One day we woke up, and there were no secrets anymore.
It wasn’t that they disappeared; the old secrets were still around, and, ghost-like, we could still hear them whispering behind our ears and see them flitting at the corners of our vision, but we found ourselves unable to create new ones. It was sudden and jarring, and it made both of us feel uneasy for the whole day. Maybe tomorrow will be different, we said. Maybe tomorrow we’ll have new secrets
again.
But then tomorrow became yesterday and the day before yesterday and last week and two months ago and longer and longer ago, and the secrets never came back. The old secrets, like lovers whose hearts were discarded before their bodies, still trailed their tendrils over our arms and rested their cheeks against our shoulder blades and begged us not to tire of them, but it was no use. Their breath was stale on our skin; their hands were ice against our cheeks; their kisses belonged to corpses. We hated them for staying, even though we knew there was nothing else to take their place.
And then one day, even the old secrets were gone. Now all we’re left with is the heartless stone-and-metal cell of truth, and we’ve finally realized that even if the secrets were old and boring and stale, they were our secrets. And now we realize that all we have is nothing, because what are we without our secrets?
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