[A/N: Little mini-update for you. In preparation for...events. *ominous sound effects*]

Dear Patrick,

I don't know what to do.

You're getting worse.

I can see it written all over you. And I'm so scared, Patrick.

The moments we shared at New Year, they didn't last. About halfway through February, you started to act different. Or, not different, just...jumpy.

Nothing's changed, not really. You wouldn't know from the outside that anything was wrong. Andy and Joe don't know. We still kiss and cuddle, the sex is still amazing, but I just...it's as if everything has a slight falseness to it.

I haven't written one of these in a long while. For a couple months, I thought maybe I wouldn't have to. I even took Andy, and we went and looked round a few houses. There was this one, right on the edge of the city, with huge floor to ceiling windows at the back and a balcony where we could sit and watch the sunset together. It had this huge spiral staircase going through the middle, and, like, the whole thing was open-plan, with the lounge and the kitchen made into one big room. There was so much space too; I could picture us there, a beautiful grand piano in the corner that you could play, and there was this extension bit that could easily be made into our very own studio. I was really close to just buying it there and then, but I thought I should wait a little bit.

I'd planned to surprise you with it on your birthday, Andy thought that would be a good idea too. He's always thought we were good together, and I always trusted him on that. He's just a trustworthy guy, y'know? And I want to keep trusting him.

I got so close to buying that place. It didn't happen, though. During April, you started to talk to me less and less. And by talk, I mean like proper talking, two a.m. confessions about life and death and all that deep shit. We used to do that, stay up all night just talking about feelings and stuff. Now it's as if you don't want to feel anything at all. So I didn't get that house.

Instead, for your birthday, we just had dinner. It was nice, too, I think you liked it. But that's just the problem. I never know, any more, whether you actually like stuff, or if you're just pretending. I used to be able to tell when you were lying, tell when you were hurting. Now I can't. When you say you're okay, it's so genuine. And sometimes you are, sometimes there are good days when you act like you used to and we laugh like we did when we were best friends who loved each other's company. But sometimes, you'll say I'm fine, then I'll hear you crying in the bathroom later on.

The record is your life at the moment. I mean, you've always worked hard on them, but this one is something else. You've poured your soul into every little detail, obsessing over everything. You once spent four hours in the studio just tweaking the distortion on the bass. I try to help, we all try. Joe'll keep saying hey, don't worry about the guitars on this one, I'll take care of them. But you'll just shout, then he'll get pissed off, then you'll shout some more. I hate seeing you like that. You used to take such joy in music, get so excited by it, but now it's killing you. You've gotta stop stressing, baby, please.

You hardly sleep, either. When I drift off with you in my arms, it's almost certain you won't be there when I wake up. You get up in the night and sit for hours on your laptop with your headphones, and I keep telling you it's not healthy but you just laugh and tell me to stop worrying about you. I am worried though. Oh god, I am.

I've tried to talk to you about all this. Just once, just one conversation, and maybe we could make some progress. But every time, you just shut me out.

-

"Patrick, can we talk?" I said, in one of my attempts to get you to open up to me. I don't even remember where we were, stuff like this has happened so often, we've had so many versions of this conversation, it could've been anywhere.

"Yeah, sure, what about?" You asked brightly.

I sighed. "Uh...I'm just...I...are you okay, Patrick?"

You looked at me as if you didn't know what I was talking about. "Yeah, I'm fine, why?"

"Well, you seem kinda stressed."

You shrugged. "You know how it is. Records are stressful."

"I know but...Patrick, why were you crying last night?" I asked gently.

"What?" You said, laughing a bit. "I wasn't crying."

"Yes, you were, Patrick, I heard you, last night, on the sofa."

You made a face at me. "Nah, Pete that must have been a dream. Or maybe a burglar broke in and teared up when he saw the state of my lounge carpet," you laughed.

"No, but-"

"I mean, look at it, it used to be cream-coloured, and now it's kinda grey."

"Patrick-"

"Maybe I should replace it. Go for something a bit more jazzy."

"Please-"

"Purple! That's good. Purple's a good colour."

"Patrick!" I finally got you to shut up about the fucking carpet. "I know you were crying, I know what you sound like when you're upset. Besides, this morning, your eyes were puffy."

You laughed again, but there was an edge to your tone. "Who do you think you are, Sherlock fucking Holmes?"

Then you walked off.

-

That's what usually happens when I try to ask you.

I hate it when you're like that, because it seems like every word that comes out your mouth is a lie.

Then there's the other times. Sometimes, when you're crying, I go and comfort you, kiss you and cuddle you and tell you that whatever it is, it's gonna be okay. And you kiss me back. But, like, not in your usual don't-worry-about-me-I'm-fine way. It's the complete opposite. You kiss me with this wild urgency, like the urgency with which people gasp for air when they're drowning. In those moments, you're not acting, you're completely raw, clinging to me with all the strength you have. And it scares me a bit.

The worst thing is that I feel like I don't know you. Maybe you're not lying, maybe you are okay, and you just have some bad days. 

I need to know what's going on, though. I need you to tell me honestly, no more lies. I mean, maybe it is just the record. But, I still need you back. Just open up to me, just once, please.

As always, I love you.

From Pete.