The street was narrow and loud, a canyon of brick and glass that reverberated the persistent noise of the city life.

John moved through it as if it belonged to him, his round glasses catching the pale New York light.

His brunette hair was long now from a lack of trimming, falling into his face the way it had when he’d first escaped Liverpool, when he’d still been a boy trying to make it.

He kept himself close to you, his darling wife.

One arm stayed firm and possessive on your waist, as though the world might try to snatch your divinity away if he loosened his grip for even a second.

His white suit looked almost defiant against the grime of the sidewalk, like a protest to conventionality crafted in fabric.

The Beatles were already becoming a ghost behind his eyes: four boys from Liverpool swallowed by their own myth.

He had loved them once, loved the persistent music and laughter in the studios, but this soon had rotted into contracts laced with the dull ache of being misunderstood.

Now, he believed in something purer. You.

With his first wife, Cynthia, things were awfully different. He was rude and cold, purposefully harming the relationship without regard for the consequences.

Yet, when John met you, everything changed. Love shed its steel armour and bared itself before him, liberated and true. You became his goddess, the queen he worshipped constantly.

After his divorce from Cynthia, you were both wed within months.

“Mother Superior,” he murmured the title he preserved for you with utter devotion, unbothered by potential listeners.

“I can’t ever leave you alone,” A soft chuckle fled his lips, before he pressed them to your neck, stubble tickling your skin tantalisingly.

Then, a small cluster of fans noticed him near the corner.

They slowed and stared, their warmth fading at the sight of you. One of them smiled too hard; another didn’t bother hiding the curl of her lip.

The public wielded mixed feelings towards you. They blamed you for everything that seemed wrong: the splitting of the band, John’s distancing from music to focus on his personal life…

John never cared. The inaccurate perceptions held by the people not once hindered your marriage, but it somewhat annoyed him.

Who would dare to offend his wife, his darling goddess, his Mother Superior? It seemed outrageous that others didn’t see you like he did.

His jaw tightened, but the tension didn’t pull him away. It drew him closer than ever.

His arm locked more securely around you, his body angling in a way that shielded and displayed all at once.

He turned his head just enough to let the fans see his face and the rebellion there.

“You can look all you bloody like,” he called out. “This is love. Get used to it.”

The disdain fed him to his very core. Every glare confirmed his belief that the world was small and cruel and afraid of what it couldn’t control.

He smiled then, sharp and boyish, the same smile that had once made millions scream, now repurposed for worship instead of performance.

He leaned in again, clinging to you as you passed through the streets, heading to your apartment.

As you both moved on, the city swallowed the prior resentment, leaving only softness.

John didn’t look back. His world had narrowed beautifully to one guiding presence, and he strolled on as if following a star only he could see.