A couple of weeks passed on the ashram, and slowly they all settled into life. It was peaceful, and it was a relief to be away from the chaos of London. The days seemed long but short at the same time, reminding Connie of school summer holidays where she was desperate to hold on to the passing time but glad for it all the same, because as much as she was enjoying the peace, she actually missed work. 

It was nice to clear her mind through meditation and to be constantly surrounded by nature, but she really missed writing. She missed discussing ideas with Ruby before setting her mind to an article, she missed the feeling of satisfaction as she finished typing it up before handing it over to press, and she missed the sense of joy seeing it in print. She never did get quite used to seeing her work published, and sometimes when she was alone and certain that she wouldn't get recognised she would go into the local newsagents just to see the magazine up on the shelf. In India, she found herself craving the work just for something to do other than meditation. She was glad to be at the ashram though, because at least it was making her appreciate work a little more.

The thrill of being published never faded, and when she was at home she didn't mind the hard work that went into it, but she often hated the process. She loved reviewing the latest albums and films, but the long nights and overtime was often a downer to it all. It didn't help that the magazine had a target audience, and any article that they thought wouldn't appeal to said audience would be scrapped. Sometimes writing articles meant that she lacked freedom, and since Connie fell in love with writing just because of how freeing it felt, it was a little bit of a contradiction. It was as if the never-ending meditation had taught her to appreciate that contradiction though, because instead of finding peace within herself, it just made her feel more desperate to work. 

Being at the Ashram had taught her some sort of peace though. Talking with Florence the week before had helped her come to terms with what had been happening to her in the last few years, and whenever the two of them weren't meditating they stuck together. Connie found comfort in Florence's company, not only because she was a constant reminder of home, but because she knew everything. She could be her true self to Florence, the self she had become through all the difficulty she had been through, not having to worry about putting up a front like she had been doing for months to everyone else. 

That front did not, however, come down in front of everybody else. She needed to discuss the situation with George first, because she felt as though she could not come fully to terms with what they had been through until she knew where his mind was at with the whole thing. The anticipation for going back to work after the trip had reminded her just how much she loved her career and just how much she had left to do to reach her full success potential, but after so long of her priority being starting a family she felt as though she could not go back to focusing on her career until she'd spoken to George.

Talking to George was harder than Connie thought it'd be though. Not mentally, since she was more than ready to get the conversation off her chest, but it seemed to be impossible to get a moment alone with him. He woke up earlier than she did, and whenever she first woke up she felt rough, still not quite over the long flight, and never in the mood for such a serious discussion. Throughout the day he'd either be meditating or with the lads, and it wouldn't be fair to try and pull him away from them when she could see how happy he was, not when she was about to remind him of all the pain they'd felt in the last few months. Night time was off-limits too, because that would be when he and the lads would gather on the roof of the bungalow, a gathering that was off-limits to all the girls, much to her frustration, and by the time he'd come down from the roof she would already be in bed. She knew he wasn't avoiding her, or at least she hoped he wasn't, it was just that their daily routine didn't align, much to her annoyance. 

She didn't mind not seeing him in the daytime, because that was when they would both be meditating, and if he was hanging out with the lads she could join him, or go and sit with the girls. At night, however, Connie couldn't help but feel a little resentful whenever all of the band would go and sit up on the roof with their guitars and a few drinks that had been smuggled into the ashram, banning any of the females from joining them. In the time since the Beatles had hit stardom there had always been gatherings where women weren't wanted, like in the studio or if they were having serious discussions about their albums, but Connie had grown up being the exception. She'd been there the day John first came round to Paul's to play guitars, and she'd been there everyday after. She'd been there on the bus when George first auditioned for the band by playing Raunchy, and she'd been there when George suggested getting rid of Pete to get Ringo in the band. She knew there were things they would do in their career that she couldn't join in with, but they were her mates, and the increasing divide she'd felt in the last few years where she had started to feel more like one of the girls than one of their mates seemed to have come to a head the moment she was banned from joining them on the roof. 

