To Patrick.

Uh...okay.

I don't really know what to write to be honest. Hell, I don't even know what to fucking feel.

This wasn't how things were supposed to go. I didn't mean for things to happen like this, this shouldn't be how it ends. 

Oh god, Patrick.

-

Right, okay, so when I left off, I'd decided to give those tickets back to you. I sure as hell wasn't gonna go to your show, I didn't wanna really see you ever again. It wasn't that I hated you or anything, it wasn't as strong as that, it was more just indifference. You'd turned into such a dick that I really didn't care about you, and I felt kinda good about that, I guess. I feel like when you can genuinely say that you're indifferent to someone you used to love, you know you're actually completely over them.

I was so ready to just fly off back to Chicago and forget about you.

And that's where I was headed, the airport, with bags packed and passport safe and sound, nestled in the back of a cab. But I'd asked the driver if we could make a stop along the way.

Joe'd given me your new address, and it was actually quite a big detour to make, so the driver was a bit pissed. I don't know why, it meant he made more money off me.

Anyway, I knew we were nearly there 'cause we were off the main road and twisting through the suburbs.

My god, the houses were amazing. Like, they all had probably three or four stories, and more expensive-looking cars outside than anyone could need. I couldn't help but be a bit disgusted at the materialism of it all, and I felt that little shot of dislike that I'd experienced during that stupid coffee-shop meeting. Ugh. Of course perfect Patrick lives in a perfect house.

We kept driving, though, through the streets of huge houses, until the car stopped at the entrance of a long driveway. This was it, this was your place.

I pulled the tickets out of my bag and scrambled out the car.

"Thanks. I'll be back in, like, two seconds," I said to the driver, who nodded and sat back in his seat.

Seeing as he seemed not to like me anyway, I decided to be as quick as I could. I hurried down your drive, and round the sharp corner it turned, and saw your house.

It was just like all the others. Big floor to ceiling windows made it gleam in the sunlight, balconies running round the outside of it like bracelets. A shining black Mercedes sat smugly in the drive, as if to say look how much money I have, and I felt myself getting even more irritated. Perfectly laid paving slabs led up to your front door.

The thought of ripping up the tickets did cross my mind again, but I couldn't let you get to me. This was the last time I'd get anywhere near you, I had to be civil.

I decided to just dump them and run. The cab driver was probably annoyed at me already. I got to your door and stooped down to shove the tickets through your letter box.

But your door was open.

When I leant on it, it swung inwards, causing me to stumble forwards and yelp in surprise. What the fuck?

The tickets never made it through the letter box and stayed clenched in my hand as I stood on the threshold of your house. Why is your door open? What the hell do I do?

My first thought was to just drop the tickets and leave. But then, I felt worry shoot through me as I wondered whether maybe someone had broken in. A house like this, there's gotta be lots to steal. And I guess I was also a tiny bit curious as to what your place was like on the inside.

Stepping inside carefully, I shut the door behind me, wandering through the spotless hallway. The corridor opened out into this huge kitchen and lounge thing, with big sofas and a huge TV. On the other side of the room, a spiral staircase wound upwards. I gazed about in awe.

But then I remembered why I was here. "Hello?" I shouted, hoping to let any burglars know that I was not to be messed with.

Looking around, though, nothing seemed to have been taken. The speakers dotted around the room seemed untouched, there was a laptop placed neatly on the kitchen counter. Hmm. Okay.

I was just about to turn around and stop snooping round a stranger's house, when I felt myself step on something. Moving my foot, I saw that it was a keyring, with a few keys attached. They looked like a normal bunch of someone's house keys. But why are they on the floor?

There was probably countless explanations as to why they were there. Maybe you just dropped them. But there was something about this whole place which didn't feel quite right.

When I'd lived with you, in fact, ever since I'd known you, you'd been probably one of the messiest people I'd ever met. You'd never put stuff away, you'd never tidy up after yourself, your flat would have records and piles of paper and various instruments lying all over the place. But this house was spotless. Everything seemed to have an exact location; the bookshelf was neatly stacked, the remote controls all lined up on the coffee table, the fruit piled perfectly in a bowl on the counter. This wasn't you. Something was wrong.

