Paul McCartney Imagines

62

The stack of textbooks in front of you seemed to grow taller by the minute, your fingers sore from flipping pages and jotting notes. The air in your small Liverpool flat was thick with the scent of old paper and tea that had long gone cold. You blinked twice at the smudged handwriting in your study guide and sighed, rubbing your temple.

The knock on your door startled you.

Three quick raps, followed by a familiar rhythm tap—you smiled despite yourself. Only one person knocked like that.

You stood up, smoothing your skirt with ink-stained fingers, and padded across the floor in socked feet. When you opened the door, Paul was standing there with a crooked smile and two bags of chips.

"Figured you could use a break," he said. "Also, I got the vinegar this time. Don't say I never learn."

His smile faded a little when you didn't immediately move aside. Your hesitation was barely a second long, but it was enough for him to notice.

"Oh, Paul," you sighed. "I can't tonight. I'm up to my neck in revision—exams start Monday."

He peeked past you into the flat, spotting the chaotic sprawl of papers and open books on your desk.

"Just an hour," he said, smile softening into something hopeful. "We'll eat, talk a bit, maybe go for a little walk? I haven't seen you all week, love..."

You hated the way your heart twisted. His brown eyes were so earnest. And he wasn't wrong. Between school and your job, you'd barely had time to sleep lately, much less breathe.

"I want to," you said truthfully. "But I have three chapters to memorize and an essay to finish tonight. If I stop now, I won't get it done."

He nodded slowly, and the disappointment was subtle, but unmistakable.

"Right," he muttered. "No, yeah, of course. I get it."

You opened your mouth to say something, anything, but Paul had already handed you one of the bags of chips and taken a step back.

"Don't stay up too late," he added, a little too lightly. "You'll fry your brain and forget how to spell your own name."

You smiled, but it didn't reach your eyes. "Thanks for the food."

He winked—automatic, reflexive—and turned to walk down the stairs. You stood there for a moment, staring at the spot where he'd been, before closing the door and returning to your desk.

But the words on the page no longer made sense.

⸻

It was well past midnight when you finally closed your notebook. Your head was pounding, your back ached, and you could barely see straight. You shuffled into your bedroom and paused.

There, on your pillow, lay a folded piece of paper. Paul's familiar handwriting looped across the front.

For when you finally look up.

Your heart sank. He must've slipped it in while you weren't looking.

You sat on the edge of the bed and opened it.

⸻

Dear (Y/N),

I know you're busy. I know school is important, and I'd never ask you to give that up for me. But I miss you. I miss us. You used to laugh with me, dance around the flat when we played records, sneak chips in bed even though you said it was "unhygienic." Now you barely look up.

I'm not angry—I just feel a little invisible lately.

I don't need all your time. I'd never ask for that. Just an hour now and then, to remind me that I still matter to you.

You're everything to me. But tonight I didn't feel like much of anything.

Yours always,
Paul

P.S. The chips were still hot when I brought them. Don't let them get cold on your desk.

⸻

You stared at the letter, chest tight, eyes suddenly stinging. You hadn't meant to push him away. But God, you had.

Paul—so patient, so gentle—had always supported your dreams. You should've made time for his heart too.

The guilt sank deep into your ribs.

⸻

The next night, you stood just outside the Cavern Club, heart thudding in your ears. The usual smell of sweat and cigarettes wafted out with the music, and when you stepped inside, you immediately spotted him on stage.

He was playing his Höfner bass, swaying gently with the rhythm, hair falling into his eyes. He looked tired. Not just physically—emotionally. Like he was trying not to care that you weren't there. But you were now.

And he hadn't seen you yet.

When the set ended, you pushed through the crowd toward the back room. He stepped off stage, laughing with George about a broken guitar string, but the second his eyes landed on you, his expression froze.

You stepped forward and handed him a chip bag—still warm.

"I figured I owed you an hour," you said softly. "And probably more than that."

He stared at you a moment, unreadable, then looked down at the bag. "Salt and vinegar?"

"Of course. I do learn, too, you know."

A small smile tugged at his lips. He nodded toward the alley out back. "Let's sit. Can't hear a thing in here."

You followed him into the cool night air and sat on the steps. He opened the bag and offered you the first chip. You took it in silence.

"I read your note," you murmured. "Twice."

He raised an eyebrow. "Twice, eh? Must've been good."

"It was heartbreaking."

He looked away, biting the inside of his cheek. "Didn't mean to guilt you."

"You didn't. You told me the truth. And I needed to hear it."

You leaned your head on his shoulder. He tensed for a moment, then relaxed.

"I'm sorry, Paul. I've been so caught up, I didn't see what it was doing to us."

He didn't speak for a moment, just reached down and gently took your hand.

"Just missed you, that's all," he said. "Didn't want to be another thing on your to-do list."

"You never were," you whispered. "You're my heart."

You looked up at him. "Want to dance with me? Just for a minute? Like old times?"

He blinked, surprised. "Here? In the alley?"

You smiled. "Why not?"

He chuckled, set the chips aside, and stood, offering you his hand. You took it, and the two of you began to sway under the dim yellow light from the back door. There was no music. Just the faint hum of the city and the sound of his breath as he pulled you close.

It was awkward. Clumsy. But perfect.

And for the first time in weeks, the two of you were really together