It probably didn't help that one of the first things she thought of in India was how nice it would be to sit on the bungalow roof and watch the starts. She'd thought of doing it with George, quality time to spend with her husband, but instead she just felt even more excluded from her friends. She had Florence, and she had the other girls too, but it wasn't the same. She needed the lads' company, just like she always had done, and feeling excluded didn't help given everything she'd spoken to Florence about. She felt like she needed her friends more than ever, but yet she just felt shoved out and forgotten, emotions that didn't sit well with Connie. 

Ever since getting to India, she'd felt different. Physically different in the way that she felt like her body still hadn't recovered from jetlag which didn't mix well with repetitive meditation, constantly exhausted and occasionally a little queasy, though that might have been the food as well. Mentally different too, feeling as if her temper was shortening back to what it was when she was a teenager, finding the smallest things irritate her, but somehow she'd managed to keep it under control so far. She found herself feeling more in tune to her emotions as if her heart-to-heart with Florence the week before and the meditation had opened her up to all sorts of feelings that she'd tried to protect herself from previously. The whole cocktail of emotions left her feeling rather vulnerable, a sensation she hated feeling, and it left her craving the company of her mates, the ones she'd relied on through all of her difficult times. They, however, were clueless of her needs, far too caught up in themselves. 

On their tenth night in the ashram, the routine continued. The men were all upstairs on the roof of John's bungalow, messing with their guitars, and if Connie concentrated she could hear them all laughing through the ceiling. The women, however, were sat downstairs in the sitting area, having to make their own conversations, though to Connie it didn't seem half as thrilling as whatever the lads upstairs were discussing because none of them were screaming with laughter. Instead the whole gathering seemed rather calm, the five women sat around in a circle on the floor, passing around a bottle of some sort of alcohol, a few of them smoking. Connie wasn't sure on the exact details, practically zoned out as she stared at the floor, trying not to focus on how the smell of the cigarettes was making her feel sick. Maybe it was because she'd not smoked since 1966, but it didn't really matter what it was that made her suddenly repulsed by the smell of nicotine, a smell she had once loved, because she knew what was also making her feel sick was the quiet sounds of laughter from above her. 

It seemed unfair that her friends were above her, laughing and joking around like they used to do with her, when she was stuck downstairs with their wives. She loved the wives, of course she did, they were like sisters to her, but something inside her that night felt particularly anxious to be with her old friends. She was so focused on the sounds of the lads' laughter she was barely paying attention to the room around her, so when she looked up she was almost surprised to see Florence talking to Jane about something, whilst Cynthia and Maureen seemed deep in discussion. The realisation that the room had carried on in her mental absence stung, and out of habit she clenched her fist, unsure as to how she was feeling but certain in knowing she didn't feel right. 

She felt forgotten, excluded, and so she instantly decided to try and fix the problem. Forcing a smile, she scooted over closer to Cynthia and Maureen, hoping to join their conversation, hoping the two fellow Liverpudlians would see there was something wrong and include her, and they did, though after realising their discussion Connie instantly regretted her decision. 

"I miss the boys," Maureen said, her voice serious as if she was confessing a secret, and Connie felt her chest tighten knowing the two women were discussing their children. "I feel like I should be there with them and not here surrounded by bugs and flies," 

"I know how you feel, we'll be missing Julian's birthday if we stay the full six weeks," Cynthia nodded, before glancing over to Connie, offering her a warm smile. "We were just talking about the kids and how hard it is being so far from them," 

"Yeah... I can't even imagine," Connie nodded, feeling her throat tighten though she fought against it, flashing the two of them a grin. "Not that it's a comparison but I miss work, if I'd not have come out here I had press tickets to see Aretha Franklin and then do an interview with her. Ruby's doing it alone now, which is fine, but I've wanted to see her live for ages,"

As soon as she'd finished speaking Connie realised that she had been right; there was no comparison at all. How could she even compare Cynthia and Maureen missing their children to her not being about to write some article on a concert? To say the women were bonded together through their unique circumstances of all being married to men who were world famous, and the three of them were all native Liverpudlians, they didn't really have anything else in common. Both of them could have had impressive careers, Cynthia an artist and Maureen a hair stylist, but they'd both given it up for their husbands to start a proper family. Connie hadn't done that, insisting on her own freedoms in her career, not wanting to rely on anybody, but only now she was sat with the two other women, she fully understood the difference between them all. 

