Dear Patrick,

They finally let me out of that hell-hole they call hospital. They did so many damn tests on me, checking that I was well enough to go home. They suggested I get a psychiatrist, well fuck that. I'd rather pour it all into these letters. Paper won't snitch about my feelings.

At least, it won't if you don't leave it lying around.

I'm sitting at home now, you guys just left. You were so sweet, you visited me in the hospital nearly every day after I woke up, and you drove me home.

I nearly choked when I walked through the door. You looked at me, beaming. The house was completely spotless, no broken beer bottles, no empty pizza boxes. You'd stocked the fridge and put the fruit bowl on the kitchen table to make it look like one of those model houses you see on adverts. I must admit, I nearly cried when I saw all the effort you put in. It feels like a new house altogether. Maybe it could pave the way for a new Pete. Hell, you even managed to get the bloodstains out the carpet. You really want me to get better, don't you?

I took this opportunity to hug you again, despite the warning signals bouncing round my brain. I know that this is what happened last time, I know I shouldn't let myself get too close to you, I know I should be trying to get over you, but I was still in shock from the fact that you actually wanted to see me again, let alone keep being best friends. I wanted as much Patrick as I could get, you never know when I'm gonna fuck it all up again. And damn, you give a good hug.

You all stayed for ages, and we talked things over. How this was going to affect the band, how you lot were going to help me get better, what the next step for the music was. Andy seemed to be cross-examining every answer I gave, as if at any moment I might jump up and impale myself on the coffee table. Joe was mostly watching the space between me and you on the sofa, which I was, albeit subconsciously, slowly lessening.

I tried my best to stop staring at you. But the thing is, with what's just happened, I can't trust myself with anything. This time tomorrow I might be drinking myself to death again. I don't want to waste your company, because I don't know when it'll be the last time.

I noticed that there are many different incarnations of your laugh. When you're nervous and don't really know what to say, you do this little throaty warble that doesn't quite touch your eyes. When someone compliments you, you smile and giggle a bit, and your eyes light up. Then, if Joe does one of his stupid jokes, you laugh harder, grinning your beautiful grin, crinkling up your eyes. And finally, there's the laugh that goes beyond the realms of sound. You collapse into a shaking mess of smiles, clapping your hands and doubling over, sometimes throwing your head back and closing your eyes as the silent cackles ripple through you. You make me laugh more than the joke did in the first place. Fuck, did I just write out a laugh analysis? These letters are getting weird.

About halfway through the evening, I found myself staring not at you for once, but at the bit of carpet a few feet away from the sofa which, not long ago, I had been lying dead. I feel so different now. One night I'm alone with not even a pulse for company, now I'm in the very same room, surrounded by friends and smiles. Suddenly, what I did seems crazy. I hadn't really managed to remember much about that night, but looking at the carpet, things started to come back to me. I could picture exactly where the bottle of pills had been, and the pen which slipped out of my hands halfway through that letter. Then it hit me. The letter.

The pills had obviously been taken away from me, the pen was placed neatly on the dresser next to a small pile of mail, but where the hell was the letter? All the other ones were safely locked up somewhere upstairs, but the one I had been writing was nowhere at all. But... you'd tidied my house. You'd cleaned the lounge carpet. That means you found the letter. Shit.

I descended into silent panic, blocking out your conversation about some music crap to go through all of your actions towards me for signs that something was different, that you'd read it, but there was nothing. You'd been perfectly normal, just your sweet, adorable, I'll stop there before I lose my train of thought, self. Surely if you'd have read the letter that basically said I'd been in love with you this whole time you'd have something to say about it?

After spending the rest of the evening raiding my brain for answers, I came to my senses just before you guys decided to leave.

"So Pete, no more stunts like that, okay? We need you man, this band is going places and you gotta stick around for that." Andy said gruffly, shaking my shoulder as if to scare the suicide out of me. If only it was that easy.

You hugged me again, something I'll never get bored of. "You get better, you moron," you said gently as we parted, "if anything happens, call me and I'll come running. And think about the new album, we need something different. You should write more stuff, especially lyrics, you're really good at them." You said, a crooked smile in your eyes. Your face is nice. Most of the bruises have faded now, and the cuts are healing. Maybe I'm healing a bit too.

