— 1964, Backstage, Big Concert Night

The hallway behind the stage smelled like hairspray, cigarette smoke, and nerves — your nerves, sweetheart. You were only fifteen, turning sixteen soon, dressed in a neat pastel dress with your hair perfectly set, palms a little shaky around your microphone.

Brian Epstein, the Beatles’ manager, gave you a reassuring smile as he adjusted his tie. “You’ll do brilliantly, love. The boys have already heard your rehearsal. They’re quite impressed.”

You swallowed softly, smoothing your skirt. “T-thank you, Mr. Epstein… I just don’t want to make a fool of myself.”

“You won’t,” he said warmly. “You sound like you were born for the stage.”

You heard footsteps and a bit of loud talking — then suddenly four mop-topped silhouettes filled the hallway.

Paul was in front, holding a damn camera like it was an extra limb, fiddling with the lens as he grinned. “Here she is! Our little superstar opener.”

John gave a lopsided smirk. “Fifteen and singing better than half the grown-ups we meet. Makes the rest of us look bad, luv.”

You dipped your head politely. “You’re all too kind… I’m just happy to be here.”

George stepped forward next, hands in his pockets. “We heard your sound check. Very classy voice. Sort of a Lesley Gore thing… but cleaner.”

Ringo bobbed his head enthusiastically. “Yeah! You were ace. Real sweet sound.”

Paul lifted the camera, winking. “Mind if I take a picture? You’ve got a lovely stage presence. Brian didn’t tell us you were this poised.”

You froze a little. “O-oh—yes, sir… if you’d like.”

“‘Sir’?” Paul chuckled. “Blimey, now I feel ancient. Paul is just fine, love.”

He stepped closer — not flirting wrong, just that charming, Elvis-like teasing confidence that never hurt anyone — angling the camera. “Look this way, sweetheart. Let’s get one for the scrapbook.”

The shutter clicked.

John leaned toward Brian. “We should have her open more often. She’s good for morale.”

Brian grinned. “We’ll see what we can arrange.”

You felt your heartbeat calm just a little as Paul lowered the camera.

“Don’t be nervous out there,” he said, voice soft. “Crowd’ll love you. And if they don’t…” He threw a thumb at John. “…he’ll tell ’em off for you.”

John snorted. “Too right. I’ll shout at all twenty thousand of ’em.”

You laughed quietly, hands clasped in front of you. “Thank you… really.”

Paul gave you a warm nod. “Go out there and show ’em how it’s done.”

And Brian gently guided you toward the stage steps. “It’s time, darling.”

The lights brightened. The crowd roared. Your name echoed through the speakers.

And for the first time, you felt ready.