Both of them had children, and Connie didn't. She had a career, and though she was very proud of everything she'd achieved professionally, it wasn't the same. She'd never be able to understand what it was like to fly to the other side of the world whilst leaving her kids at home, because she didn't have any. The two other women knew what it was like to live domestically, to be housewives, and Connie would never understand that. Even when she was trying for a baby, she never planned on giving up work. The plan had been for her to take a couple of months off, and then get back to work for the magazine, but Connie knew what she was like. She knew she would probably not stop writing, probably using the time off to write something for herself rather than articles. She'd grown up seeing her mother go off to work everyday, and though she needed to do that to support their family financially, it had instilled a set of values into Connie that she needed to work for her own independence, and just like how her mother had never given up working as a nurse, Connie knew she would never give up her independence.

It was no comparison, to say she would be missing a work opportunity and a concert whilst the other women had left behind their children. It was no comparison, but Connie would never be able to fully understand that, because she'd probably never understand how the other women felt. 

"Sorry, that sounded really shit," Connie let out a nervous laugh, fiddling with her hair as she stared at the floor. "I just meant-" 

"No, it's alright, we get what you mean," Cynthia nodded reassuringly before she frowned slightly. "We have been wondering though, do you think you and George would ever have kids? You've been together a while," 

Connie immediately felt as if she wanted to throw up, her head spinning and her entire body tensing up. Out of reflex she clenched her fist and let out a slow shaky breath, determined not to let her emotions show, though that felt pretty hard as the words seemed to hit her like a car. She knew someone would probably as her at some point, but she thought she'd have been over the whole situation before someone would ask her about kids. 

Cynthia meant well, Connie knew that. It was just a simple question, there was no malice in it, and it wasn't meant to hurt her. How could Cynthia, or anyone else, know that children was a sensitive topic if Connie never talked about what had happened? Still, that didn't stop it from hurting, and upon feeling the two women looking at her, waiting for an answer Connie felt the slight panic rise up in her. 

"Probably not," she said with a shrug, still desperately trying to seem fine even though she clearly wasn't. "I don't think it's really for me, to be honest, no offence, obviously. Think I'd rather get a dog or something, or just focus on working, or travel the world or..." 

She drifted off, realising that she was rambling out of nerves, feeling everyone in the room looking at her. As she glanced over to Florence, who'd stopped her conversation with Jane to look at Connie with concern as she overheard what was happening, Connie realised she needed to get out of the room. She needed to go somewhere, but she wasn't sure where. Her shaking hand went up to her to fiddle with the silver locket hanging around her neck, as she had done ever since George gave it to her nearly eight years before, and she realised she needed to be with him. He'd always had a way of helping her through her emotions even before they were together, even if she didn't understand how she felt herself. 

She needed George, but she quickly realised she needed to be with the other lads too. They were her friends, and shed grown up bantering with them. Her friendship with the lads didn't often extend to serious discussions or questions about her life. Without a second thought about anything, Connie quickly got to her feet and let out a deep breath, looking to Florence once more, knowing she was the only one who'd understand her odd reaction to such a simple question. 

"Sorry, I just... Think I'm gonna get some air," she excused herself, going to the door and letting herself out, not even waiting for any of the girls to say anything. 

As soon as she was outside, shutting the door behind herself, Connie let out a long sigh, rubbing her hands against her face, determined not to cry. She felt panic wrap around her, but knew better than to let herself succumb to it. Instead she headed off the porch, heading round the back of the bungalow where the steps up to the roof were. As she headed up the stairs she could hear the voices of her husband and friends growing louder, and though she still felt like all of her insides were buzzing in nerves she felt a little calmer. 

