Paul Mccartney Imagines

52

The Real You

1964

When you returned from running errands that afternoon, the flat was quieter than usual. The faint hum of the radio drifted through the space, the melody barely filling the silence. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting golden patches on the floor, but the warmth didn't reach you. Something was missing.

Paul.

You hesitated at the door, gripping your bag strap a little tighter as unease settled in your chest. It wasn't like him to let the place feel this... empty. There was always some noise—his bass humming softly, a kettle whistling on the stove, his voice trailing in absentminded song. But now, there was nothing.

The silence was wrong.

"Paul?" You called his name softly as you set your things down, your voice barely above a whisper.

Nothing.

Your pulse quickened. Then, a faint shuffle of movement came from the bedroom.

You moved down the hall, each step careful, like you were walking toward something fragile. When you reached the door, you found him sitting on the edge of the bed, his back hunched, his hands clasped together. His head was bowed, his hair falling into his eyes, his entire frame drawn tight like he was holding himself together with sheer force of will.

Your heart clenched at the sight.

You had seen Paul in many ways—laughing, teasing, lost in his music, throwing cheeky grins over his shoulder. He was always in motion, always brimming with something—energy, wit, life. But this...

This was something else entirely.

The air in the room felt heavy, thick with something unspoken. You stepped inside, closing the door gently behind you. He still didn't look up.

"Paul?" you tried again, your voice softer this time.

Nothing. His hands fidgeted restlessly in his lap, fingers pulling at each other like he didn't know what to do with them. You moved closer, your chest tightening.

"Hey, love, what's going on?"

For a long moment, he didn't answer. His throat worked as he swallowed, his breath uneven. Then—finally—his voice broke the silence.

"I don't know if I can do this anymore."

The words were quiet, but they filled the whole room. Your stomach dropped.

"Do what?" you asked, your voice barely steady.

Paul breathed, rubbing a hand over his face, his fingers pressing into his temple. When he spoke again, his voice was hoarse.

"I'm tired of being just the cute one."

Your breath hitched.

He laughed, but it had no humor—just something bitter and aching. "It's all I ever hear: how I look at the camera and smile." His jaw tightened. "It's not about the music. It's never about the music. It's just my face. My charm. My bloody eyes or lips." He spat the word out like it was something to be ashamed of.

You reached for him instinctively, but he pulled back, shaking his head. Not in anger—just... retreating.

"What if that's all I am?" His voice cracked, and he finally looked at you, his eyes dark and filled with something you'd never seen so openly. "What if that's the only reason people care? What if that's the only reason you care?"

Your stomach twisted painfully.

"Paul, that's not—"

But he wasn't finished.