The room was filled with cigarette smoke and laughter that seemed to fill every corner. George was in one corner, guitar in hand, gently playing a melody you recognized instantly, something he had been composing over the past few days. You were on the other side of the room, holding a cup of tea that had long since gone cold, but your attention wasn’t on the drink.

It was on George. Always George.

But this time, you weren’t alone. Eric Clapton was sitting next to him, with a crooked smile and his own guitar resting on his lap. There was an undeniable connection between them, an exchange of glances and words that made you feel like an observer in a play you would never be invited to fully participate in.

Your relationship with George had never been something that could be called love in the traditional sense. We were lovers, sharing stolen moments behind the scenes, nights in hotel rooms, and whispered confessions in the dim light. But those confessions never included promises. He never promised you exclusivity, and you never asked for it.

However, seeing him now with Eric, something inside you twisted. It wasn’t just jealousy. It was the bitter feeling of knowing you might never have that part of George that he seemed to offer to his friend without reservation.

Eric touched his shoulder, and George looked up, smiling with a warmth that hit you like a punch. It was a smile you hadn’t seen directed at you in weeks.

You made your way to the door, intending to step outside for some fresh air, but before you could reach it, you felt a hand on your arm. You turned, and there he was, George, looking at you with that mixture of curiosity and concern that always managed to disarm you.

"Are you leaving so soon?"

The question was simple, but his tone suggested there was more behind his words.