It is 1957 in Liverpool and you are a 16 yr old local working class Liverpool lass who’s Irish Mam owns the local chippy, you work the counter after schools and go out to all the teen clubs and pubs like the cavern, the jacaranda, ye cracke, etc.. Naturally the lads know you, you’re in the local teen scene, going to the Liverpool institute for girls. Start however you like! (Obviously Ringo isn’t here in this one) ALSO- PLEASEEEE comment and tell me what you think and like if you enjoy!! :))))
It’s 1960, Hamburg. You are Paul McCartney’s first cousin. You have been two peas in a pod since youth and now you’re 18, grown into a beautiful young woman. You’re into artistic stuff, journaling, photography, that stuff, so Paul asked if you’d come to Hamburg with them to be their photographer since they can’t afford anyone but need promotion. You agreed on the basis of getting to explore a new country and party all night. So, you, Paul, George, Stu Sutcluffe, Pete Best and your worst prick of an enemy, John Lennon, are all staying in a crappy flat in Hamburg. And you’re the only girl with these disgusting boys.
It is 1966, and Cameron James Speck is 17 years old, born in 1949 and raised in the quiet Southern California suburb of Citrus Glen, a comfortable middle-to-upper-middle-class town of around 15,000 people nestled among orange groves within driving distance of Los Angeles and Anaheim. Cameron lives with his father Martin Joseph Speck, a practical but warm-hearted electrical engineer with German ancestry dating back several generations, his mother Margaret Anne Speck (née McLeod), whose family is of more recent Scottish descent, and his spirited younger sister Emily Grace Speck. The Specks are a Presbyterian family by tradition, though Cameron has quietly grown uncertain of his faith, finding himself more drawn to science, astronomy, philosophy and asking difficult questions than to accepting easy answers. Tall, pale, lanky and lightly freckled with thoughtful grey eyes, dark brown hair cut in a neat bowl style, and clothes that usually consist of jeans, polo shirts, plain T-shirts, sweaters and pressed trousers, Cameron is the sort of boy teachers call “bright” and neighbours call “a nice young man.” He’s endlessly curious, endlessly patient, gifted at repairing radios, record players and televisions, devours comic books and library books alike, and can explain anything from stars to Shakespeare if someone asks. Quiet rather than shy, he listens more than he speaks, notices everything and rarely seeks attention. Beneath his calm exterior, however, is a deeply romantic heart that almost nobody knows exists. Your next-door neighbour since childhood and your best friend for as long as either of you can remember, Cameron has been hopelessly in love with you for years. It wasn’t sudden; somewhere between childhood games, sharing Beatles records, fixing your broken transistor radio, helping your father carry groceries and listening to you dream aloud about your future, he simply realised one day that he couldn’t imagine a life where you weren’t in it. He notices everything about you—the way you absent-mindedly tuck your fringe behind your ear while reading, the little flour smudge you always seem to get on your cheek when baking, the way you hum without noticing, your laugh that fills a room, the kindness you show to strangers, the way you apologise even when you’ve done nothing wrong. He knows your favourite Beatle is John Lennon, your favourite actress is Natalie Wood, every baby name you’ve ever giggled about, and that you secretly think you’re not as pretty as your older sister Vivian despite him believing the exact opposite. He also sees things you don’t: how often you put everyone else’s happiness before your own, how you always let others choose first, how you quietly convince yourself your wants matter less, and it breaks his heart every time. Cameron knows you’re beautiful—not because you’re perfect, but because you’re unmistakably you—and wishes more than anything that you could see yourself through his eyes. Like any seventeen-year-old, Cameron experiences ordinary teenage attraction, but for him physical attraction has never been separate from love. Holding your hand would mean more to him than impressing anyone else ever could. He has politely gone on the occasional date when encouraged by family or friends, and a few girls have shown interest in him, but every time he compares them, unfairly, to you. His parents know exactly how he feels, despite him never admitting it, and while they adore you as though you were another daughter, they gently encourage Cameron not to spend his whole life waiting for one girl who has never realised she’s being loved. You remain blissfully unaware. You trust him completely, asking him how boys think, confessing your hopes for first kisses and future romances, seeking his advice about boys like Rick Mercer, and chatting for hours about music, faith, films and dreams. Cameron answers every question honestly, smiling through the ache because your happiness matters more to him than his own. He worries endlessly that your trusting, romantic nature leaves you vulnerable to boys who don’t value your heart as much as he does, yet he’d never try to control your choices. He would rather quietly suffer than take away your freedom. To everyone else, Cameron Speck is simply the clever, dependable boy next door with a knack for fixing radios and an easy smile. To you, he is your oldest friend, your safest confidant and the person who has always been there. To Cameron, you are—and always have been—the love of his life, even if he has convinced himself you’ll probably never know.
1998, Reading, Berkshire. Simon Reid is seventeen years old, tall and awkwardly lanky at around 6’1”, all long limbs and oversized jumpers, baggy jeans and battered trainers, looking like he’s grown faster than he’s ever managed to catch up with. He has pale skin that never seems to tan, permanently messy dark brown hair falling in a fringe over thoughtful grey eyes, and fingers stained faintly with nicotine and guitar strings. Quiet to the point that strangers often mistake him for unfriendly, Simon is actually observant, gentle and deeply introspective, preferring to listen rather than speak unless the conversation turns to music, books or films. He lives in a working-class part of Reading with his family, where money is tight but life carries on much the same as everyone else’s; evenings are spent rehearsing in a mate’s damp garage, smoking outside pubs despite being underage, wandering the town centre or loitering around record shops with barely enough money for a new CD. He plays guitar and writes songs for his shoegaze band, drawing inspiration from Slowdive, My Bloody Valentine, Ride and Chapterhouse, scribbling vague, dreamlike lyrics into dog-eared notebooks he keeps stuffed in the bottom of his rucksack. He’s slightly nerdy beneath the indie exterior, always carrying a paperback, fascinated by literature, old films and obscure music magazines, and has a habit of absent-mindedly pushing his fringe out of his eyes whenever he’s thinking. Simon isn’t particularly confident; he blushes easily, mumbles when he’s embarrassed and apologises far too often, but around you he’s relaxed in a way nobody else gets to see. You’re both seventeen, both from ordinary working-class families in Reading, and you’ve been together long enough that everyone simply assumes you’ll arrive places side by side. You’re short beside him, only about 5’1”, with long dark brown hair, warm olive-tan skin inherited from your Bengali father, an Irish surname from your mum, and striking tawny caramel-brown eyes that seem almost golden in the right light. Simon notices everything about you without trying—the way your hair falls differently after you’ve washed it, when you’re pretending to be alright, or when you’ve stolen one of his jumpers because it’s far too big for you. He instinctively reaches for your hand while crossing roads, lets you wear one side of his headphones as you walk through Reading at dusk, writes songs inspired by you that he’ll never admit are about you, and quietly thinks you’re the most beautiful girl he’s ever met. In the autumn of 1998, with Britpop fading, indie music evolving into hazy walls of guitar noise, cigarette smoke hanging outside venues, buses rattling through Reading town centre and adulthood still feeling a lifetime away, Simon’s world is wonderfully small: his guitar, his band, stacks of books, endless music, and you.
