In the morning, I wake up to the sunlight from the open window falling across my eyes. I'd like to say that it's a pleasant way to start the day, except that waking up to glaring beams of light at eight in the morning isn't really that great. The city's loud at night, sure, but it's even louder during the day, so I crawl out of bed and shut the window, thus blocking out the worst of the sound. I really do have to get up, but seeing as my boss is probably mashed out of her head right now and so won't care if I walk in three hours late, I might as well enjoy the lie-in.

I get back into bed, and as I do, my gaze falls on Patrick, who is sleeping like a baby. His nose is pressed hard into the pillow, and he looks so cute that I want to take a picture, but he would probably hate it. Plus, that's kind of creepy, even for me. Instead, I smile at him a little longer, stroke a lock of his blond-brown hair that's fallen over one eye and get up. I hop in the shower, put on some clothes and try to think about last night.

I told him that I love him. I do. At least, I think I do, but I can't be sure. I don't know if he loves me, but he certainly cares about me. It's all incredibly confusing, and it's too early. So I just do my hair and makeup and grab some breakfast. I just have toast and coffee this morning, because I'm not really in an eating sort of mood.

I hear Patrick get up long before I actually see him. He gets in the shower, and then he messes about in the bedroom (I've come to think of it as "the bedroom" rather than "my bedroom" seeing as he's in it more often than not) and then he comes into the main room. He messes about with something on the sofa for a few minutes, and then comes over, not looking at me. He gets out the cereal and is about to pour some into a bowl when I stop him.

"Hey," I say. He looks up.

"Hey," he answers, rather cautiously. He's embarrassed, and I think I know why.

"You know, last night was fine. I don't mind you having nightmares."

"No it's not that. Well, not really." He hesitates. "You... You told me you loved me."

Oh god, oh god. There are two ways I can play this. I decide to do it the sensible way. "Yeah. I do."

He looks shocked. "Really?"

"Yes! I love you!"

He covers his mouth with his hand, and for a minute I think he's laughing, but then I see that he's crying. "No one has ever..." he whispers, gulping back tears. I put my arm around him.

"Then people are crazy. How can anyone not love you? You're sweet, you're kind, you're caring, you're cute, you are probably the nicest guy I've ever met, and you wear fedoras! What's not to like?"

"Oh, Lydia," he murmurs. "I love you, too."

I smile and kiss him. "Then we're all good. I need to go to work, but I'll see you when I get back, ok babe?"

He nods, still looking like he just died. Maybe he did. Anyway, I can't dwell on that right now; I need to get to work.

So I leave him looking so lost. Poor Patrick.

Patrick's POV:

I watch her go, helplessly. I love her. I really do love her. And she loves me! That's the best part of it, I think. That finally, someone loves me.

I rack my brain, trying to think whether someone has said, somewhere along the line, that they loved me. I certainly can't think of an occasion when someone has, although that might just be because I'm tired and I need a drink.

No, I remind myself, forcefully. I do not need a drink to function. I went through a period of chronic alcoholism after Fall Out Boy went on the break that lasted like three years, and I do not need to go back there. Not now. I've got Lydia, and the guys. I don't need any substance to keep me afloat.

Even so, I go back to my flat, put on jeans, a grey T-shirt and my leather jacket, and take a look at the cupboard where I keep a bottle of vodka. I don't trust myself not to drink it if I put it in the fridge, so the cupboard is where it lives. I only ever drink if I'm with Lydia or one of the band, because I can rely on them to stop me if I go overboard. I can't trust myself to do that, so I don't. Simple. Or, at least, it's mean to be.

I grab my keys and my fedora, take a look around the room and then leave. I head outside, into the city, and then stop. I lean against a wall and take a deep breath. It's about half eight, and the streets are teeming with people. I feel the agoraphobia kicking in, and I know it's only a matter of minutes before I start having a panic attack, and I do not need that right now. I see a taxi idling a little further down the street and go to it. I knock on the window and the driver winds the window down.

"Um, excuse me, are you serving anyone right now?" I ask.

"No. You wanna go somewhere?" the guy asks.

"Yes, please." I get in the back. He gives me a look in the rear view mirror.

"Dude, are you okay?"

"Fine," I gasp, even though I'm clearly not.

"You sure?"

"Uh huh. I'll direct you," I say, trying to normalize my breathing. He continues to give me funny looks, but revs the car and then my apartment house is fading into the distance.

I have to direct him, because I have no idea whether he knows where this place is, or, more importantly, what it is. I know what it is. It's the only place I can be myself.

