All that week, I act like everything's normal. Maybe it is and maybe it isn't, but either way I act like it is. I go to the record store where I work, half nine til four, five days a week, I come home, I listen to Fall Out Boy, I go to bed. I don't see Patrick at all. I see Joe and Andy in passing, and I say hi to them, but I don't talk to Pete, for obvious reasons.

Inside, however, I help feeling annoyed that he hasn't been to see me. I don't even know whether I want Patrick to come or Brett. Obviously, Brett doesn't contact me, either, but I don't care. At least, that's what I tell myself whenever I find myself staring at my phone or email inbox, waiting for contact. I don't receive any more doorstop gifts or messages, either, and now, I'm pretty sure it was just a stupid prank from bored kids.

I don't talk to Honey much, either, because... Well, I'm not really sure why we don't talk. She calls me once, and we chat online, but that's all. I think she's pretty busy with work.

It's a lonely week. Which is why on Friday, at about half four, when I've just gotten home from work, I'm surprised when I hear a knock at the door. It's Patrick.

He steps back as I open the door and looks up at me, a shadow of a smile playing on his lips. It looks good on him, and I wonder why he doesn't smile more often.

"Hi," I say, gesturing for him to come inside. He's wearing the exact same thing as the last time I saw him, with addition of his leather jacket and fingerless gloves. He looks good, and I don't mind admitting it.

"You ok?" I ask.

"Yeah. I'm just checking on how you are." Aw. That's kind of nice of him.

"I'm good, thanks. Brett hasn't contacted me at all, but then what can you expect?"

"Brett?" he asks, frowning. Oh yeah. He doesn't actually know the name of my ex.

"My ex," I explain. He nods.

"He sounds stupid." Spot on, Patrick.

"Yeah," I agree. Suddenly, I realize I'm still in my work clothes: a black crop top and black skinny jeans. I've still got all my makeup on too: thick black eyeliner, my signature midnight blue eyeshadow and faint lip gloss. "I'll go change."

"You look nice as you are," says Patrick. I blush and he goes pink. Thank god for that. I was scared he didn't actually have any blood at all in his whole body, he's so pale. To cover up the awkwardness, or maybe because I like getting him drunk, I go over to the cupboard and pull out some cheap wine I've been keeping in case he came over. Not that I'm desperate or anything.

"Would you like some?" He nods and we sit cross-legged on the burgundy carpet, passing it back and forth, just like last week. Now we're alone together, I swear I can smell him: honey and musky aftershave. The minute this thought enters my mind, I shake myself. Why do I care what he smells like? Why do I care about him at all?

"How have you been?" I ask.

"Fine," he says. I try again.

"How come you haven't been out your apartment?"

"Haven't felt like it." So he's not denying it, then.

"Why?"

"I don't know, ok?" Fantastic. I've put him on the defensive already. I just wish he'd tell me.

We stew in silence, still passing the bottle back and forth. I catch him looking at me once or twice, and I can't shake the feeling that there's something wrong. He keeps gazing around the room, his hypnotic eyes flitting from one corner to the next.

"Are you ok?" I ask after a while of this.

"Could we..." he hesitates. "Could we go somewhere else? Like, a smaller room?"

I stare at him. Many, many people (including me) have complained about my flat, but no one's ever said that it's too big. Too small, too grotty, too noisy, perhaps, but... Oh, what the hell. "Uh, ok."

The only other rooms in the apartment are the bathroom and the bedroom. No way in hell am I sitting alone in the bathroom with Patrick Stump for company , so that just leaves the bedroom.

I lead him into my bedroom, which is a complete tip. There's makeup and hairbrushes and shit sprawled all over my dresser, and my dirty underwear is all over the floor. I kneel down and scoop it up, chucking it all in my open wardrobe, which I then kick shut.

Patrick sits on the edge of the bed. I don't think he's trying to be suggestive or anything, but he's obviously interested in my room, which makes me smile. He's much more relaxed here.

"I like your room," he says.

"Thanks."

"It's a lot cleaner than my apartment. Literally, I'll ask Pete or Andy or Joe to get booze and we end up with about a million half-empty bottles which I just stuff on top of the shelf and forget about."

I laugh. "My friend Honey used to do that when we lived together. Then when we moved out, we couldn't be arsed to get rid of the bottles so just left them."

"Yeah, I think I'll do that if I move." He looks around. "This room's better."

"Why didn't you like the other one?"

"Too big."

"Huh."

"I have agoraphobia. The fear of open spaces."

"Oh," I say, finally understanding. "Is that why you stay in your apartment a lot?"

"Sort of." I'm not sure what that means, so I keep quiet.

Patrick takes a swig from the bottle and passes it to me. His hand, with its chewed fingernails, touches mine, and for a second, my heart skips a beat. But then it's over and I sip from the bottle.

"I'm gonna be so hung over tomorrow," I say.

"Do you know what the best cure for a hangover is?" I shake my head. "Get drunk."

I giggle, which I never usually do, but being alone with him and being slightly tipsy is obviously having an effect on me. Not that the former should, of course. "Doesn't that just make it worse?"

"Nah. It just makes you forget about it."

"My manager always says that, but I think she might actually have an alcohol problem. Like, a serious one."

"Where do you work, then?" he asks.

"At this record store a couple of blocks away. It's pretty cool, and the pay's decent."

"The one between the internet cafe and the book store? Opposite the porn shop?"

I groan. "Sadly, yes."

"I used to go in there all the time! The record store, that is, not the porn shop."

"How come you don't go in there any more? I've never seen you in there."

"Social anxiety kicked in."

I'm uncertain of what to say to that, so I just mumble, "That bitch."

"Tell me about it. It took me an hour to pluck up the courage to come here." Even though he's grinning, I'm not entirely sure that he's joking.

I beam at him and say, "I'm not that fucking scary, am I?" I will myself to shut up, but I doubt that I will.

"Do you like Panic! At The Disco?" he asks, changing the subject. To be fair, there is a Panic! above my dresser, so it's a logical conclusion.

"Uh-huh. They're good." They are good, but obviously, Fall Out Boy is my favourite. I'm not telling him that, though.

Patrick nods. "They're fucking brilliant." He rifles around in his backpack (black, predictably) and pulls out a rolled up poster. "My sister gave this to me a few months ago, and I was like: do I look like a Brendon Urie fangirl to you? You can have it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. Pete keeps laughing at me because of it. I've gotta get rid of it, no offence."

"None taken." I put the poster behind me on the bed.

"I gotta go." I frown and he looks at his hands, which are sweating. All of a sudden, he looks incredibly stressed out, and I don't know why.

"What..." I start, but he's already out the door. Weird.

Later on, I unroll the poster to see what it looks like. And it's cool, I guess. Brendon Urie, who really is pretty hot, looks good on it. But what gets me is what's on the back.

A mobile number, and his, Patrick's, name next to it.