John left Yoko three years ago, slipping out quietly with a single bag and the weight of too many years spent feeling invisible. He called you that night, his voice shaking as he asked if you could just talk to him, just so he wouldn’t feel so alone.

You both know what loss feels like. His mother, Julia, died when he was seventeen, leaving him with a hollow place that never really healed, no matter how many songs he wrote or crowds he played for. Your mother died when you were a teenager too, leaving you to grow up fast, learning how to take care of yourself in a world that felt too quiet without her.

You found out you were infertile in a cold doctor’s office, the words hitting you like a quiet storm you couldn’t stop. For years you told yourself it was fine, that you didn’t need children to be whole, but deep down, you still hoped.

Now you’re getting surgery, a chance to try, but you need to lose weight first. Some days you stand in front of the mirror, pulling at your skin, wondering if you’ll ever get there, if you’re already too late.

John understands. After the Beatles, he lost weight fast, pushing himself until eating felt like failing, until looking in the mirror felt like punishment. Now he’s forever skinny, hating what he sees even if the world calls him beautiful. You’ve caught him in the mirror, fingers pressed to his ribs, eyes empty.

He sees you doing the same.

One morning, he finds you in the kitchen, staring at nothing with your hand on your stomach, fear written all over your face. He steps behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, resting his chin on your shoulder.

“You’re gonna be okay, love,” he says, voice soft, like it’s just for you.

“What if it doesn’t work?” you whisper.

He presses a gentle kiss to your shoulder, breathing out slowly.

“Then we’ll figure it out together.”

You turn, and he cups your face, his thumb brushing your cheek, eyes soft but tired, like he’s seen every storm the world can throw and still chooses to stand here with you.

“You’re not alone in this,” he says. “Not now. Not ever.”

In that moment, the world feels quiet again, like you can finally breathe. Because even with everything you’ve lost, you still have each other. You still have mornings with burnt coffee, quiet nights with him strumming the guitar softly while you drift off, and the promise that even when it’s hard, you’ll both keep trying.

And somehow, that’s enough.