Across the room, I saw something dark on the floor, and freaked out a bit. It was very very silent in your house, and it made me anxious. You obviously weren't in, I couldn't hear any movement aside from my own breathing.

Walking slowly over to the shape, I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw that it was just a jacket. A nice jacket, too. In fact, I recognised it as the one you'd worn yesterday. But it was all crumpled up. With that and the keys, I began to feel a bit worried.

I wondered if maybe something had happened to you. Like, maybe it wasn't a burglar, maybe it was a murderer, maybe you'd been hurt or I'd turn a corner and find your bleeding corpse lying in front of me. There didn't seem to be any sign of a struggle, though. I felt like a detective as I crept across your lounge, heading for the staircase. I'd look upstairs, and if I couldn't find you, I'd leave. Okay, I have a plan.

Looking behind me to check that there was no-one about to grab me, I started up the stairs, which led to a sun-bathed landing with some doors leading off it. Holy fuck, his house is nice.

It still didn't look like anything had been taken. The doors to the various bedrooms and bathrooms were open, all neat and tidy like it had been downstairs. I still had that weird feeling, though. This picture doesn't quite fit together.

"Patrick?" I called out, not sure if I wanted an answer. None came, though.

I put the keys and the tickets on the landing window sill, so that I had full use of my hands if someone attacked me.

Padding carefully down the hall, I peeked inside every room, just to be sure, looking for something that might indicate what the hell was going on. There was nothing. Everything was perfect, the rooms light and airy. And somehow, it made me feel even more uncomfortable.

Still, it didn't look like your house had been broken into. I couldn't find any crazed psychopaths, there was no scratches on the walls or blood on the floor. Maybe you'd just gone out and forgot to lock the door or something. I decided that this was stupid; I shouldn't have come in here, I should've just left and not given you a second thought. I started to turn around, heading back to the stairs.

Then, at the end of the corridor, I saw the only door in the house that was shut.

I don't know why, but I felt compelled to go open it. Just to see, y'know, just in case. I wasn't snooping, just checking. I may as well do a full sweep of the whole house.

Marching back down the corridor, I reached the door, ready to open it, see that it was the same as all the other rooms, and leave. But, I dunno, as I grabbed the handle and slowly twisted it, I had that weird feeling again, like something was wrong. And I was so right.

The first thing that hit me was the smell.

I only opened the door a crack, but as soon as I did, this musky stench hit me like a brick. And oh god, I knew it all too well.

Feeling my insides tighten, I swallowed quickly to stop myself throwing up. 

The second thing I noticed was that it was completely dark. The hairs on my arms stood on end, but I took a deep breath and swung the door fully open.

The light from the landing flooded into the room, cutting through the darkness. My eyes widened.

It was another bedroom. But it wasn't neat like the others. The covers were spilling all over the place in a mess, the pillows strewn on various corners of the mattress. Clothes and shoes littered the floor, lying like corpses in toppling piles. But it wasn't the bed or the mess that made my blood run cold. It was the bottles.

I don't know how many there were. All I know is that they covered the floor, glittering at me in the light, tall ones and stout ones and the odd crumpled can. No. Please god no.

My mouth hung open as I stared around at the carnage, my stomach twisting as I took it all in.

Then, as I looked again, I saw one other thing the light had fallen on.

In the corner of the room, against the wall and underneath the curtain, there was a man, lying limply on his side, his eyes closed and his body unmoving. He had bright blond hair and high cheekbones. His outstretched hand was clasped tightly around the neck of a bottle of vodka.

No.

It took me a while to convince myself this was happening. It couldn't be you, this wasn't real, this had to be some kind of a joke. But the way the stench sunk through to bad memories and the bottles glinted like they were greeting an old friend told me that this was completely and horrifyingly real.

My feet felt heavy as I began to pick my way across the room, hearing the clink of bottles as my shoes touched them. I didn't want to look at them, I could already taste bile at the back of my throat.

I carefully knelt down next to your body, and felt a little wave of relief when I saw your chest moving slowly in and out.

"Patrick?" I said softly, giving your shoulder a small shake. You didn't move.

