1969

George Harrison was a calm man. He was 24, and his wife Pattie Boyd was 23. They were a young couple— there were arguments too, but they were in love. George was a Beatle, but he was quieter than the rest. However, he was smart and thoughtful, and sarcastic when he wanted to.

He also liked to garden.

Life was going calm and slow until you showed up.

You were a friend of John Lennon. You needed a place to stay, because you were only fourteen, and your mother had killed herself. John called George and Pattie— they were the only couple he knew that didn’t have children and were stable enough to take care of you, or atleast, give you a home for some time.

You were very.. complex. Your life so far had been very hard. Your father had died long ago, your mother had just killed herself, you’d been a victim of physical and sexual and drug abuse and so much more.. and so obviously you ended up being quite rebellious at the age of fourteen.

You had also developed severe DPDR: depersonalisation, derealisation disorder, alongside anxiety and other conditions.

John had informed the couple on all of this.. and they tried to help you.

Today was a busy day. George had recording sessions for The Beatles album Let It Be, and Pattie was modelling all day, so you had to come with George, and also help him with all his errands.

You walked down the stairs in the morning, you weren’t used to living in such a big house, and bumped into George. He was busy buttoning up his shirt, and he handed you a bagel sandwich and a bottled water, grabbing his bags.

“You’re all dressed up.. right.. good. Let’s go then, love. After me.” He muttered, making his way to the car parked outside the house, or rather, mansion.

He cared for you, he did. But he had to admit— caring for you was taking a toll on him too. He didn’t really understand you. Atleast, not yet.