I have read your journal. Even though you don’t know me. I’ve been in your room and know where you hide things. I know that you carry around a journal in your bag that you write in. But I know that, when you’re really angry and scared, you write in the journal that’s on your bookshelf, between the book on music theory and your copy of The Things They’ve Carried that you’ve never read. The journal that you carry in your bag is one that your mother gave you; it is blue.
In your journal—the secret one—you write about how you think about dying a lot and what it would mean for your family. You write about getting rid of your knives. I can’t tell if you’ve actually gotten rid of them yet, but I cannot find them anywhere in your room. I think that is a good thing. I am very thorough, and would have found them.
I collect secrets—more specifically, information. I don’t do anything with it. I don’t post it online and I certainly don’t tell anyone. But I feel that it’s my job to know. To know you. No one else knows you like I know you. Not your doctor or your mother, and certainly not your spouse. Isn’t that all anyone wants? To connect? To be seen and understood? I understand you. I love you.
And you there, I have read your files. The ones that you keep in a locked file cabinet in your office. Well, it was locked. Then unlocked. But I locked it back up when I left, for safety. I read your will, and how you’re giving everything to the friend that you’ve been in love with for forty years, and nothing to the nephew that you despise. Your health files, showing medical procedures and chemo treatments. Your bills piling up.
Everyone has secrets. Those who don’t think that they have secrets usually have the best ones. And I know them all.
Your letter to your boyfriend was well written—detailed, but not overly sentimental. I know you’re uncertain about breaking up with him, as is evident from the fact that the letter has been sitting in your desk drawer for two weeks. I think you should give it to him. I think he’ll appreciate the letter. Though, to be fair, he probably won’t appreciate being broken up with.
The man standing near the doors on the train. His laptop should really have a better password. He donates monthly to an organization for gay teens. He is a writer, but doesn’t let anyone read his work. I’ve checked his email, and he’s never sent it to anyone. He lies all the time. He’s probably gay, but it doesn’t appear that anyone knows about it. Other than me. Don’t worry. His secret is safe with me.
You might wonder how I remember everything. I don’t. I keep everything. Pictures, copies, all of it. I write it down, sort through it. And say, even if I were to take things from your home, would you notice? And if you did notice, you wouldn’t know that it was me. You don’t even know me.
