John’s sitting at the small kitchen table in your flat, the kettle whistling in the background as rain taps against the window. His hair is pulled back in a messy tie, glasses sliding down his nose, eyes tired but alive — blue, soft, sharp all at once.

He survived, you think. He’s here.

It’s quiet, the kind of quiet that feels thick, but it’s safe, too, because it’s him.

He glances up at you, catching you watching him, and he gives that small, crooked smile you’ve learned means I see you.

“You know,” John starts, shifting, pulling his shirt down as he leans back, “I used to be fat. Properly. Back in the ‘Help!’ days, when we were runnin’ around in the snow for that bloody film.” His Liverpool accent curls around the words, teasing them into something almost warm.

You tilt your head, letting him talk. He only tells you about it on days when he can, when the shame doesn’t shut him down.

“‘Fat Elvis,’ I called it, yeah?” He lets out a raspy laugh, brushing hair from his face. “I was eating, drinking, taking anything they’d give me, anything to fill the hole in me chest. Press said I was bloated, soft, losing it. I looked in the mirror and didn’t know the bloke looking back at me.”

His fingers tug absently at the hem of his worn white t-shirt, eyes flickering down, like he’s seeing something only he can.

“Got five of ‘em, you know,” he says, softer now. “Stretch marks. On me belly. Proof I was there, proof I was alive when I thought I was just drifting through all that fame shite.”

You swallow, pulling up your sleeve, showing him the pale lines that dance across your hip, your arm, the small soft places you once hid. His eyes find them, tracing them gently with his gaze.

“Like stars, those,” he says, reaching over to brush a thumb over one of yours. “Proof you’re here, too, love.”

You blink, tears burning, but you laugh, because it’s him, and he makes it feel okay to be seen.

“And now you’re forever skinny,” you say, your voice small.

John’s eyes darken, the softness shifting into something haunted, but he doesn’t look away.

“Yeah,” he says, voice low, rough. “Forever skinny. After the shots.” His hand twitches, pressing against the spot on his side where the bullets had torn through all those years ago, a phantom pain flickering across his face. “Thought I was gonna die, you know. On that pavement. Thought, ‘Well, that’s it, Johnny boy.’”

You reach for his hand, squeezing it.

“But you didn’t,” you whisper.

He looks at you, eyes glistening. “No. Didn’t. Guess I’m too stubborn, yeah?” His laugh cracks, tears slipping down his cheek. “I stayed. Stayed for music, for you, for whatever else I’m meant to do.”

The kettle clicks off, steam drifting lazily through the air, but neither of you moves to make tea. It feels like the world has paused, just for a second.

John squeezes your hand back, leaning forward so your foreheads touch.

“You’ve got your lines, I’ve got mine,” he says, eyes closing as he breathes you in. “We’re here, love. Alive. Stretch marks and scars and all.”

You close your eyes too, letting the quiet settle around you, letting yourself feel the warmth of him — thin, bony, forever changed, but here.

And in that small kitchen, with rain tapping the windows and your hands clasped together, you both let yourselves exist, two souls marked by the lives you’ve survived, holding on, letting yourselves stay.