Paul McCartney Imagines

69

Liverpool, 1962

You slowly fell in love with Paul McCartney.

Which was the worst possible way to do it?

Because if it had happened all at once, maybe you could have stopped it.

Maybe you could have recognized the danger before it rooted itself somewhere deep inside your chest.

Instead, it happened over months.

Late nights at the Cavern.

Long walks home after rehearsals.

Sharing chips when neither of you had enough money to buy your own.

Paul grinning at you from across a crowded room because he'd spotted you before anyone else.

Paul throwing his arm around your shoulders.

Paul calling you "his girl" even though you weren't.

Never were.

You became his best friend.

And that was the problem.

Because you got all the things that looked like love.

Just never the actual love itself.

⸻

"You'll like her."

You nearly dropped your tea.

Paul sat across from you at the little café, practically glowing.

You already knew what was coming.

You always knew.

There was always another girl.

Another pretty face.

Another exciting beginning.

"Will I?" you asked quietly.

He nodded enthusiastically.

"She's brilliant."

The smile he gave you hurt more than it should have.

Because it wasn't meant for you.

It never was.

"What's her name?"

And then he spent twenty minutes talking about her.

You listened.

You always listened.

You smiled.

You nodded.

You asked questions.

And when you got home that night, you cried into your pillow until you couldn't breathe properly.

⸻

The worst part wasn't the girlfriends.

The worst part was what happened afterward.

Because Paul always came back.

Not romantically.

Never romantically.

But emotionally.

Whenever things fell apart.

Whenever he'd made a mess.