic. Michael.

Sixteen Years of Love, Pain, and Gratitude

We remember where we were when you left us. Phones buzzed. TVs went black. Radios paused. The world, for a moment, froze. Planes kept flying. Clocks kept ticking. But hearts stopped. Even those who mocked you cried. Even those who doubted you danced. Because the truth is, Michael, the world was better with you in it. We owe you so much: For the billions you gave to charity. For the children you visited in hospitals without cameras. For showing Black excellence at a global scale. For being vulnerable in a world that punished vulnerability. You taught us that love was the only thing worth fighting for. You made us look at the man in the mirror. You told us we were not alone. And we never are. Not really. Because you never really left.

So We Keep Writing

These letters aren’t for you to read. They’re for us to feel. To say thank you. To say sorry. To say we still believe. We don’t write because you’ll answer. We write because you already did. In every song. In every move. In every beat that echoes in our bones. Sixteen years later, and your name still lights up the sky. You are the King. Then. Now. Forever.   With love, always. The World.

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