I think I already knew, though, that you weren't just asleep. Your breath stank of liquor, you were in the same clothes as you had been yesterday. You'd drunk yourself out of consciousness.

Pity swept through me when I looked at you. I knew what it was like to just drink until you forgot everything, what it was like to wake up on the floor, surrounded by bottles. I just never thought it would happen to you.

Very gently, I picked up your wrist, checking your pulse was okay, making sure you were gonna wake up. Then, I prised your delicate fingers from the bottle, shoving it away from me like it was diseased.

I didn't really know what to do then.

It still hadn't really sunk in, to be honest. This couldn't be you. You couldn't have ended up like this, you just couldn't.

I knew you were an asshole. I knew I shouldn't care about you in the slightest. But the thing is, I'd never wish this on anyone. Running my fingers through my hair, I put my head in my hands, feeling a weird mix of sympathy and disgust. You're an alcoholic. My sweet, kind Patrick has become a rude, arrogant drunk.

I should have left. I should have stood up, walked out and left you there. You weren't my problem anymore. It didn't matter to me what you'd done to yourself.

But looking at you, I couldn't do that. It wasn't right for me to just leave someone like this. Leaving would just make me as big a dickhead as you. Also, I wanted to know how you'd got like this, how the person who'd told me over and over that I didn't need alcohol was now filled with it.

So, as gently as I could, I slid my hands underneath you, one arm hooked under your knees and the other around your shoulders, and slowly lifted you up, taking you over to the bed. The covers were still all messed up, so I had to awkwardly try and hold onto you whilst pushing them back.

Eventually, I exposed about half the bed, and lowered your small frame down onto it. Taking my hands out from underneath you, I moved your sprawled arms and placed them on your stomach, before taking off your shiny black shoes and putting them neatly on the floor.

Rifling though the mass of duvet, I found a pillow, and another one, 'cause I know you like two, and carefully lifted your head, wedging the pillows underneath it. You sighed slightly in your sleep, shifting a little before going still again. 

Finally, I straightened out the duvet and laid it over you, so that only your face was showing. Without the bottle in your hand, you looked quite peaceful, and I could pretend that none of this had happened.

But the smell of alcohol and the mess strewn across the floor made this all painfully real. God, Patrick. What's happened to you?

Sighing, I pressed my fingers into my eyes, and stared at you for a bit. Then I picked my way out of your room and shut the door behind me.

Well fuck.

I breathed out slowly, leaning against the door, thinking through everything. So perfect Patrick wasn't so perfect after all. Maybe this is why you're so horrible now. I wondered whether alcoholism was a good excuse for treating other people like shit. If I'm honest, I don't think it is.

I decided I was gonna stay 'til you woke up, and I could get some kind of answers from you. Maybe shout at you for a bit 'til you realised you'd got a problem. That's the thing with alcoholics, they can't even admit it to themselves, so they never do anything about it. I know I couldn't. And looking at your house, the way you hid everything from view, you definitely didn't want anyone else to know. 

I guess my thinking was that if I could try to talk some sense to you, the asshole I couldn't stand, even if it was just for five minutes, then I truly was an alright person, and all that time staring at the bottom of a glass might be put to some use.

Caught in my thoughts, I looked over to the window, where the tickets and your keys were still laying. You must've stumbled through the door and dropped everything to get to your poison. Then I remembered the cab. Oh, shit, the cab.

Rushing back down the stairs and flying across the lounge, I wondered what the hell I was gonna say to the driver, what excuse I could make for being this long. I needn't have wondered, though.

When I yanked open your front door, my bags were sitting on the porch, at odd angles like they'd been thrown down. I groaned. I fucking knew that driver didn't like me. Great. Now I had no option but to stay here.

Trawling back inside your house with my stuff, I shut the door behind me, wondering how the hell I'd managed to walk into a situation like this.

I cast a glance up towards the ceiling, above which you were still sleeping, and sighed shortly. Now all that was left to do was wait.

-

An hour and a bit later, I was sitting on your sofa, laptop propped on my knees, having probably made myself more at home than was really polite. But it's not like you care about manners anyway.

I was listening to your record, actually. I don't really know why, I guess I was just curious. A copy of it had been lying on your shelf of CDs, and it looked interesting, so I booted up the stereo and played it.

