WARNING: VERY SAD! Read at your own risk.

Paul Imagine:

Beep...

"Y/N..."

Beep...

"Please..."

Beep...

"Don't leave me!"

Beep...

"I can't live without you... I love you..."

Silence...

"NO!"

***

There were five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Paul knew that. He knew it all too well. He didn't have to learn it in his social science class in high school. He knew it way before then, when his mother died of breast cancer.

He was fourteen then. He remembered it all too clearly.

He just didn't think he'd ever have to live through it all over again.

But death was always around the corner. Death could be anywhere. Could be anything.

And in your case, death was a drunk driver. Your coffin was your car.

And who had to live with the knowledge that you were in unimaginable pain before you went? Who would have to live, knowing that he will never block out the sound of the constant flatline on the heart monitor, declaring the end of your life? Who would have to live, knowing that you were driving to his house for a visit? Who would have to live with the knowledge that you would never speak again, never laugh again... never exist again?

Paul. Paul had to live with that.

***

"I'm sorry, sir, but... we have to move her."

Paul shook his head. He was sitting in the hospital bed next to you, holding your head against his chest. You were so still... It was strange. You were always jumping around. You could never sit still.

"Why?" Paul croaked, tightening his hold on you and rocking you gently on his arms. "Why move her? She's only sleeping. Sh-she'll wake up soon..."

"Mr. McCartney..."

"She will! She's always been a heavy sleeper. She'll wake up and tell me about a weird dream she had..."

"Mr. McCartney, I'm sorry-"

"Stop saying you're sorry!" Paul cut him off. "There's nothing to be sorry for! She'll wake up! You'll see!" He pressed his lips against your head, threading his fingers through your hair gently. "She's only sleeping..."

***

It was after the funeral back at home when Paul punched a wall.

John had walked him home once you were buried. Paul knew he was worried about him. He didn't have to say it, it was very apparent.

Once they were inside, John watched his best friend drag himself into the living room. He quickly followed him and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Hey Macca," he said, lightening his voice the best he could. "How about we play a little poker, eh?"

No," Paul said monotonously.

"Okay," John said, scratching his head. "How about we watch a movie then? Whatever you want, I'll even watch the ones I hate."

"No."

"Do you... wanna write a song?"

"No."

"Play a little guitar?"

Paul turned to John, his eyes morphing into a cold glare. "Lennon, shut up and get out," he gritted.

"Macca, listen-"

"GET THE HELL OUT OF MY DAMN HOUSE!" Paul suddenly roared. "Stop trying to make me feel better! You can't! Y/N's gone, alright? She's fucking gone! And you want to play poker?"

"I was only-"

"I don't care!" Paul shouted. "I don't bloody care what you were trying to do! My girlfriend left! First my mum, then my girlfriend! She isn't coming back, she left me!"

That was when he punched the wall. A loud crack reached his ears. He felt a dribble of warm liquid leak from his knuckles.

John grabbed Paul's shoulders and hugged him from behind.

"I know," he murmured, his voice shaky. "I know she did... and I'm so sorry, Macca."

Paul hung his head, breathing heavily through his nose. "They always leave," he said through clenched teeth. "Always... and I can't stop them. I can't do a damn thing about it."

***

"Bring her back..."

Paul was in his bedroom, on the floor sitting on his knees. His head was lowered, and tears were leaking from the corners of his closed eyes. The lights were off. There was no one there.

"If you do exist, if you're really there, if you're listening to anything I'm saying, anything at all... Bring Y/N back," Paul pleaded into the darkness. "Please understand... I-I love her. She's my life. Not the fans, not the lads. Her."

He couldn't hear anything.

"She never did anything wrong!" he cried desperately. "She's only ever been kind! She smiled at those who didn't even deserve it. She was always there when her friends needed her, when her family needed her... when I needed her."

Nothing.

"Listen to me! Please!" he choked out. "I-I was going to marry her. She was the girl I wanted to marry. I was going to propose... She was supposed to be my wife and the mother of my children. You and I both know that she was meant to have children, to have a family and be happy."

Not a sound.

"Take me," Paul whispered. "If you need someone dead, if you really need to take someone away from the world... then take me and bring her back here, where she belongs. I'll do anything. Anything you ask, I'll do it. Just give her back... she's the love of my life, she's all I have left."

He opened his eyes and scanned the room.

There was nobody there.

***

It had been two weeks since your funeral.

"Talk to me, Macca," John said softly.

He was seated across from Paul in on the sofa Paul's living room. Paul blankly gazed at the coffee table. He looked horrible. His skin was pale and he was skinny. Too skinny. He was barely eating. There were heavy bags hanging underneath his eyes. Yes, his eyes... once so bubbly and big and round like a doe's eyes... were now lifeless. Empty. Like a shell.

"She isn't back yet," he said hoarsely, barely above a whisper.

John sighed. "I know."

"I've been waiting... It's been too long, John."

"I know, mate."

After a long moment of heavy, tension-filled silence, Paul croaked, "She isn't coming back, is she?"

John shook his head and closed his eyes. "No, Paul... she isn't," he said quietly.

"I-I don't know... I don't know how to live in a world that she's not in."

"Understand that she's safe now. That she's not in pain anymore. She's at peace. And she wouldn't want you to be like this."

***

One month later, and you were still dead.

Paul expected it now. He knew it.

He gently placed the wreath of red roses right by your snow-white gravestone. Grass had begun to sprout on the dirt. It was quite lovely knowing that, actually...

"You weren't asleep at the hospital," Paul spoke quietly, staring down at the stone with your name engraved into it. "And I know you aren't coming back. I... don't think I'll ever be okay with that. No, I know I'll never be okay with that. But... I'm understanding now. That's a start, isn't it?"

He grazed his fingers across the stone. "Be free, my dear Y/N. Be happy. Because I get it now. I think.. I think God needed His beautiful angel back home, that's all."

A tear left his eye.

"Make no mistake, my love. I'll never forget you. You're one of a kind. And I love you. More than you could ever know."

Paul would never stop loving you. Would never forget you. He knew he would find love again... but none would ever be like yours.

With that, he kissed his hand, pressed it against the stone, and walked out of the cemetery.

There are five stages of grief.

Denial.

Anger.

Bargaining.

Depression.

Acceptance.

Sorry? O.o