Paul Mccartney Imagines

35

The air in the small London flat was thick with tension. Paul McCartney stood by the window, his back to you, the faint scent of marijuana lingering. You hated it—not just the smell, but what it did to him. He wasn't the same Paul when he smoked—edgier, distant, almost cold.

"Paul, we need to talk," you said, arms crossed, voice wavering. "I can't stand how you've been acting lately."

He turned slowly, eyes bloodshot and defensive. "Oh, here we go again. You don't get it. It's just to help me relax. The stress, the pressure—it's too much sometimes."

"I do get it, Paul. But this isn't the way. You're changing, and not for the better."

He scoffed. "I'm still me! Just because I'm not fitting into your perfect little idea of how I should be—"

"That's not what this is about!" you shot back. "You've become distant. When you do talk to me, it's like I don't even recognize you. The drugs are ruining us!"

Paul's hands clenched into fists. "Don't you dare blame me for everything? You think you're so perfect, don't you? Always judging, always nagging!"

His words stung, but you stood your ground. "I'm not judging you, Paul. I want you to see what this is doing to us! You're slipping away, and I don't know how to bring you back."

It happened in a flash. Paul's hand lashed out, the crack of his palm against your cheek echoing in the small space. You stumbled back, hand flying to your stinging face, shock setting in.

The room fell silent.

Paul stood frozen, horror dawning in his eyes. "Oh, God... no," he whispered. "I didn't mean to—I'm so sorry."

You couldn't respond. Your cheek throbbed, heart racing with disbelief. The Paul you loved, once so gentle, had just struck you. Tears welled up, but you blinked them back.

Paul stepped forward, face stricken. "Please... I'm so sorry, love. I didn't mean it." He reached for you, but you stepped away.

"Don't." Your voice was cold, distant. "I don't want to hear it."

You turned and walked out without another word, leaving him ashamed alone.

Paul sank to his knees, clutching his head. "What have I done?" he muttered, disbelief thick in his throat. He had always prided himself on being kind, never the type to raise a hand to anyone—especially not you. But he had crossed a line he never imagined he could.

Hours passed, and still, you didn't return. Every sound made his heart leap, hoping it was you. But the flat remained empty, and in that quiet, Paul faced the ugly truth: he had to live with what he'd done.

Paul stood on his father's porch, hand hovering over the doorbell. He hadn't been back in a while—too consumed with fame and chaos. But now, with everything falling apart, this was the only place he could think to go.

Jim McCartney opened the door, surprised but pleased. "Paul! What a nice surprise. Come in."

Paul managed a weak smile and stepped inside. The familiar smell wrapped around him like a memory, but a coldness in his chest wouldn't leave.

"You look like you've been through the wringer, lad," Jim said, leading him to the living room. "Everything alright?"

Paul swallowed hard. "I messed up, Dad. I hit her."

Jim's expression shifted instantly, shock and disappointment simmering beneath his calm voice. "You what? Paul... are you telling me you laid hands on her?"