I hadn't really thought about what the hell your stuff would sound like, and I hadn't really cared, but it was way different than I would've imagined. Like, kinda electronic-y and with a fuck load of synths and things. As much as I tried to hate it, it was sorta good. And I gotta say, your voice is, like...wow. I'd forgotten.

It was kinda weird, though, because the person singing all these songs didn't sound like the asshole I'd met in the coffee shop; there were ones about compassion and being yourself and stuff, and not giving up. When I heard them, I heard the boy I'd fallen in love with.

I did wonder whether any of the songs were about me. There was this one I found on YouTube called Love, Selfish Love which I was a bit uncomfortable about. Then I guess maybe that one that goes everybody wants somebody who doesn't want them could refer to me. But there was never a time when I didn't want you. I only didn't want you to get hurt.

Anyway, with your record playing in the background, I got nosey about what you'd been doing, and spent some time snooping around the internet. It was weird seeing you performing by yourself on stage. You played drums and trumpets and all sorts, then when you sang you'd get so into it, bouncing up and down like a jack-in-the-box. I had to keep reminding myself how horrible you were to me in order to stop myself enjoying it.

I'd just about forgotten I was even in your house when I heard footsteps through the ceiling.

Shit. I hadn't actually thought about what would happen when you woke up. What do I even say to you?

Closing my laptop, I held my breath as the footsteps got louder, starting down the stairs. Your record was still playing, for the second or third time, 'cause one listen is never enough, and I debated whether to get up and turn it off or not. But my legs didn't seem to want to move, so I just sat there like a lemon.

Suddenly, you stumbled into view, holding tightly on to the bannister and taking the steps one at a time. Your other hand was clutched to your head.

You didn't see me at first. You headed straight for the kitchen, steadying yourself on the counter as you reached for one of the cupboards. I saw your hands shaking as you tried to take what I assumed was aspirin, leaning heavily against the worktop with your head bent low. 

I opened my mouth to say something, but words evaded me. Instead, I managed to regain control of my limbs and stood up, coughing slightly.

You whipped round, eyes wild and eyebrows raised.

Your stare locked upon me.

"What the fuck?!" you exclaimed, your mouth hanging open in shock.

I swallowed quickly. "I...uh..."

"What the fuck are you doing in my house?!"

I blinked at you, trying to find some kind of words.

Your shrieks sunk to a low growl. "I said, what the fuck are you doing in my house?" You took a step towards me.

I tried to keep my cool, though. "I'm sorry, it's just I came to drop the tickets back and the door was open and I was worried someone might've broken in so I just wanted to check everything was okay."

You shot me a confused scowl, like I'd just told you I'd teleported here from Narnia.

"Look, I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't have come but I-"

"Get out," you snarled, your jaw set.

"I-"

"GET OUT!" you roared, hands curling into fists.

I jumped, taking a step back and looking at you in shock. Never in my life had I heard you shout like that.

Your glare tore through me, your blue eyes cold as steel and your nostrils flared.

But I decided I had to stand my ground. "Patrick, are you alright?" I said, trying to keep my voice level.

"What?" you snapped, tilting your head to the side with a hint of threat.

I wasn't gonna let you make me feel like shit again, though. Folding my arms, I spoke calmly and slowly, "well, as I said, I wanted to see if you were okay, so I looked around for you. Upstairs."

You froze. "What?"

I took a deep breath. "Patrick, are you an alcoholic?"

Your lips parted, horror seeping into your eyes. The gaze you'd held for a long time faltered, flicking down to the floor. Running your fingers through your hair, you turned away from me, your breaths heavy.

I watched you, feeling a little pang of pity. I know what it's like to get found out.

Walking around the sofa, I moved towards you, watching you press your hands into your eyes. Maybe if I could comfort you a bit, you'd open up to me and stop being like this. I reached my hand out and gave your shoulder a little squeeze. You flinched away from me, though.

"Don't fucking touch me," you hissed, glaring at me with disgust. Nope, he's still an asshole.

Sighing, I held my hands up and stepped away from you. "Look, I only wanted to help, you don't have to be a dick about it."

