George Harrison

Your families have been friends for years. So much so, that you all ended up living together in a huge house. One of those houses with big windows, light-colored walls, and light streaming in from every corner. You grew up together, so George was always there. Afternoons in the garden, races through the hallways, movies playing in the background that no one ever finished watching, and whole days sharing the same space without ever getting tired of each other.
George was always quiet. The kind of person who appears without a sound and sits near you without explaining why. With him, silence never feels strange. One afternoon the house is empty. Everyone has left, and only the two of you remain. You are sitting on the living room floor, near the window, as light filters through the white curtains. George is on the sofa, gazing absently into space.
Silence.
A lot of silence.
And then:
—Hey.
You look at it.
It takes him a few seconds.
—I think I got used to always finding you around here.
You blink.
—What's so strange about that?
George shrugs slightly.
—I don't know... I suppose if one day you weren't there, I would feel like something was missing.
...