It was Supposed to be Us

Nineteen

POV-Luke

I walked down the streets with my hands shoved in my pockets. I wasn't cold or anything. I just like acting cold. I continued to think about Reggie's words and what I could've said to fix everything right then and there, but everything I thought of was just stupid and the results were even worse than what happened.

I wiped my eyes as I realized I started crying. I kept my eyes down and continued thinking about every situation that didn't happen. The only conclusion I kept coming up with was that I never should've gone to Julie's. Ever. It was probably the most stupid mistake I've ever made.

"Why the long face, son?" a man with a British accent spoke.

I looked up out of curiousity. What is a Brit doing in L.A?

My eyes were met with sharp hazel ones that leaned heavy on the green side. His hair was chestnut brown and he was an overall gorgeous man. He had thin lips that I've only ever really seen in black and white. He was so much more perfect in color. His teeth were a little crooked, but Reggie made it look cute and this made it look normal. He looked younger than he did when he. . .

Shit. This man is dead. Shot three times in the head on December 8th, 1980. Annouced during the Super Bowl my dad was going crazy over. It was just after I was born, nearing my first Christmas. My dad told me the story a million times. It was one of the saddest days of his life, aside from losing direct family, of course.

"I-I," I couldn't think of what to say. This man is my literal idol.

(Little authors note: before I reveal who it is, any final guesses? without research.)

"Star struck?" the British mas asked.

"A little," I smiled for the first time in a few days. "You- You're my idol. If it weren't for you I never would've gotten into music!"

"I seem to have that effect on all the musicians I've met since my death," the man smiled.

I suddenly thought about introducing myself. This is a dream come true. For me and Reggie. Reggie has to meet him!

"I-I'm Luke Patterson," I reached my hand out to shake his.

"John Lennon," he smiled such a charmimg smile as he shook my hand.

"You look great!" I randomly complimented him, taking my hand back. "I mean, the year you died was the year I was born, but still. I've seen a thousand pictures! You look like you're in your in your early twenties if I remember the timeline correctly."

"Twenty four," John smirked. "Apparently, I became who I always wanted to be."

"The version of youself when you were twenty four?" I asked for clarification.

"Yea," he replied. "Twenty four was the year I had it all. My dream band, my dream career, my dream lover. Everything I had ever wanted, I had. Tours in America, becoming one of, if not, the greatest singer songwriters of all time. And my best mates right by my side. Minus Stu and Pete, of course."

"I've heard of Pete, but who's Stu?"

"Stu was me best mate growing up. When we went to Germany with out first manager, Ringo wasn't even a thought and so it was Paulie, George, Pete, and Stu. You know the instruments we all played, but since you haven't heard of Stu, I assume you didn't know he was our bassist. When the band one by one got kicked out of Germany, Stu decided to stay with a girl he met, Astrid. A few years later we find out he died of cancer. That was a rough call, but we managed."

"I'm so sorry. I didn't know that."

"It was years ago, mate," John placed a hand on my shoulder and squeezed it lightly. "And like I said, we managed."