"Help? Help? How the hell has any of this helped? You've no right to be here!" You were yelling again.

"Hey, you left the door wide open! What happened, did you spend the night getting smashed in some bar? How much did you drink?" I was nearly yelling too.

"That's none of your fucking business!"

"Patrick, I found you knocked out on the floor. Your bedroom is filled with bottles, you fucking stink of liquor. What the hell has happened to you?!"

You flexed your jaw. "Don't act like you care," you spat.

That irritation I'd felt yesterday flared up again. "Listen to me, Patrick, I-"

"No, you listen to me. Get out of my house."

You said it with such finality that I couldn't think of a reply.

"Why the hell is this on?" you asked suddenly, raising your head and looking around. I didn't know what you were talking about until you marched past me, towards the stereo, and slammed the CD drawer thing open. The music stopped abruptly, interrupting that song about things getting better, and you pulled the disc out, throwing it down on the coffee table.

I pursed my lips. I wasn't leaving 'til you gave me some fucking answers.

"Patrick, why're you acting like this? When did you start drinking?"

"Fuck off."

I took a couple steps towards you. "No. Tell me."

You raised your head and folded your arms, "I told you to fuck off."

I took another couple steps. We were now about a foot apart, staring each other down. "Tell me," I growled.

"Or what?" you hissed, "what are you gonna do? Hit me? I'd like to see you fucking try. I'm not twenty-two anymore."

My eyes widened. Your words were sharp as knives, stirring up old guilt, making my chest tighten and my stomach squirm. I backed down, stepping away from you. Okay. You win.

Softening my gaze and my words, I tried a different approach. "Please, Patrick. Please, just tell me truthfully, what's happened to you? If you tell me, I'll leave, I promise."

I gave you a look of pleading, and for one, tiny second, I thought I saw a flicker of warmth return to your eyes, before the ice chased it away. You huffed shortly, sticking out your jaw and unfolding your arms. "Fine. Fucking fine. I'll tell you what happened to me."

Debating whether to sit down or not, I motioned towards the sofa, so that we could make this into a vaguely civilised conversation, but you didn't move. I resorted to leaning against the arm of the couch, looking at you with anxious expectation.

You thought for a bit, probably wondering where to start.

Then, you locked your gaze with mine. "Do you have any idea what you did to me when you left?"

I just kept on staring.

Your voice shook as you spoke. "You broke me. That morning, when I woke up and you weren't there, I just...I couldn't do it. I couldn't eat, I couldn't sleep, I didn't talk to anyone. And the way you took everything, deleted your fucking phone number and all the pictures as if you'd never even existed at all, as if you wanted to forget our entire fucking relationship, forget me, it...it tore me to pieces."

"Well I just thought-" I started, in an attempt to defend myself.

"No! It was like you'd erased years of my life, I had nothing! You had no right to take that from me, I needed something to remember you by, something to tell me that you'd loved me, that someone had loved me! It was like you were ashamed of me, like I was just a regret, nothing more than a fucking mistake!" you yelled, your voice becoming frantic.

I was about to say something, apologise or make some kind of excuse, but you carried on before I could.

"I lay in that fucking hotel bed for days. I just wanted to die, more than anything. Didn't wanna ever go back out into the world, didn't think I could.

"And d'you know what the worst part was? You fucking gave up on me. After everything I'd done for you. I took all your fucking punches, your insults that made me cry, I hid bruises and faked smiles for you, because I knew that you could get better. You beat me up, you humiliated me over and over, you kept on hurting me and I just took it. I was so fucking scared of you, there were times I thought you'd end up killing me, but I knew if I stuck with you, if I helped you, then you could be a better person, and I was right! You did get better, and it made me so fucking happy, and I thought all the pain had been worth it.

"I figured you'd return the favour. I knew I was getting worse, I knew my mental health was declining, but the one thing that kept me going was the fact that you were there, beside me, to help me through it all. But you fucking gave up! I'd given you so much, and you just left me to rot.

"It tore me apart. The person I'd been certain would always believe in me, would always fight for me even when I wasn't fighting for myself, walked away from me. If you didn't think I could get better, then that was it. I was a fucking lost cause. You convinced me I was completely worthless."

