I've been scribbling words about you, I haven't looked at the clock til now - it's 17 minutes past 7. I may be late for work.

I have written several nonsense letters, wondering if I already wasted more ink than I should, thinking how many of these words have you already heard, and doubting if they would mean something more once you read them.

These words, these are the things I want you to know but would never tell you.

But these words, they don't really matter, do they? These words can't make you stay, or flinch even.

Because the things you told me that matter, they didn't. And even if they did, we won't do anything about it.

These letters, they would remain unsent.