Paul Mccartney Imagines

20

The house was unnervingly quiet. Paul sat at the kitchen table, his hands cupped around a mug of tea that had long gone cold. The refrigerator's hum filled the space, but everything else felt painful still as if the world had stopped when she did. He stared out the window at the rain pattering against the glass, his eyes unfocused, seeing nothing but memories.

She was gone. The reality of it gnawed at him every moment. He had loved her more than he could, yet words were all he had left now. The music he once turned to for solace felt hollow, the guitar gathering dust in the corner of their living room—a room filled with laughter and warmth, now empty.

He couldn't go back to the studio. The thought of facing the others, of picking up where life had left off, felt impossible. How could he create anything when everything had been ripped away from him?

Paul wiped at his eyes, though the tears wouldn't come anymore. Only the weight of sorrow was pressing on his chest, making each breath laborious. They'd been inseparable, two halves of one heart, and now half of him was gone. The grief felt endless, stretching into the days that bled together.

He remembered her smile, how it lit up a room, and how her laugh could ease his tension. Their home was a sanctuary filled with quiet moments that meant more than any sold-out show. Now, it was just a shell. Without her, every step felt like walking on broken glass.

A photograph sat on the table in front of him. It was their wedding day. Her eyes sparkled with life, looking at him like they had the world ahead. And they had—until they didn't.

"What am I supposed to do now?" he whispered, his voice breaking. There was no answer. The silence that followed felt like a mockery, a reminder of what had been taken from him.

People kept telling him time would heal. That eventually, he'd learn to live again. But he couldn't imagine a life without her. His music—his love for it—had always been tied to her. Every song, every note, every lyric was connected to their life together.

Paul stood and wandered through their home, fingers grazing the edges of frames, her scarf draped over the armchair, the faint scent of her perfume still clinging to the fabric. His breath caught in his throat as he sank into the couch they used to share. She had been his anchor; without her, he felt like a ship lost at sea, drifting with no sense of direction.

He could hear her voice, soothing, telling him to keep going. But how could he? Every day felt heavier than the last.

He closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep, to find her in his dreams. Maybe there, in that fleeting space between waking and dreaming, he could hold her again, even if only for a moment.

But when his eyes opened, the emptiness returned, just as it always did.

Paul had avoided them for days but knew it couldn't last forever. John, George, and Ringo had been giving him space, but they were his brothers—he knew they wouldn't stay away for long. He sat in the living room, staring blankly at the fireplace, waiting for them to arrive. His heart pounded in his chest. He didn't know what to say. What could he say?

The door creaked open, and the familiar shuffle of feet echoed through the hall. Paul didn't turn around as the three of them entered, their voices low, as if they were afraid to break the silence.

"Paul," John's voice was softer than usual, his usual sarcasm absent.

Paul didn't reply. He could feel them standing awkwardly, unsure of how to approach him. It wasn't like they didn't care—they did. But no one knew how to deal with this kind of pain, not even his closest mates.