That was, until, she got onto the roof, and saw the four Beatles sat about in a circle on cushions, Paul and George both holding guitars. The conversation quickly died, the four of them turning to look at Connie, and though she knew they didn't intend on it, Connie felt like an unwanted outsider. She wasn't going to let that bother her though. She felt like she needed their company, and she'd always been their mate. She wasn't just George's husband. She belonged on the roof upstairs with them, not downstairs like a groupie waiting for them to want her around. 

"Alright?" she greeted, determined to break the awkward silence.

"What do you want?" John asked, looking back down at his guitar, sounding unbothered as Connie stood looking at them all.

"Is everything alright, love?" George asked with a small frown, setting his guitar aside as he recognised the look in her eye, the one she was obviously desperately trying to hide.

Before she had the chance to answer, Ringo had gotten up and moved aside. He'd previously been sat next to George, but now he was gesturing for Connie to sit down between the two of them. He must have noticed something was wrong too, as he shot her a war friendly smile. It was the same way he used to smile at her when they lived together, when she'd get back from a stressful day in the office. Ringo knew her well enough to tell when something was wrong, but he also knew she often didn't want to talk about stuff if they were bothering her, and she was glad for his simple gesture. 

"Come sit here, Con," he called when she still hesitated.

"Yeah, come on," Paul nodded, before he shot a look to George. "It's alright, isn't it?"

"Paul, I lived next door to you for ages, you don't now need to check if it's okay with George for me to sit with you lot just cause he's my husband," she said simply, going to sit in between George and Ringo, her tone coming out much snappier than she meant it to. 

She knew he'd not meant anything from it, but Connie felt like her emotions were all over the place. She'd felt off for a while, but what with the conversation downstairs and the immediate awkward vibe she felt on the roof, Connie could feel her temper flaring slightly. She tried to control it, talking a deep breath as she moved to sit cross-legged on a cushion, but she couldn't help but feel disappointed that her best friend had looked to her husband for permission for her sitting down with them. Maybe they'd forgotten her as their mate, and maybe she was just George's wife now. That was something Connie refused to conform to.

"Alright, chill out, Con, bloody hell," John muttered, his eyes widened mockingly as she sat down across from him. "How come you're not downstairs with the other birds? You too good for them now or something?" 

"What's that supposed to mean?" she responded quickly, feeling her temper flare once more. "Am I not allowed to sit with my own mates?" 

"Hey, 's alright," George said to her quickly, taking hold of her arm and squeezing it gently, offering her a small smile. "You know you can sit with us whenever you want," 

"Well that's good to know, good to know I'm still welcome with my mates," she muttered lowly, unsure as to why she was now turning on George, knowing he meant well and was trying his best with her, but still she couldn't help but be annoyed. "Are you writing?"

"None of your business," John replied rather cheerily, a teasing glint in his eye. "You should go back down, Con, you know we don't like you girls around when we're doing music stuff,"

"'You girls?'" Connie frowned in disgust. "John, I'm your fucking cousin," 

"The fact you're his wife cancels that out," John said with a shrug, knowing what he was saying was upsetting her, but deciding he was bored enough to try and annoy her. 

"Oh fuck off, that's a load of bollocks," she groaned, rolling her eyes before looking to both Paul and Ringo. "Do you think the same?"

Neither of them answered. If her head was in the right place she'd probably know that John was merely poking her for his entertainment and that the other two were just going along with it. She'd probably know that she was overreacting to it all, and that it was all in her mind. Except her head wasn't in the right place, and no amount of deep breaths or calming mantras could bring her temper under control. 

"Right, fine, if that's how you all feel," she clenched her jaw, getting to her feet, unable to look any of them in the eye. 

"Con, it's alright, you know they're only joking," George tried, looking up at her worriedly, knowing he'd not seen her this angry in years.

