Not Much.

"And then one day I realized he knew everything about me. My deepest secrets, my worse pain. Enough to fill a million novels. But I didn’t know enough about him to even write a pamphlet." 

- Meredith, Castle Season 5 "Significant Others"

I was just finished watching Castle, and that line was just startled me.

And then I realized something.

I think that's the thing about having a relationship with writers, or people who write, or at least people who love to write. They will cut you open, they will strip your heart and soul bare naked, and explore your darkest thoughts, your secrets, and worst pain. The perfect recipe for their poems or novels.

The next thing you know, they've discovered every little thing about you without missing any bit. They noticed everything. Every damn thing. You'll find it on every spilled ink they've written. But when it comes to themselves, they will stick their tongues to their mouths, screaming nothing but silence.

They will throw all their thoughts, the puzzles you've been trying to put together, onto a poem. A poem that seems just like other poems, when it doesn't. You just don't know what it's all about because they did a very good job at hiding their true feelings, their worst nightmares, their darkest secrets.

They know everything about you, yet you know nothing about them.

Not much. Not even a bit.

Ps: and sometimes it cost them the relationship itself