Paul McCartney Imagines

57

1966

The rain had been coming down all day. It wasn't dramatic — no thunder or lightning — just steady, miserable drizzle tapping the windows of the flat. The kind that made everything feel heavier than it should.

You were still in your dress from earlier, the red one he said he liked. The dinner you'd made hours ago was cold. The clock ticked loudly in the kitchen, and your stomach was tight from waiting — not with hunger, but with that sick, anxious feeling that had become too familiar lately.

Then the door opened.

You didn't look right away. You heard the sound of him shaking off his coat, the usual scuff of boots on the mat.

Finally, you turned. "You're late."

He barely glanced at you. "Yeah. We went over."

"That's it?" you asked. "No call, nothing?"

Paul sighed, walking past you toward the living room. "I didn't think I needed to give you a play-by-play every time I'm late."

"I made dinner," you said, following him. "You could've told me."

"I wasn't hungry," he said, pulling off his damp jacket. "Don't make a big deal."

You blinked. "It's not a big deal that you didn't come home for hours and didn't say a word?"

He looked at you properly now, his eyes tired. "Why do you always do this?"

"Do what?" Your arms folded. "Expect you to check in once in a while?"

"You make everything feel like an accusation," he muttered.

You felt the frustration boil over. "I'm not accusing you. I'm just tired, Paul. Tired of wondering where you are and whether you're actually coming home."

"I was working," he snapped. "That's what I do."

"I know," you said, voice softening. "But this isn't about work. It's about how far away you feel. Even when you're standing right here."

He shook his head and gave a short laugh. "I can't do this tonight."

You stared at him. "Do what? Have a conversation with me? That's too much now?"

He turned, rubbing a hand over his face. "I don't want to fight."

"Neither do I. But it's all we do lately."

There was a pause. Then, without looking at you, he said, "Maybe that says something."

You felt like you'd been slapped. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Paul looked up, annoyed now. "Maybe we're not working anymore."

The silence that followed was sharp.

You swallowed hard. "You really believe that?"

"I don't know," he said quietly. "It's just... everything feels like pressure with you lately."

"Pressure?" Your voice cracked. "You think I want to feel like this all the time? Like I'm begging for scraps of your attention?"

He ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know what you want from me."

"I want you, Paul!" you said, louder now. "Not just the version who shows up for photographs or goes out on stage. I want the person I used to come home to. The one who cared."

He looked at you then, eyes narrowing. "Don't guilt me just because I'm busy."

You felt something in you snap. "I'm not guilting you. I'm trying to hold us together. But maybe I'm the only one who still cares enough to try."