The drive takes a while, as it's the middle of the city and people are going to work, but eventually, we turn off a quiet road leading to the suburbs and go down a beaten track. When I sense that the taxi can go no further, I thank the driver, pay him what appears to be an extortionate amount of money and jump out. He reverses down the path (it's too narrow to run around) and I'm left alone.

I head down the path. Even though I'm no more than a ten minute walk to Wilmette, and only about fourteen miles away from downtown Chicago, it still feels like I'm in the middle of nowhere. The path soon becomes less of a path and more of a makeshift track made by beating away the bushes. I did that, many years ago, running down here, into the bush.

I get to a small clearing. It's surrounded by the trees, and there's one old oak tree right in the center of it, like it was placed there by a decorating giant. I look up at the tree. I'm not exactly tall, in fact I'm quite short, but this tree would dwarf anyone. That's what I love about this place. It makes you feel like the universe revolves around you, but at the same time, it makes you feel ridiculously small and insignificant. I guess we are.

I put my hand on the tree, and then find a handhold. I grasp it with my right hand, put my feet at the base of the tree and haul myself up onto the lowest branch. I then continue to climb the tree, pulling myself up branch by branch. I have never been very good at climbing trees, even as a kid, but I know this tree well, so it's not really a problem. When I get to a height of about three meters, I stop and sit on a wide branch, my legs dangling. This is a good height. High up enough that if anyone was to come by, no one would be able to see me, but low enough that I don't feel like I'm risking my life every time I sit in the tree. This tree is an amazingly good place to sit, actually. It helps you think.

I run my hand along the knobbly bark of the tree, enjoying the rough feel of it. From here, I can see the small length of rope that I wound around the branch four years ago. That was a bad day. A very bad day.

*

Fall Out Boy had broken up, and seeing as none of the guys had really talked to me much for a long while, it didn't seem as though we'd ever get back together. I had no friends at all. I had discovered literally that morning that my girlfriend of three months was cheating on me, and so I abruptly ended the relationship. I was running out of money fast. I had't spoken to my family for years. I had nothing left to live for. It had all been taken away from me, in one way or another. I didn't even like singing that much any more.

So I got into a taxi, drove to a hardware store, bought a length of thick rope, which, I had been assured by the sales assistant, who didn't know what I intended to do, was able to withstand a lot of weight. Enough to support the weight of a grown man, he boasted. That was just what I needed.

I left the hardware store, got into another taxi, and drove to this place. I paid the driver, got out, and walked to the old oak tree. I climbed the tree, with the rope held between my teeth, and chose a branch that was high enough, but strong enough, for my purposes. I looped one end of the rope around the branch and double-knotted it, then knotted it again. I wanted this to be strong.

I took off my jacket, despite the fact that it was mid-winter and it was freezing. I took off my fedora and my shoes, and took the laces from them. I tied these together, and then around my ankles, binding them together. I then made a noose with the other end, put it around my neck, and tightened it. Then I put my hands on the branch, and sang. For an entire hour, I just sang my heart out. I sang Fall Out Boy songs, I sang Panic! At The Disco songs, I sang 21 Pilots songs. I sang until my voice was hoarse, and only then did I stop. The sudden silence was shocking. All I could hear was the singing of the birds and the rustling of the trees of in the wind. It suddenly occurred to me what I was about to do. I was about to silence the very voice that was central to me; my own. I was about to leap into the black arms of death. Did I really want to do this?

Of course I want to do this, I thought to myself. This is the only way to end the pain.

I waited for a moment, gathering courage, but it wasn't enough. I sang Hum Hallelujah to myself, even though that wasn't about me, it was about Pete. But it was a way to convince to myself that this was the right thing to do. This was the only thing I could do. Right?

I sat on that branch, feeling stupid. I could jump, sure. But what would that do? All that would happen would be that I die, and in a few weeks time, a group of kids would discover my rotting body and be traumatized forever, I'd have a funeral that no one would come to, and that would be that. Nothing would really change, apart from the fact that I'd be dead. But if I lived, I could solve all my problems. I might actually be able to get a life. Yeah, right.

There were two things I could do. I could be the coward that I always had been. Or I could be brave for the first time in my life and make the right choice.

*

Needless to say, I made the wrong choice. I chose to live, like the coward I am.

Four years later, I sit here, fingering the rope that could have ended my suffering so easily. I still regret not jumping that day. At least, I did. Then I met Lydia.

I could sit here for a long time, thinking and writing. So I decide to do just that. I can write it all up properly when I get back. If I'm quick about it, I might be able to do it before Lydia gets home. She won't even notice. I can write to my heat's content (or lack of).

So I do.