The car ride to the studio was heavy with silence. I stared out the window, watching Los Angeles blur past, my mind racing as I tried to process everything that had just happened. Justin's fight with that reporter was all over my head, and I had no doubt it was all over the internet too.
When we pulled up to the studio, the whispers started immediately. Employees stood in small clusters, their heads snapping toward Justin as we passed, their voices low but unmistakably buzzing with gossip.
"Did you see the footage?"
"Yeah, he really lost it this time."
"Is he going to be okay? He's on probation."
Justin didn't say a word, but his jaw was tight, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie. I followed him into the recording room, feeling the weight of every pair of eyes on us. The door clicked shut behind us, muting the noise from the hallway. A TV in the corner of the room was on, the bright screen displaying a news broadcast. Justin's face filled the frame, frozen mid-punch in a blurry photo, with bold red text scrolling beneath it:
"JUSTIN BIEBER'S OUTBURST: VIOLENCE CAUGHT ON CAMERA."
"Enough of that," I muttered, trying to keep my tone light, but my chest felt tight.
Justin didn't respond. You could see on his face that he was pissed. He sat down in the chair by the console, his head tilted back as he let out a long, frustrated breath. I could see it in his face—the anger, the frustration, and maybe a little bit of regret, though he'd never admit it.
The door to the studio opened, and his manager walked in, his expression unreadable. He glanced at me, then back at Justin. "Justin," he said cautiously, "there's someone here for you."
Justin frowned, sitting up straighter. "Who?"
Before the manager could answer, the door opened wider, and two uniformed police officers stepped in. My heart dropped.
"Justin Drew Bieber," one of them said, his voice steady and professional, "you are under arrest for assault and battery. "What?" Justin shot up from the couch, his voice rising. "You can't be serious. This is ridiculous."
"You have the right to remain silent," the officer continued, ignoring Justin's protests as they moved toward him.
Justin backed away, his hands raised defensively. "I'm not putting those on," he snapped. "I didn't do anything wrong! He was out of line—he—"
The officers didn't back down. "Mr. Bieber, if you resist, we'll have to use force."
The officers moved in closer, and everything happened so fast. One of them grabbed Justin's arm, and he tried to pull away, but the other officer pushed him down to the ground. I flinched at the sound of his knees hitting the floor.
"Get off me!" Justin shouted, struggling against their hold as they pinned him down. "I said I didn't do anything!"
"Stop resisting," one of the officers barked, his knee pressing into Justin's back.
Justin's eyes locked on mine, wide and desperate. "Please do something!" he yelled, his voice cracking slightly. "Don't just stand there!"
I froze, my mouth opening and closing. What could I even do? His manager stepped in front of me, his hand on my shoulder, his voice low and calm. "Stay out of it," he murmured. "You'll only make it worse."
I watched helplessly as they forced Justin's arms behind his back and snapped the cuffs into place. One of the officers grabbed him under the arm and hauled him to his feet. Justin kept struggling, twisting against their hold, but they were stronger.
He shot me one last look as they dragged him out of the room. His voice echoed down the hall. "Gael!"
And then he was gone. Just like that.
Two Weeks Later
The trial was everywhere. Every news channel, every social media platform. The footage of Justin's fight played on an endless loop, accompanied by outraged commentary. I couldn't go anywhere without hearing his name, seeing his face. But I couldn't see him. Not even once.
Because he was already on probation, everything moved quickly. His trial was scheduled just a week after his arrest, and I wasn't allowed to contact him. His manager had said it was for the best, that anything I said or did could complicate his case.
But that didn't stop me from watching every second of the trial.
The courtroom was packed with reporters and photographers, their cameras flashing as Justin was escorted to the defendant's table. He looked different—smaller, almost. His usual confidence was gone, replaced by something harder, colder. He wore a plain black suit, his hair combed back, but his expression was blank.
The prosecutor wasted no time painting him as a violent, reckless celebrity who thought he was above the law. "Mr. Bieber has a history of aggressive behavior," she said, her voice sharp and cutting. "This is not the first time he's been in trouble with the law, and it's clear he hasn't learned his lesson."
Justin's lawyer tried to defend him, arguing that he'd been provoked, that the reporter had crossed a line, but it didn't seem to matter. The judge's expression was stern, his eyes heavy with disapproval. It didn't matter what good statements Justin's lawyer made it looked like the judge his opinion wouldn't change any time soon.
Then they played the footage.
I'd seen it a hundred times already, but watching it in the courtroom felt different. More real. There he was, swinging at the reporter, his fists flying, his face twisted with rage. The sound of the crowd's gasps filled the room as the video ended.
When the judge finally spoke, his voice was like a hammer. "Mr. Bieber, you are no stranger to the consequences of your actions. You were given a chance to turn your life around, and yet here you are again. I'm sentencing you to two months in county jail, effective immediately."
My stomach dropped.
Justin didn't react at first. He just sat there, staring straight ahead, his hands clasped tightly in his lap. But before a cop put on his handcuffs again, he turned slightly, his eyes scanning the room.
For a brief moment, his gaze landed on the camera, as if he knew I was watching.
And then he was gone.
Again.