It felt like looking back in time, seeing her shake ever so slightly, tensing her fists out of reflex, practically pacing. It was like looking back to a time when Connie was the wildest girl they all knew, the girl who could fight anyone without fear, the girl with the best punch on their side of the Mersey. That was the girl he had fallen in love with, but it was also the girl he found difficult. It always hurt to see her struggling with her emotions, and he found it difficult when she couldn't figure out what her feelings were so she resorted to anger, the way she always had done as a teenager out of grief.  It hurt him to know she was struggling with something to the extent she became emotionally frustrated, and so he got to his feet too, moving to take hold of her hand but she shook him off.  

"No, do you know what?" she spoke, her voice shaking ever so slightly, clenching her fists and folding her arms across her chest. She was trying to fight her emotions, but it was much too late for that, her anger winning as everything she'd been fighting against for months came to the surface. "I'm fucking sick of feeling second best or forgotten, with all of you! I was your mate way before I married George, and now just because I wear a fucking wedding ring I can't sit with you all? We grew up together, for Christ's sake, I don't deserve to be left behind or whatever, I don't deserve some stupid 'no wives' rule!" 

"Connie," she heard George attempt to calmly interrupt, but she ignored him. 

"No, I'm fed up of all this," she carried on, clenching her jaw in frustration. "I think you forget about all the stuff I do for you. All the good press, all the times I've written articles trying to get you out of the shit you've said. 'Ooh, I've taken acid! Ooh, I'm bigger than Jesus!' When the British and American press wanted to send out a manhunt for you who tried to dig you out of that mess? And even before all this Beatles bollocks, who used to get in fights because people would call you weirdos? Who'd welcome you into her house uninvited just because you were bored? Now what, because I married George you're all gonna forget that and just treat me like I'm his wife, just cause the press do and it fits with your image?" 

"Con, fucking calm down," John said, laughing at her, which only seemed to make things worse. 

"Don't you dare tell me to calm down, John Lennon!" she snarled at him, though he stayed where he was, staring up at her with a blank expression. "We're meant to be family I've had your back through so much, the least you can do is just tell me I've got a point and stop treating me like I'm being irrational,"

Connie paused, taking a deep breath as she looked between the three Beatles still sat down, each of them speechless. She then turned her gaze to George, who was watching her worriedly. She could tell he wanted to say something, but he had decided not to. Maybe he'd realised she had a point an didn't want to say anything, knowing she was right. He was meant to have her back, and in that moment his silence was just that for her. 

Except what she thought was silent support was George feeling confused. He wasn't sure where this outburst had come from, and as he watched her shake slightly in rage, hesitating as if waiting for someone to say something back to her, he felt lost, wondering how he could help her. The rant clearly hadn't come from nowhere, and the way she'd acted told him she'd let her emotions build up for a while to lead to them all coming out at once. Realising that he felt as if he'd failed her, not noticing how she'd been feeling until it was too late. 

"All I'm saying..." she said, her voice quivering uncharacteristically, much more mellow than before. "Is that I don't want to be forgotten. I'm still here, and I'm not just George's wife. I'm meant to be your mate," 

Her voice sounded a little defeated, and the last time George had heard Connie sound so tired had been the day after the last time they'd gone to the doctors. He felt guilt swim around inside him, especially as she let out another sigh and stormed off down the stairs, and from the roof he saw her heading off towards their own bungalow. He looked back at his band, only to see them all looking at him questioningly. 

"What the bloody hell was that all about?" John asked, raising his eyebrow slightly. 

"Oh, fuck off, John," Paul muttered dismissively, getting to his feet, Ringo following him. "Though he's got a point. Is she alright, George?" 

"I didn't want to say anything, but neither of you have seemed right for ages," Ringo told George quietly, and George swallowed nervously, glancing over towards his own bungalow. "What's going on with Connie?" 

"Ask her yourselves," he muttered quietly, not wanting to sound as dismissive as he did, but he couldn't help it, not as he realised Connie had been right. 

