John in the hospital

The hospital room hums with fluorescent lights, and the scent of rain drifts in through a cracked window. John lies in the bed, too pale, wires snaking from his chest to the beeping monitors, his glasses folded on the table beside him.

It started with a cough, then blood on a handkerchief he tried to hide. He said it was nothing, but you saw the fear behind his brown eyes, the same eyes that softened when they looked at you. When he collapsed in your kitchen, you screamed for help, clutching his hand, whispering, “Don’t leave me, John, please.”

Now, doctors say pneumonia, weakened lungs from years of cigarettes, and stress. You sit beside him, clutching Sean’s small hand as he draws pictures to place on John’s bedside. The world knows John Lennon as a legend, but here, he is just a man who hums to you at dawn and dances in socks on the wooden floors.

He left Yoko for you, needing a life where he could breathe, where love wasn’t performance, where he could walk to the corner shop for milk and hold your hand without the world watching. He found that with you—long mornings of tea and music, late nights with Sean asleep on his chest.

His eyelids flutter open, and he sees you, your eyes swollen from crying, your hand in his. He smiles, crooked and warm, whispering, “I’m not going anywhere, love. Not yet.”

You remind him of the songs he still needs to finish, the bread you still need to bake together, the walks in Central Park he promised Sean. You press a kiss to his forehead, promising you will wait, you will stay, you will be here when he wakes up.

The city outside moves too fast, but here, in this quiet room, you hold him through the beeping and the fear, reminding John Lennon he is more than his past, more than his music. Here, he is yours, and he will fight to come home