I don't usually go for "mysterious" men. Complicated, messed up, emotional baggage-y types have never particularly appealed. You know the ones. The archetypal rogue: devilishly handsome- the reformed bad boy, who still has an intriguing and kind of dangerous edge to him. You never really know where you stand, and the ball is so in his court, but you find yourself not minding or even really noticing, because this guy is –uber cliché- "different."

If I'm honest, I've always considered the above sort of character a waste of time, and I had little respect for the girls who liked him. They expect him to change for them, that they will be the one to save him, that they are somehow different from the countless hopeless optimists who tried before them. And inevitably they fail, and get their hearts completely broken in the process. I am not a romantic cynic. I enjoy being swept off my feet as much as the next girl (or at least I imagine that I would if it ever happened…) and although I find the idea of "soul mates" a bit cheesy, I am a firm believer in the idea of meeting someone who you just "connect" with.

I've always imagined that I'd end up with someone nice- not in the boring sense of the word, of course. Someone sweet but strong, passionate but reliable, impulsive but consistent, confident but sensitive and above all, respectful to women. As a bit of a feminist, I wanted someone who would be my equal. Yes, he'd hold doors open for me, but he would also let me pay for stuff, without getting offended that I'd somehow insulted his masculinity. He'd know when to be dominant and when to be passive, when to listen and when to talk. He'd be interesting to chat to, and interested in me. We'd have private jokes, and whenever we were with people, we wouldn't be one of those couples who go in for over-the-top displays of affection, but there'd be little gestures, like our eyes meeting, or a momentary stroke of the forearm… and we'd know, and we'd smile.

But what to do when you meet that person. The one who you can have messy, ice-cream eating competitions with and not be embarrassed; the one who invites you round for board-games without it being a euphemism for any ulterior motive; the one who shares your love of excruciatingly bad puns and metaphors; the one who likes tea, cake and writing letters. The one who is genuinely interested in your work and your opinions, who finds your geekiness and little blonde moments endearing. The one who not only compliments how you look, but who really notices what you wear and even remembers your exact outfit from the first time you met. What happens when you meet, in effect, Mr Perfect, but you find out that he has an alter-ego who is everything you despise in men? An alter-ego who, although missing (presumed dead) for some time, threatens to rear his ugly head when times get too stressful.

He's a smoker, a drinker and a drug-taker. He's a cheat, a man-whore and a compulsive liar. He doesn't know the meaning of morals and can cut you out of his life without a second thought. He won't know that he hurts you, and if he did, chances are, he wouldn't care. You won't know where he's been or who he's been seeing and you feel like an overprotective parent if you ask. He's needy and detached in equal measure and sometimes he'll make you feel like you are ridiculous. You don't know if you mean anything to him, but you know what he means to you.

Because in spite of all the crap that is his alter ago, and the criminality and immorality that is his past, you've fallen for him. You knew you would from the start. I did. I went into it with my eyes wide open. His unnerving openness and honesty from the very first date left no room for rose-tinted-spectacles and he gave me ample opportunity to leave. But I didn't want to then, and I can't now. I said from the start that I thought I was going to get my heart broken, but it didn't stop me. Should it have done?

Perhaps I should have left before it got to this stage. This horrible, in-betweeny bit where he is neither one thing nor another and I don't know how to be. He is emotionally fragile and volatile, and bouts of the real (or should I say "my") him are few and far between this hideously regressive model that reeks of his sordid past. I don't like it, but I'm clinging onto the fact that he told me that he'd be like this. He predicted his erratic behaviour during the stressful time of his final exams. As ever, I was forewarned. I don't know what I'm hoping for. Well, I do…

 In an ideal world, he'd go back to being the boy who I fell for, the one who I spent an intense six months with, between Betty's and bookshelves, board-games and bed. I'm not a stupid girl, I'm not a doormat, I've never been the type to settle for second best. And that is why, after considering my predicament for a ridiculously indulgent amount of time, I have come to a conclusion, and it is not one that I have admitted to anyone at all. I have fallen -beret over kitten heels- in love.  Maybe unhealthily, unconventionally and unintentionally … but most of all, and most importantly- unconditionally. Even now, I love him without condition. And that is the hardest part.