Like an Open Book
She said she wanted to know me better, but I didn't think she'd take a shortcut.
Between the Lines
We were somewhere between blissful beginnings and inevitable endings. That limbo of a relationship where everything feels serious yet suspended, like walking on ice that's deceptively thin. I still believed we had a future, so I let her closer than most. Close enough to see parts of me that weren't polished for public view. The unfinished, messy thoughts scribbled late at night or first thing in the morning.
Gradually, our shared routines changed. Our evening walks, errands, and casual outings began to disappear. She started declining invitations more frequently, preferring instead to remain alone in my apartment. Initially, I didn't question it; perhaps she needed space or time for herself. I accepted her choice without suspicion, unknowingly creating the opportunity she was seeking.
Private Pages
At first, I didn't catch it clearly. Just hints, fragments of thoughts she voiced casually. Phrases so familiar they echoed like déjà vu. The only problem was, I'd never spoken them out loud. Not to her. Not to anyone.
Then it clicked. Those weren't casual observations; they were lifted straight from pages I'd filled privately in a simple leather-bound journal I'd carelessly left on the table, amidst the forgotten coffee mugs and work-related notes. I hadn't even considered its vulnerability until my private thoughts resurfaced through her voice, stripped of their intended solitude and reflected back at me with unsettling clarity and unintended judgment.
We'd discussed boundaries before. I'd mentioned my writing as something deeply personal, a space I needed just for me. She'd nodded, eyes warm with understanding. So I'd believed. Realizing she'd read my journal left me feeling exposed and uncertain about what else might have been seen without my consent. From that point forward, my guard was up, my trust compromised by her actions.
Closing Chapters
I never confronted her. Perhaps because I knew exactly how the conversation would go: defensiveness disguised as curiosity, hurt masquerading as confusion. But the damage was done. My openness turned cautious, words more carefully chosen, intimacy reduced to an exercise in editing.
Our connection began to feel like a puzzle missing crucial pieces. She knew things she wasn't meant to, yet misunderstood them without their necessary context. It was intimacy stolen, not shared. Trust, once fluid and natural, thickened like drying paint. Still there, but changed, brittle, easily cracked.
We drifted apart slowly, quietly. No explosive confrontation, just the subtle dissolving of a bond damaged by invasion rather than invitation.
Note to Self
Not every open journal is an invitation. True intimacy isn't found by quietly rifling through the unpolished corners of someone's mind, it's shared willingly, openly, intentionally. If someone tries to know you by shortcuts, they haven't understood intimacy, they've mistaken curiosity for connection.
Next time, offer your truths deliberately, and only to those who appreciate the courage behind your vulnerability. Not just the convenience of your transparency.
