Not a true story.

We love keeping secrets.

There will always be something that others will never know about us. We try so hard to cover it up with superficial things, not realizing that protecting it has already become our reason for living.

I once kept a little secret with someone.

It was a secret made more potent by interlocked hands, late night strolls, and stolen kisses. It made my heart beat faster. It introduced me to sleepless nights. And I loved it.

I considered it the most beautiful secret I ever kept, that once I wished I could tell the whole world about it…

And that was the mistake.

For as soon as the idea entered my thoughts, I woke up and started to ask why.

Why is there a need to hide something so beautiful? Why keep it to ourselves when we can easily let everyone see how wonderful this is?

I found the answer eventually:


Our secret wasn’t real.

A truth that endured through lies will never be true.

I knew then that I had to let go, for the secret grew heavier and I could not carry it much longer.

The rapid heartbeat became that of fear, and the sleepless nights were plagued with guilt.

And so one night after a late stroll, I left my co-keeper, and never looked back.


A response to Daily Prompt: Clean House


9 thoughts on “Not a true story.

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