Just before you turned away, I had to ask. "Patrick...when you cleaned this place, you didn't find any letters of any sort, did you?" I wasn't entirely sure whether I wanted that question answered.

"Yeah, I put all your mail on the dresser, sorry." You said, and I felt myself relax.

"Oh okay, that's great, thanks. So where-?" I stopped myself mid-sentence, "...Thanks."

You left with Andy, giving me a quick grin from the front door before closing it behind you. At least this time, when you left, I knew you'd come back.

I hadn't realised I'd been staring after you with a stupid smile on my face until I heard a cough from behind me. Joe was still here.

He was standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed and jaw set. He looked like he'd been waiting a while to get me alone, which was weird because when Joe's pissed, he usually just shouts at you there and then. This seemed like more of a calculated attack.

"You're in love with Patrick." he snarled.

I felt my stomach twist.

I opened my mouth, but no sounds came out. There was absolutely nothing I could say to that. Apart from yes.

Instead, I just sighed. Running a hand through my hair, I flopped down onto the couch, staring at the floor rather than into Joe's glare. That was it. He knows, he's going to tell you, you'll reject me and I'll end up right back where I was with a handful of pills in my stomach. Fuck.

"But how-?"

"I believe this is yours?" he cut me off, taking a crumpled piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. The letter. Oh.

Because he was the one who found me. My dead face was probably buried in it, how could he not have read it? It was basically a suicide note.

I threw the letter onto the coffee table, not wanting to relive that night ever again. I finally met Joe's eyes.

"How long?" He said simply.

I smiled bitterly. "I don't know. A while." I couldn't give him anything more than that. I'd denied it for so long that there was no clear answer.

"Ever acted on it?" he asked gruffly.

"No." It was mostly true. One kiss, once. That's all.

"Good." he stated. "Don't. Ever."

"Why not?" I said, knowing full well that there was a very long list of reasons.

"Because he doesn't like you. He's got a girlfriend, Pete." He said it like I didn't know, when actually I've been going over all the different ways said girlfriend could die horrifically for some weeks now.

"I know." I didn't feel like elaborating much.

"Good." He said again. "Because if you get close to him, you'll end up hurting him." I knew he was thinking of the night, as it has come to be called, and shuddered as your beaten face flashed across my mind. "Now, I get that you were fucked up in the head when you wrote that fucking letter. I get that you were in a bad place or whatever, and I guess I can come to terms with why you did what you did. But the thing is, I never, ever, want to see you hurt Patrick like that again."

"I-"

"Pete, you were terrifying. First you said all that horrible crap, which was bad enough, but I never thought you'd hit him. And you just kept on going, as if you couldn't hear him screaming, or feel me trying to pull you off of him. I get that you're going through a lot, but the truth is, I don't trust you. I don't even think you trust you. What kind of a guy beats the shit out of his best friend? That's some fucked up love you've got there. So you better hurry up and get over him, get over this monster in you, because until then, I'll be watching your every move."

I breathed deeply, trying to take in everything he'd said. He was so right. I can't trust me. I couldn't think of anything to say to that, so I just nodded. Monster.

He stared me down for a few moments before starting what I guessed would be his final set of verbal punches.

"Stay away from Patrick. Stay away from his girlfriend. Don't you dare do anything to ruin what they have. I know deep down you're a good guy, but you won't hurt him again. You stop being 'in love' with him, you stop writing those creepy letters, and you don't lay so much as a finger on him, no matter how angry you get. Promise me now." He said it with such finality that I blurted out an I promise before he'd finished the sentence.

He seemed to be satisfied with that. He straightened up, having been leaning over me menacingly, and some of his hostility vanished, going back to the jokey Joe I was friends with. "Okay, good. I'm glad we're clear on that. See you at practice, on, like, Thursday, is it? Bye!" He called back as he slammed the front door behind him.

I sat there for ages just trying to process what had just happened. Does this mean he's not planning on telling you? I crumpled up that goddamned letter, eventually mustering the strength to drag myself upstairs and put it with the other ones. You never know, it might make good lyric material.

So I can't even look at you without getting a knife-stare from Joe. Rehearsal is going to be fun.

I immediately searched the cupboards for any kind of alcohol, my old self slowly creeping back in, but of course, there was none. You've fucking taken it all haven't you? It hurts that you care about me so much. I'm trying not to care about you.

I'll get over you. Eventually.

From Pete