1964

Paul is strumming his guitar, fixing up a song he’d written down the night before when you suddenly bust inside his flat. His eyes instantly flick to you, a surprised yet annoyed look on his face.

“What’re you doing, love? Aren’t you supposed to be in school?”

He says, knowing you lived in university, before standing up and placing down his guitar, looking at you with an irritated tone heavy in his voice.