Hello :) As I promised, here is the Paul fanfiction.

I never planned to write a Paul fanfiction - I'm writing it because I (stupidly) introduced a love angle for Paul in another story of mine and forgot to finish it :P I've read hundreds of Paul fanfictions before and none of them have stood out in my memory. I'm sure there must be some but I haven't read them yet. My aim here is to write a Paul story that is completely unique - one you'll never forget :) I'm not sure I'll manage that, but I'm going to try! :D So please review and tell me what you think.

The story begins with Paul's depression at Linda's death, but don't worry, it will pick up soon.

Getting Better

Chapter One: Hours of Darkness

Paul's POV

I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling.

The times I've woken up and stared at this very ceiling, except with Linda lying by my side ...

I don't understand. In my life, I've been through a lot - good and bad: my mother dying, my bandmate Stu dying, breaking up with various girlfriends and wives, the pressure that comes with being famous - they all hurt. But somehow, she seemed to wash them all away with the happiness she gave me - Linda, my lovely wife, the only person I've ever loved that much. And she had to die. Of all the people God could've picked to take away, it had to be her. It had to be her. Hell, it'd be simpler if it'd been me dead and her living. At least for me it would.

I roll over and lift my guitar by the neck from where it lies on the floor, then roll over again onto my back, resting the guitar on my stomach. My fingers slid along the cool strings, its smooth neck, spinning music out of the air. It sends warm vibrations through my chest. My comfort, making music.

Shouldn't people be used to the idea of dying by now? It happens all the time, doesn't it? So why is it so fucking hard when someone dies? We've all been through this before. People are born - people die. It's the fate that everyone meets, in the end. It's not like her death was sudden. It crept up slowly, infected her body, sucked the life slowly away from her like some parasite. It hung over her face, in her sunken features and graying skin. My beautiful Linda, slowly withering, being pulled away. I knew it for months. She knew it for even longer.

She came to terms with the idea of dying long before she left. I watched her everyday folding bits of her life and putting them away - putting them to rest - so that it would all be settled when she left. She had it all thought out, all figured - she was prepared. So why wasn't I?

And why don't I? It's been seven months. Seven fucking months and nothing's changed. I can't even begin to ask my mind to pull itself away from her. Sure, I can get up and walk around and go to the studio and do whatever's expected of me. I can do that. But I can't move on. I haven't quite accepted it, haven't quite figured it out, haven't even begun to console myself or think of the future or think of anything, for that matter, but her.

Linda, my lovely wife.

But it's time, I tell myself. It's time to get up and get out and begin to live again. It's time to move on. This is not what she would have wanted. I sit up and pull on my shoes. I don't know where I plan to go, just now that I must stop wallowing in sadness and memories. I put one arm through the arm of my coat. The other one hangs.

I turn around and fall back onto my bed again and stare at the ceiling.

This chapter is a bit of a drag I know - but the story will start soon, I promise. Please review! -Jen.