The Sgt. Pepper’s Club was a vibrant place, where colorful lights danced to the rhythm of music that was impossible to describe in words. Every corner of the hall was filled with life, and at the center of it all, there you were: radiant, brilliant, and almost ethereal, as if your mere presence could sustain the magical atmosphere of the place. Paul couldn’t take his eyes off you, but he also couldn’t ignore the laughter spilling from your lips every time Sgt. Pepper opened his mouth.

Paul wasn’t used to feeling jealous. He was Paul McCartney, the charming guy who could win anyone over with a smile or a song. But that night, something gnawed at him from within. Sgt. Pepper, with his over-the-top uniform and outlandish stories, seemed to monopolize all your attention. And worst of all, you adored him. Every laugh of yours, every sparkle in your eyes, was an invisible dagger that Paul tried to brush off.

He sat next to you, one arm casually draped over the back of your chair, pretending not to care. But the truth was that every word from Sgt. Pepper, every glance he threw your way, made Paul feel small.

“Do you really think that happened?” Paul asked you as Sgt. Pepper spun an absurd tale about convincing a rainbow fish to play the trumpet in the band.