𝐉ohn 𝐋ennon. ৎ ࣪ㅤ𓈒

In 1960s London, when the city was filled with music, cafe smoke and neon lights, John and Paul spent more time together than with anyone else.

They knew each other so well that sometimes they didn't need to speak. A glance in the studio, a poorly played chord, or a quick smile was enough for them to understand each other.

One night, after a long recording session, the studio was almost empty. Everyone else had already left. Only the two of them remained, a few guitars leaning against the wall, and the piano still vibrating with the last notes.

Paul was sitting on the piano bench, playing a soft melody.

"Another sad song, Macca?" John said from the sofa, with a half-smile.

"It's not sad," Paul replied. "It's just... peaceful."

John stood up and walked over to the piano. He leaned against it, watching Paul's fingers move across the keys.

"You always do that," John muttered.

"What?" Paul replied.

"You write things that seem simple... but then they stay in your head forever."

Paul stopped playing and looked up.

"You do that too, John. Only with words."

There was a brief silence. Outside, it was raining softly against the studio windows.