(Let's Fall in Love - Margaret Whiting)

You didn’t know when exactly you became friends with that man.

Maybe it was a random conversation, a shared comment through clouds of cigarette smoke, or simply that comfortable silence so few people understand. The truth is, there you were again, sitting across from John Lennon, as he spoke sometimes softly, sometimes with irony about things he seemed to trust only with you.

He told you stories like they were distant dreams: the noise of the tours, the madness of the sixties, the peace that often felt so far away. There was something in the way he spoke brilliant, yet dim at the same time. As if his whole past was covered in golden dust… and sadness.

You smoked together. Sometimes shared a drink. And he, without asking for permission, would open up to you like someone who no longer had time for walls.

“I don’t know why I tell you these things…” he’d say, looking at you with that expression part curious, part broken.

You never asked too much. You didn’t want to intrude. You didn’t want to step into his life, because you knew it wouldn’t be right. He had his own world. His own story. And you... you were just that small breath between his storms.

And still, every time he looked at you with that unexpected warmth, you wondered if maybe just maybe he needed you more than he let on.