He didn't bother saying anything else, grabbing his guitar as he followed his wife's footsteps, running down the stairs and over towards their bungalow. Connie had been in such a rush to get in her own space that she'd left the door open, and as soon as he was in the doorway he could hear her cursing quietly. He quickly dumped his guitar in their makeshift living room, before heading off in search of his wife, following the sound of her hushed swears. He found her in the bathroom, holding her right hand under the tap, her forehead creased together in frustration. She'd not noticed him yet, but even from the bathroom doorway he could see the slight blood on her knuckles. 

"Con, what've you done?" he asked gently, ignoring the way she jumped in surprise, and the way she flinched away from him as he came closer to look at her hand. 

"Punched the wall," she shrugged, and he felt as though he was fourteen all over again, in the A-and-E room waiting for her broken knuckles to be looked at. "It's alright, I'm fine, you can go back to the lads,"

"No, come on," he insisted, wrapping his arm around her shoulder, kissing her forehead as he reached out, taking her hand and moving it out of the cold water so he could inspect the damage. "Let me help you, please," 

Connie wanted so desperately to pull away from him. Despite her earlier feelings, she wanted to be alone. She didn't want George feeling sorry for her, but she also didn't want to make things worse than they already were. Though her rant had been a long time coming, and she couldn't help but feel like a weight had finally been lifted from her, finally getting her feelings out there, she still felt awful. She'd never had a fight with any of them, she'd never shouted at them like that before. The way she saw it, they were her mates, and friends don't shout at friends. The relief of getting her feelings out there couldn't outweigh her frustration with herself, not to mention the anxiety she'd felt from the conversation with the girls. That had been why she practically blacked out, throwing a punch at the wall. It was her own fault, finding no other way to cope with her feelings except the method she'd used as a teenager.

It had been her fault, and so she found it hard to accept George's help, except with everything that was going on in her mind she felt numb. She barely noticed him helping her rinse the blood away, leading her into their bedroom, sitting her down on her side of the bed as he went to go look through their suitcase for their mini first aid kit. Instead, she stared down at the floor, trying not to think of anything that had just happened, until that became impossible as George sat down next to her, opening the mini kit up and taking out the antiseptic wipes and a couple of plasters. 

"I've seen you do worse," he said to her gently, wiping her knuckles with the wipe, offering her a reassuring smile as she hissed in pain. "I know, sorry it stings. At least you didn't do your writing hand this time. I didn't even know you could punch with your right hand," 

"I wasn't paying any attention," she shrugged simply. "I just did it, didn't think about any hand," 

"Con..." he spoke, and as she dared to look at him she saw a complexity of emotions playing across his face, his eyes seeming sad. "What's going on?" 

"Everything I said up there was true," she replied, not looking him in the eye but instead watching him stick the plasters down on her injured knuckles. "I'm sick of feeling like I'm just your wife. I love you, but I don't want to just be one of the girls. That's not who I am," 

"I know that, I'm sorry, love," he said, finishing up and instead holding her hand in both of his. "I'm sorry I didn't notice that you were feeling left out. I feel awful," 

"Yeah, probably not as bad as I feel," she said, suddenly defensive again though she wasn't sure why. "Because it's been a long time coming," 

"Well why didn't you say anything before?" he asked, his own tone beginning to mimic hers though she could tell he was desperately trying to stay calm. "And what brought it all on? If it was a long time coming, why did you wait till now to make a fuss?" 

"Because Cynthia asked me when we were going to have kids!" she exclaimed, her voice a mixture of anger and sadness, and she knew she'd snapped too far when she saw George flinch, her husband now looking utterly deflated. "She asked if we were ever going to have children since we've been together so long, and I know she meant nothing of it, but for God's sake, George, how would you feel if one of the lads asked you that?" 

"I don't know," he replied quietly, looking down at the floor. 

"Exactly, so I panicked and ran out of there and thought I'd come sit with my mates, only then I realised I didn't even feel like I was with my mates," she continued, her tone still hot. "I felt like I was sat with my husband's band mates, when in reality none of them are that to me. So that's why I exploded and I'm not even sorry,"

"You shouldn't have to be sorry," George said, still quiet. "What did you say to Cyn?"

