Dear Friend,

I write to you now because I have secrets. "Secrets?" you respond, "everyone has secrets. What makes yours any different?" I answer you with a slight smile touching only one corner of my mouth, My secrets are different because I have someone who wants to know my every thought and every secret. "You're in love!" you exclaim with the appropriate enthusiasm. Yes, I am in love. Blessedly, hopelessly in love. But though you would imagine (I gather from your confused expression) that my love would be the safest place in the world for my secrets, you are wrong. Though I trust my love entirely I cannot tell him my every thought. You see, love requires you to protect your beloved, and though I have no terrible secret, no skeleton in my closet, his tender heart would be hurt by some of my thoughts, especially the ones that regard him. "Absolute honesty" is a fantasy. The predicament created by love leaves me unable to share my thoughts with my love but my nature renders me incapable of living with them floating around in my head. So I turn to you, dear friend, for release. "Ah," your smile is knowing now and you nod your head in assent. Thank you, you have no idea how important you will be to me in the coming days.