You paused for a second, your stony gaze settling on the floor. Swallowing slowly, you took a deep breath.

"So I gave up. They wouldn't let me call you, they wouldn't tell me where you'd gone, they just said you weren't coming back. I loved you so much. There was no me without you. So when they finally got me out of the hotel and back on the bus, I...I found a bottle of Joe's painkillers, y'know the ones he takes for his back?"

My stomach twisted. I nodded slowly.

"Yeah, those. I swallowed every single one. And it hurt so fucking much. It was like my insides were on fire, and I thought I'd done it this time, I thought this was it, this final bit of pain, then peace. But it didn't work. I threw them all up, all of them, I couldn't stop myself. For days after, my body ached and my throat burned. Those were some of the worst hours of my life, mostly because I knew it wasn't over, I still had to drag myself through each fucking second of it. I couldn't believe the pills hadn't worked. Pills always work, right?"

You looked at me, as if for an answer, and the numb sadness in your eyes nearly brought tears to mine. I gulped. "Joe – Joe never told me that...that – what you did."

You smiled bitterly. "Joe never knew. No-one ever knew."

Shit. I stayed silent, waiting for you to carry on.

Folding your arms again, you exhaled shortly. "Anyway, after that, things seemed different. I kept wondering why, after two tries, I hadn't died. I wasn't brave enough to put a gun to my head, or jump off a roof, so I just had to carry on. And after a while, I started to think that maybe there was a reason I was still alive. Like maybe I could get better, maybe I was meant to do something more with my life.

"So I started to try. It was so hard at first, to stop thinking how I was thinking, but people helped. Joe and Andy kept visiting, they tried to stop me thinking about you. For the first few months, though, you were all I could think about. Not waking up with you beside me, not having anyone to hold me or kiss me, it killed me all over again. 

"But I got through it. I started to think maybe I didn't need you, maybe I could be just as happy by myself, and d'you know what, I fucking was! I managed to lose all that fucking weight, I felt so much better about being myself, I made the music I wanted to make, I made videos and did talk shows and toured around the world, I made a load of new friends, and I was doing fine! For the first time, I actually felt pretty confident, I proved you wrong, I got over you. And I did it all without you," you said proudly, determination sparking in your eyes.

Then the spark died. Your expression sunk into that cold glare, but this time, it wasn't directed at me. You walked over to the coffee table and picked up the CD, turning it over and over in your hands. As you spoke, your voice began to crack.

"I put everything into this record. I wanted it to be perfect, I wanted to do it all by myself, so I poured every last drop of energy into it, spent weeks on end just trying to get one little section right, and...and I thought they'd like it. I liked it, I thought it was good, it was the best I could do...but it wasn't enough.

"It didn't go how I thought it would. They fucking hated it. It was just like Folie, only this time it was just me they needed to send the fucking hate-mail to. People would turn up to the shows just to scream insults at me, we liked you better fucking fat!" Your voice became shrill and shaky, and a sob ran through it.

"I couldn't take it, it was just like last time, and I was so scared of going back there, I couldn't go back to where I was before! It got so many bad reviews, people would tell me to go back to the band, was better with them, or to...to just give up altogether...and I...and I just..." you faltered, and as you blinked, tears fell from your eyes.

Biting my lip, I watched you break down, knotting my fingers together and trying to think of something to say. "Hey, Patrick, don't cry, I -"

"I'm not fucking crying!" you screamed, furiously wiping your eyes and breathing heavily. "I can't take this anymore! The only way I can stop myself going back to what I was is by drinking, so now I'm a sad, lonely alcoholic who's made nothing of his life! It's all shit, I wasted all my time making shit that no-one cares about!" You bellowed, before looking down at the disc in your hands.

With a distraught cry, you hurled it away from you. It hit the wall with a crack and fell to the floor, shattering into little pieces.

"It wasn't supposed to go like this, I wasn't meant to end up like this! I saw what it did to you, and I thought it would never happen to me, but it fucking did! And the worst part is, I can't even blame it on the fucking break-up! I'm not hung up on you, or anyone else, it's me that did this, and I hate it! I hate living out of bottles, I hate having to lie to everyone, I hate living two lives like this! I'm not broken-hearted anymore, I'm just fucking broken!"

