The beach is full of laughter, of children running, of sun-kissed bodies under an endless summer sky.

Ringo is sitting a few feet away, on a towel, his sunglasses slipping down his nose, fingers playing with the sand like he hasn’t a care in the world. The child sleeps beside you, wrapped in the towel. You’re afraid to wake him. You’re always the one who puts him to sleep.

And then, you see it.

The way Ringo turns his head. That half-smile. That damn look that settles on a group of girls in swimsuits, laughing too loud, posing without shame. Of course. They're young. They’re beautiful. And they’re looking at a Beatle.

At your husband.

Because of course, he’s still Ringo Starr. The funny Beatle. The one everyone wants. But you... you don’t know anymore if you’re his husband or just the father of the child sleeping between you.

He doesn’t look at you like he used to. Doesn’t touch you like he used to. Always busy, always tired, always distracted. Or joking. Always joking.

And while you pour your soul into taking care of what you built together, he’s smiling at those women like nothing in the world is at stake.

You get up in silence. Lift the child gently, careful not to wake him.

And when you walk past Ringo, he glances up, just barely. He smiles. As if everything’s fine. As if you’re not the only one who remembers that before being parents, you were something more.

—Where are you going, love?