Following last weekend’s drama—AKA the devious discovery of Johannes’ porn, British passport and HMV payslip—we’ve all become hyper aware of the actions of our mysterious houseguest. We watch his every move, analyze his ever word. We’re essentially waiting for him to slip up so we can catch him out in some massive (yet still unknown) lie. It’s proving pretty difficult considering the kid barely ever speaks, but there have been some advances. Let me explain.

Tuesday morning I get a call from Mavi. She says she overheard Johannes talking on the phone in the bathroom, and that his English seemed “a lot more better than other times.” Being a spazzy, ESL Italian, Mavi isn’t exactly the best judge of English fluidity. Still, I’m intrigued. When I ask her if Johannes was speaking in an English or Austrian accent, she replies, “As if I know. All English sounds the same to me.”

For the next few days Johannes is all I can think about. He rules my thoughts, polices my dreams. This stupid kid is becoming my whole life. One day I literally stare at him for over an hour while he’s asleep on Mavi’s couch, trying to read his brainwaves or something. It’s sick. I want to confront him, to make him confess, but I’m too scared to go through with it. And what do I even want him to confess to, exactly? That he can speak English better than he portrays? That he’s not sexually attracted to statues? The more I think about it, the more ridiculous it all seems. I begin to think that maybe it’s me who’s the crazy one.

Eventually, despite everyone’s advice otherwise, I decide I need to confront Johannes, if only for my own sanity. I sit at home Friday night, creepily anticipating his return. He finally arrives around 3am, fucked, wearing pretty much the same outfit he showed up in two weeks ago—awkwardly high-waisted jeans, scuffed Docs, a grubby T-shirt with some vaguely obscure band name carved across the chest (today it’s Slime). He stomps clumsily across the room and flops down on the couch next to me. He’s nodding out.

“I found this,” I say, producing the HMV payslip I thieved from his luggage.

He strains to lift his heavy head, then stares at the piece of paper. I can’t decipher whether his blurred gaze is one of rage or confusion. “Wait…” he slurs, snatching the paper from my hand, “why you touch my stuff?”

“I found it on the floor,” I lie. “I think it fell out of your bag.”

“And…” he barks. “What problem?”

“Nothing, I—I just thought you said you came here from Austria,” I say, trying not to sound aggressive. “I was just surprised to find this.”

“Yeah,” he stumbles. “Well, I… my mother British. I here sometimes. I work sometimes. So what?” I think for a second. I guess that makes sense.

“So you’ve lived in the UK for a while then?” I ask. He doesn’t respond, instead hacking up a large wad of green mucus and spitting it into a nearby tissue. “It’s just,” I start, “it’s weird that your your English isn’t any better.” His eyes squint a bit. He looks insulted. What am I doing? I think to myself. This whole thing has gone way too Nancy Drew. I suddenly feel like a complete idiot.

“It because I fucking stoooopiiiid,” he spits back in a warped, mocking voice, pushing his face to just centimeters from mine. “Anyways, why you care?” Tiny droplets of his saliva sprinkle my nose and cheeks. From this close up his face looks different, just a little too perfectly constructed. His pale eyes, his crooked nose, his chaotic teeth and lips… it all makes way too much sense. I feel like maybe we’re having an intimate moment, so I struggle to try and make some vague sexy eyes, but he just gives me a disgusted glance and pulls away. “You don’t touch my shit,” he shouts, and then stomps out of the room. WHY CAN’T I EVER JUST BE COOL?!

Johannes hasn’t been around as much the past few days. According to a sloppy and vaguely incoherent note he left on Mavi’s refrigerator, he’s been crashing with some Polish squatters in North London. Who knows. Basically, what I have decided is that I’m over caring about whether he was/is lying about what/who/where, etc. To be honest, it’s almost makes him more interesting if he is. Besides, I think I blew this whole thing a little out of proportion. We’ve all lied, we’ve all kept secrets. Big deal. My main concern now it that Johannes doesn’t find all this stuff I’ve written about him on the internet. (Embarrassing?) I want him to be someone I can publicly dissect and exploit without him ever knowing. I wonder what the likelihood of that is?