Paul Mccartney Imagines

7

Paul McCartney's life was a whirlwind of fame, music, and endless adoration. As a member of the biggest band in the world, he had grown accustomed to having everything at his fingertips. Women threw themselves at him, assistants catered to his every whim, and he lived in a bubble where he believed the world revolved around him.

You, his best friend since you were both 17, had seen it all. You'd watched as he cheated on countless girlfriends, including his current love, Jane Asher. Each time, he'd come to you for help, oblivious to the pain it caused you - because you loved him, even if he only saw you as a friend.

One evening, you found yourself in Paul's cluttered flat. Guitar cases leaned against the walls, records were scattered across every surface, and an overflowing ashtray sat on the coffee table. Paul paced back and forth, running his hands through his messy hair.

"I just don't get it, Y/N," he grumbled. "Jane's always on my case about not spending enough time with her. Doesn't she understand I've got my music?"

You sighed, flipping through a magazine without really reading it. "Mm-hmm."

Paul stopped pacing and looked at you. "Are you even listening to me?"

"Oh, I heard you," you replied, finally looking up. "You're upset because Jane's mad that you cheated on her. Again."

Paul's mouth fell open. "I never said-"

"You didn't have to," you cut him off, setting the magazine aside. "It's always the same story, Paul. 'She doesn't understand me,' 'I need my space,' 'It's not my fault.' When are you going to start taking accountability for your actions?"

He stared at you, clearly taken aback by your bluntness. "It's not like that-"

"Isn't it?" you challenged, facing him. "You come to me every time, expecting me to fix your problems,
to make you feel better about hurting these women. But I can't do it anymore, Paul. I'm tired."

Paul's usual confidence faltered. "I... I didn't know you felt that way."

You laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Of course you didn't. You've never stopped thinking about how this affects me, Jane, or any other girls. You only care about yourself."

He opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again, looking lost.

"You know who would be disappointed in you right now?" you said softly, your voice trembling slightly. "Your mum."

Paul visibly flinched at the mention of his mother. His eyes, usually bright and confident, clouded with pain and guilt.

"That's not fair," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

"Isn't it?" you pressed on, your heart aching for him but knowing he needed to hear this. "Mary raised you better than this, Paul. She taught you to respect women, to be kind and faithful. What would she say if she could see you now?"

Paul's shoulders slumped, and he sank onto the couch, burying his face in his hands. When he looked up, his eyes were glistening with unshed tears.

"She'd be ashamed of me," he admitted, his voice cracking. "God, Y/N, when did I become this person?"

You sat down next to him, close but not touching. "It happened slowly, I think. The fame, the money, the constant attention - it's easy to lose yourself in all that."

Paul nodded, running a hand through his hair. "I've been a right git, haven't I?"

"Yeah, you have," you agreed, but your tone was gentler now. "But it's not too late to change, Paul. You're better than this. I know you are."