There is something to be said about secrets.
They are soft and sacred—delicate truths, honorable in their ability to inflict agony on their keeper. They are juicy and sought after, and yet, their revelation is a true apocalypse.
It is an ending of worlds, of reality as we know it when the truth is revealed. All secrets are worthy of protection, otherwise, they would not be untold. But secrets become heavy and stagnant; left ignored, they can ruin a person. They can ruin lives.
I believe that all secrets have an expiration date, for the nature of life is to expose the truth.
People tell me their secrets. I suppose I have one of those faces, or perhaps I’m such an empathic magnet that my gravitational pull sucks those who are hurting straight into my vortex. I have a history of feeling other’s emotions better than my own and a sense of curiosity for the other that is palpable.