Your yells echoed around the house, and my head. "Wait, so...no-one else knows about this?"

"Of course not!"

"Not even your fiancée?" I frowned.

You stared at me for a bit, before spitting out a bitter laugh. "Ha! You really believed that? I don't have a fucking fiancée, who would wanna date me for fuck's sake?"

"That – that was a lie?"

"Yeah, it's funny, if other people think you have someone, they don't worry about you. No-one else can know about this, you hear me, no-one! I can't take people knowing!"

"God, I'm sorry, I-"

"No! Shut the fuck up! I don't want your fucking sympathy! Why did you even wanna see me anyway? I don't hear anything from you for two years and the suddenly it's hey Patrick, wanna meet up sometime? Where the fuck did that come from?"

"I wanted to see you, I really did," I said honestly. That little bit of warmth touched your teary eyes again, but as soon as I saw it it was gone.

"Well, congratulations. You saw me," you sighed, the anger in your voice starting to flag.

"Patrick, I-"

"No, Pete. Just leave," you finished.

"But-"

"Get the fuck out of my house."

The look in your eyes was one of pained hatred, and it bored into me like a drill. Holy shit. I gotta go. 

I gathered my things, grabbing my laptop off the table and trying to put my shoes on as quickly as possible. My bags were bundled in my arms as I walked towards the door.

You didn't move, just watched me.

I turned back to you, trying to think of something to say, I hope you get better or I hope you find someone, but the look in your eyes told me to keep my mouth shut.

Opening the front door, I pushed through it, and for one, last second, our gazes locked. There were still tears running down your face, your eyes red round the edges and dead in the middle. Then you bowed your head, and walked off out of sight.

I shut the door.

What the fuck just happened?

The cool late afternoon air did nothing to clear my thoughts.

-

They still haven't cleared, really. I managed to get a cab on the main road near your place, I'm heading to the airport. My writing's kinda shaky from the movement of the car, but then I have a feeling it would be shaky anyway.

I don't know what to do, really. I guess the obvious option is to just keep not caring and forget about you. But I think that's the problem. I do care about you, as much as I've tried not to. You're going through what I went through, I can't help but feel empathy.

Though, it doesn't really change the fact that you were an asshole. What were you hoping to achieve with that little coffee shop stunt? I can't get that look of disgust on your face as you stared at me out of my head. I mean, the arrogance must've been a bluff, but everything else was just plain rude. It's like the drink has washed away everything you used to be.

You hated me. I hadn't been prepared for that. Apathy I could deal with, but the way you shouted at me earlier, wow. I'd never seen you that angry before. And I never wanted you to hate me.

But with everything you'd been through, maybe I deserve to be hated. You'd attempted suicide, for god's sake, all because I left.

Although, hadn't you got better? Hadn't you got through it, got more confident, made a record, done your own thing? And isn't that exactly why I left in the first place, so you'd do all those things? I mean, yeah, you've turned to alcohol now, but that wasn't because of me, it was 'cause you were scared of going back to how you were. But you won't go back to what you were, because you already took that step, got the independence you needed all along. All you gotta do is realise that.

I know what you're doing now. A traumatic experience like that, you'll be drinking. I don't want you to drink. I think I do care, actually. Not as much as I would if you were nice, but enough. Enough to realise that maybe I should try to help.

I also realised that I didn't even ask you the things I should have. I don't know how much you've been drinking, or for how long, I should've at least tried to work out how bad you are. If I'm the only one who knows about this, don't I have to do something about it? You're not gonna tell anyone else, and it's not my place to, so one of us has to try. And god knows I've got quite a lot of experience in this department.

I could forget about you. Or I could help. 

We're not far from the airport now. Another half-hour, and we'll be there. The sky is streaked with orange and pink, the city starting to light up.

All I can think about is the boy I loved, the kindness he showed when it was me who drank myself unconscious every night, when he held me close and caught my tears. Maybe I owe it to him to not give up on you. 

That's why I gotta do this. Not for you. For him.

This shouldn't be how the story ends. 

I gotta go back.

Pete.