All the blood has begun to drain from my head, across my chest, through my arms, down my legs, and into my feet, where the energy that I imagine I am made of disappears through the cracks in the floor of this dark room. And so I stand, an empty tin can of a girl, lightheaded and speechless. I don’t know what I expected the answer to be when I asked the boy who never asked me to brunch what it was about me that wasn’t enough. You don’t normally ask loaded questions like this. But when you’re drunk and feeling the sting of rejection like a fresh, red welt, this is precisely the question you ask.