"I dunno," she shrugged, realising she'd been in such a panic she couldn't even remember what she'd said. "Probably that I'd rather have a dog but it was a load of bollocks," 

A silence fell between the two of them as it usually did, but this time Connie wasn't content to just let it lie. She took in a deep breath before looking at George, taking hold of his hand and squeezing it until he looked at her. 

"George," she said, unsure of what else to really say. "What's been going on between us two for the last few months... It isn't right. We both left it, and for a while I was okay with that, because I didn't want to talk about it either, but now, well how are we meant to carry on if we don't talk to each other. I still love you, but we're both so stubborn. If we'd just talk-"

"Connie, you were the one who said you didn't want to try 'ever again'," he said, not meaning to sound so sharp but his words still made her tense up, especially as he used her own words. "You didn't want to try again and then you didn't want to talk about it, what was I meant to do? I gave you space because I thought that was what you wanted, and I ignored the situation because I thought that was what you wanted," 

"I didn't want to try anymore because I was sick of feeling like I'd failed you!" she snapped, desperate to make sure he understood how she felt. "And I didn't want to talk about it because it was all I'd thought about for ages. I wanted things to go back to normal, but if this is what our normal is now, then..."

"There's nothing normal about this," he agreed, though his tone still seemed irritated. "I didn't know what to do, Con, and I can only be sorry for that. I just want things back to how they were,"

"Me too," she agreed, feeling exhausted and hoping that this was it, that this would be them putting things right. "I don't think things can go back to the way that they were. The doctor told us having a kid might be unlikely for us, and I don't think we can go back to how things were before that, but that's okay. We just need to move on from it and figure things out," 

"Maybe we should just start trying again?" George suggested, though that only frustrated Connie to the point that she now felt like crying. "He only said it was unlikely, maybe trying would help us..." 

He drifted off, noticing the tears Connie was so desperately trying not to cry. He let out a sigh, realising that he'd said something wrong. He felt so tired of not being able to talk to her properly, always worried whatever he'd say would tip her over the edge like it had done in the car on the way back from the doctors that day in October. He was so scared of hurting her that he couldn't talk to her about how he felt, and that wasn't healthy for either of them. 

"Look, let's just leave it for now," he sighed, squeezing her hand in his, leaning over to kiss her forehead once more. "I think we're both tired, and we'd be better talking about this in the morning, alright?" 

Connie didn't agree, but she also had already shouted at her three best friends that day and didn't particularly fancy getting into an argument with George as well. She wanted to get it all out in the open right then and there, but George didn't. That was fine, if he didn't want to get into it all she couldn't force him, so she let him get ready for bed, let him kiss her goodnight as she laid down in bed with him, except as he seemed to fall to sleep instantly, she couldn't.

Her mind was still racing. Her thoughts were running so fast around her brain, feelings previously repressed now free and they didn't seem to want to go back to being side-lined. She'd come so close to talking through them all with George but he still wasn't ready. That was fine, but she couldn't let herself be suffocated by her thoughts. Unsure of what else to do, she got up from the bed, going into their living room and pacing around. She considered going for a walk around the ashram to try and tire herself out but she knew that wasn't the problem. 

She needed mental exercise, and so before she realised what she was doing she was going back into their bedroom, trying to stay quiet as she rooted around their suitcase for her notebook and a pen. Not that she needed to worry, George quietly snoring, and as soon as she'd found what she was looking for she went back into the living room, and sat down at their small table. Usually if she wanted to write something, it took her a while to get going, but not this time. As soon as she opened the notebook up, her pen hit the paper and she was off. She found herself glad she hadn't hurt her left hand as she wrote at rapid pace, not even really sure what she was writing. The only thing she knew was that it felt like therapy. She felt like she was getting back to herself, knowing that despite everything, she was a good writer. Writing had always been so freeing, especially in that moment, getting all of her feelings out until she inevitably fell asleep at the table face down on the notebook, her mind quiet for the first time in a while. 

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