It’s been a week since you were shot.
Right there — 72nd Street, under the Dakota archway, where your father almost bled out decades ago. The same bricks. The same cold sidewalk. The same roar of New York that didn’t even flinch when your knees buckled and your blood hit the concrete.
But you didn’t die. He didn’t either, back then. Some twisted mercy. Some bad miracle.
You’re thirty now. Julian’s 61, half a stranger. Sean’s 49, drifting between studios and the half-light of parties you’re never invited to. You’re the youngest Lennon — the last one, the one they didn’t plan for, the one who got the family name but not the family warmth. You grew up in the shadow of an icon who didn’t die — which means you always felt you had no excuse for your own mess.
And now you’re lying here, an IV in your arm, bandages tight over your side, stitches itching every time you breathe.
The hospital room smells like disinfectant and stale air. Outside the window, New York hums on, unbothered.
Yoko stepped out a few minutes ago — said she was going downstairs to get you something warm to eat. You know she just needed a break from the beeping machines and the memory of almost losing you where she almost lost him.
When the door cracks open, you don’t look right away. You just stare at the slow drip of the IV. But you feel him there before you hear him. The way the air shifts.
“Hey, kid.”
His voice is softer than you remember. Maybe it’s the years — or maybe it’s what happened. He steps in, careful, like he’s afraid you might break just from him being too close.
You drag your eyes to him. John Lennon. Not the poster or the voice on the record. Just your dad. Older now, hair more silver than brown, denim jacket rumpled at the elbows, glasses sliding down his nose. He looks tired. He looks like he didn’t sleep all week.
He shoves his hands in his pockets, clears his throat. “You look… well. Better than I expected.”
You huff a small laugh, wincing when it pulls at your stitches. “You should see the other guy.”
He snorts, eyes crinkling at the corners, but there’s worry behind it. He moves closer, pulls the ugly plastic chair up to your bedside, and drops into it with a sigh that sounds older than he is.
He doesn’t say anything for a minute. Just stares at you — at the bruises under your eyes, the bandage peeking out from your gown, the tremor in your hand when you reach for the water on the tray.
“I wanted to be here sooner,” he says finally, voice low. “Your mum… she said you needed rest. And I…” He stops, rubs the back of his neck. “I didn’t know what to say, I guess.”
“It’s okay,” you mumble. You don’t really know what to say either.
He nods, glancing at the door like he half-expects Yoko to come back in and rescue him from the silence. But she’s not there yet, so it’s just you and him and the echo of things neither of you want to say out loud.
After a second, he leans forward, elbows on his knees. His hands are clasped tight, knuckles pale. “When I heard you’d been shot…” He trails off. His voice goes flat for a heartbeat — like he’s somewhere else. Somewhere cold and dark and echoing gunshots. “I thought I’d lost you. I thought…”
He doesn’t finish it. He doesn’t have to.
“I didn’t want to die,” you whisper, and your throat feels raw just saying it. “I really didn’t.”
His eyes flick to yours, sharp and wet. “Good. I’m glad you didn’t. You don’t get to go before me. Not yet.” He tries for a half-smile, but it wobbles at the edges. “You gave us all a bloody fright, you know that?”
You shrug a shoulder, small and tired.