Sometimes you want to talk about things you can’t really talk about.
Sometimes you just want to wall up your heart from the pain of caring about people, or to let slip away the responsibility of having them care about you.
Sometimes you’re part of a small exclusive club of aching hearts and broken spirits.
Instead, you think about love in its many incarnations. What it requires of you, and what it gives. From a single thread, to a fully woven tapestry, you are the weaver and the collector of textiles.
So you keep it to yourself. You hold it dear. You can learn from it.
And you use discretion, because to do otherwise would cheapen the experience.