The date was February 1st, 1964.  Eight days before the famous Ed Sullivan show.  

All of the lads were on the edge of their seats, waiting and practicing and tuning their instruments almost every day.  Even though they tried to hide their nervousness, it was easily seen.  Paul literally started chewing on his fingers whenever he messed up on his part in a song.  

I caught him doing that once while I worked on my report in their room.  I took his hand from his mouth and extended the poor, red fingers.  "Oh, Paul, doesn't this hurt?"

He shrugged.  "Not a lot."

"And all your fingernails are chewed so they bleed...Paul!" I scolded him.  "You've got to play guitar with these fingers.  You must take better care of them."  I raised them to her lips and kissed each of them tenderly, blushing when he stared at me.  I was so gentle, and so close.  It hadn't been like this in what felt like ages.  

After a minute, I set his hand back on his leg, but then he quickly took mine in his.  He rubbed his thumb against the palm of my hand.  I smiled shyly.  He remembered that from so long ago.  But then, he pulled away abruptly and stood up.  

"What's wrong?" I asked.  

"Nothing." He immediately replied, biting his lip. 

"Oh, um...alright." I sighed.  But as soon as I turned his back on him, he grabbed my arm and pulled me back towards him.  My eyes widened for this action was unusually rough.  

Paul's lip looked as beaten up as his fingers.  "Are you and John together?"

"No," I almost laughed, "why...how would you think that?"  I thought that he might laugh, but he refused to show any emotion other than anger.  I bit my own lip, scared of what he was thinking.  

He pulled his hand away, his eyes sad and frustrated.  "I saw him coming back from your room last night.  I'm not a fool, Elle.  I know you don't care about me, but thought that you might actually respect me in the smallest way." Paul left for his room and slammed the door before I could catch him.  

"Paul!" I knocked on his door.  "Please...it wasn't like that.  I swear..." I stopped hitting the wood, and walked down the hall.  George was just walking through the door into the hotel room, and noticing the sadness on my face he stopped me.  But I just gave him one look and left.  

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Paul's POV

John was sitting in the living room, almost amused at the frustrated expression on my face.  "I bet I can name the person you're thimking of."

"I'm not up for games tonight." I snapped.  I glared at him.  "I can't believe you'd go fool around with Elle after I told you...everything."

"What the bloody hell are you talking about, Macca?" John sat up, pushing aside the little drawing pad he was holding.  As he flipped it to the cover, he tucked it behind his back, which just made me more suspicious.  "She was crying out in her sleep that night, and I figured I should check on her.   You know I'm not always the cleanest man, but I would never move in on your girl, Paul.  Though, is she really yours?"  

I looked down at the ground.  "Well, I want her to be."

He nodded to the door, as if to say Go get her.  

I shook my head.  "I can't.  No, I can't."

I then returned to my room.  

About ten minutes later, which felt like hours in my solitude, I heard Elle say to John, "Is...um...Paul here?"  John must have shaken his head, because she said, "Oh.  I was hoping to talk to him.  He thinks that I've done something awful, and he won't believe me when I say that it's not true."  I bit my finger so that I wouldn't cry out something embarrassing.  

"I'm sure he's somewhere around here, though," John quipped, knowing that I was listening.  

"I better go find him.  I really need to talk to him.  I just hope he wants to talk to me."  The front door opened and closed, and she left as quickly as she came.  

Slowly, I crept out of my room, much to the amusement of John.  "Stop chewing on your fingers, Paul.  It looks like they've been scalded."

I tucked my hands in my coat pockets and left, needing some time to think and clear my head.  

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Elle's POV

"Elle, won't you please tell me what's wrong?" George asked, as I worked on my report for Brian silently.  He had been insistent on knowing since that morning, and kept pestering me even though I said I was fine.  

"It's nothing, George.  Really."

"But it is.  I know there is something," He protested.  George pushed the papers off my lap, and they fluttered to the floor, but when I bent down to pick them up, he grabbed me and pulled me back.  "Darling, why can't you trust me?"

"I do trust you." I told him.  He had his arms wrapped around my stomach, and I gently removed them, though he seemed disappointed.  "It's not a big deal.  I'm fine.  Now, I have to work on this for Brian."

"Please tell me," He pleaded, but then his tone settled, and he sat up straight.  "It's about Paul isn't it?  He's been sulking around lately; he's thinking about you.  He wishes that you were together, and I'm starting to think that you want that too."  

Bending down to pick up my papers, I said, "Maybe you both should take a break of thinking about me for awhile." 

George looked up at me.  "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You know what it means.  You've got a big show coming up, George.  It's best you get you mind on the right things, which would mean working on your music instead of worrying about me." I said, standing up and brushing my skirt.  

He stood too, opening and closing his mouth as though he didn't know what to say.  George reached to take my hands, but then thought better of it.  "Is that what you want?"

"No, but-"

"Then why are you asking me to leave you?" George countered, running a hand through his hair in frustration.  It stood up at an end, which was quite cute and any other time I would have teased him and fixed it, but that was not the time for it.  He began to grow angry.  "You know what your problem is, Elle?  You're obviously too immature to handle a relationship."

I bit my lip so I wouldn't begin to cry.  "...Maybe I am, George."

His expression softened.  "Elle, I didn't mean it that way.  That was-"

I turned away from him so he wouldn't see the hurt on my face.  "Please go."

"Elle-"

"Go away, George."

The sound of the door shutting was all I needed to here.  It was final, and things for me were never final.  

"What have I done?" I whispered, my voice breaking.  I refused to cry, for this was my choice, and I would accept the pain of my decision.  Isolated in my solitude.

Alone.