secrets are omissions, are lies, are pretenders.
“He’s good at keeping secrets,” I said to someone, about you.
But you know I’m good at keeping them too. Too good. So good, that you told me yours and forgot about them because I never mentioned them again.
So good at keeping my own secrets from you, no matter how much you tell me. I’m sorry, you’ve done it before, but so have I. I’ll lie to you again.
Or am I just pretending?