But there’s nothing here. Not the film you asked me to watch, not your feelings for me, not a single thing I thought you were, not you. There is nothing here, not the girl you thought I am, not a thing inside me, not someone you admire. There is nothing, but not a thing. There is nothing because you think the word doesn’t make sense. There is nothing because we often fake things because we can’t say nothing. There is nothing because I can’t amount to something. To you. And here it is, the very proof of nothingness, that I am writing nothing about you but that we have nothing.