You Know Everything

I never knew how you did it. Every time I tried to hide something, you always knew. Before I even said a word, you could guess what was on my mind.

"I knew you would say that," you said with a smile, as if enjoying your ability to read me.

I sighed. "How do you know everything?"

You chuckled. "I don't know everything. I only know about you."

That answer should have made me relieved, but it made me even more curious. What did you see in me that I couldn't? How could you read my body language, guess emotions that even I had trouble understanding?

That day, I tried to test your limits. I hid an important letter inside a book on the top shelf, behind a row of novels that I rarely touched. Then, I acted as usual, showing no signs of suspicion.

But a few hours later, you came to me with the letter in your hand. "Why did you hide this?" you asked in a tone full of curiosity, not accusation.

I was speechless. Not knowing what to answer.

"Is it so important that you feel the need to hide it from me?"

I look away, trying to avoid your piercing gaze. "I just want to know if you really know everything..."

You smile softly, sitting down next to me. "I don't know everything," you repeat. "I only know when you're trying to hide something from me. Because I watch you. Every little movement, every change in your voice, even the way you avoid eye contact. I know you better than you think."

I stare at you, trying to find a lie in your eyes, but all I see is sincerity.

Maybe you don't really know everything. But you know about me. And that's enough to make me feel naked in front of you—no secrets, no lies.