Dear Patrick,

Well I guess that's it then.

To be honest, I was surprised that I had any lower to sink. Last night, after I kissed you, I drank more than I probably have ever. Eventually I must have passed out, waking up what seemed like years later on a bed of broken bottles and a headache that made me want to tear my own eyes out.

The headache might have faded by now, but the regret certainly hasn't. What the hell was I thinking, what did I possibly think I could achieve by kissing you? Get you to like me back? Yeah, right, good one Pete. No one will ever like you back, least of all kind, intelligent, adorable Patrick.

But I guess even then, after the vodka-soaked night, I had a tiny bit of hope. Something that the alcohol hadn't quite drowned out, that maybe, just maybe, you'd think about that kiss, about me, and you might see a tiny bit of potential.

That little spark was put out by your phone call.

I'd managed to pull myself out of my coma and drag my deadened body to the bathroom, standing in the dark because I knew that turning the light on would sauté what was left of my mind. In the mirror there was another guy. He had sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, and his skin had this grey tinge that made him look like a character from a Tim Burton film. He stared back at me blankly. I hated him. I hate me.

I was hauled out of my black hole of a brain by the shrill ringing of my phone. Realising I'd slept in my clothes, I pulled it out of my pocket and stared at the name.

Patrick.

For a few seconds, I just stood there like an idiot, staring at your name as if it was the A grade on a paper I was sure I'd fail. I tapped the screen, thinking of a hundred different ways this phone call could go in the seconds before I spoke.

"Uh...Hey. It's me." I said pathetically.

"Hey Pete. I...um...are you okay?" You asked. Trust you to care about the last person who deserves to be cared about.

"Yeah, I've...I've been better, but yeah." Then the words came flooding out.

"Listen, you don't have to be nice to me. I'm so sorry, I don't know what happened, I wasn't thinking, for some twisted reason it felt like the right thing to do. I know you're angry, and you have every right to be, so if you don't want me in the band any more then just say the word and you'll never have to see me again. I never meant to hurt you, I promise, I was just stupid and thoughtless and I'm so sorry, Patrick."

I breathed in, letting my frantic words sink through the phone lines, each second feeling like a whole hour.

Then you laughed.

I hadn't been prepared for that. Were you laughing at my stupidity? I wouldn't have blamed you, I would have laughed at me too if I'd have been on the receiving end of that messed up apology.

Giggles trickled into my ear like wind chimes, and I subconsciously added your laugh to my list of things to live for, even if you were laughing at me.

"Pete, dude, it was one kiss! We were all a bit out of it 'cause of the album and the champagne, I was so happy, I could've kissed someone too!  I'm not angry at all, and you're not stupid or thoughtless. Don't talk about yourself like that, I don't like it. I overreacted last night, telling you to leave and all that, I guess you just kinda took me by surprise or whatever. But seriously, don't worry, you're my best friend, and I'd never dream of kicking you out of the band, you idiot. I just called to make sure we're cool." You said lightly, remnants of laughter lifting up your voice as you spoke.

And I was so relieved that I started laughing too. You were right, look at me, getting all worked up over one stupid kiss. It's not like I'm in love with you, it was a kiss, an impulse, nothing to lose sleep over. New album, new era, that's why I did what I did. The weight of last night's tears seemed to lift, and I left the dark bathroom and opened the bedroom curtains, not caring that the light hurt my head. It made me feel a bit more human.

"Okay, great, we're cool, that's great. I thought you might flip out or something." I said, feeling better by the second.

"No, of course not, it's not like it meant anything. So I'll see you in a few days for tour planning, yeah?"

It's not like it meant anything.

And with those words, you knocked out any hope that was left in me. My relief festered and rotted into crushing disappointment.

"Yeah!" I said with too much enthusiasm, and hung up right that second.

You were never meant to do this to me. Crushes aren't supposed to actually crush you. The worst part was that even when you hurt me, I just liked you more. Fuck, I really am a prize asshole. How the hell am I gonna cope on this goddamned tour?

After the phone call, I took two aspirin, resisting the urge to down the whole lot, shut the curtains and crawled back into bed. I realise now that headaches are bad but heartaches are worse.

I woke up a few hours later. Now I'm writing this letter, which is improving my mood by exactly 0%. Time to drink myself into oblivion again, I think.

It's not like it meant anything. Oh, but Patrick, to me it meant everything.

From Pete