She stands in the closet, trying to find something to wear to work. She looks up, a box taunts her from a shelf, above her head. She pulls items of clothing off hangers, and pulls them on. She continues to stare at the box above her head.
Everyone who knew her, knew that she had a past. Some of the scars had healed, and some never would. There were things she had done, that she could never forget. There were people who she had lost, that she could not let go of.
They were just pictures, in a box. Pictures of someone she used to know, someone she used to be. Pictures of a life she once had, when she was young, and had faith in the world. They were just little reminders of an innocence that had long since been lost.
She hid them in a box, in the closet, for a reason. They were always there, but she chose to hide them away. From those who knew her best, and sometimes even from herself. But there are some secrets, that eat you, if you don't share them.
She touches the box, thinking of taking off the shelf. She takes a step box, and leaves the box in it's place. Today was not the day that she needed to go digging up old memories. She didn't need to take a stroll down memory lane, this early in the morning. She didn't have time, she needed to get to work. Days like these were especially hard. She only hoped that he could not see through her, like he often did. She could not handle his questions today, not without breaking down.
Hours later she finds herself stuck in a car with him. He drives. She says nothing to him. She just watches out the window.
"Ziva?"
"Huh?" she responds.
"What is on your mind? Is something bothering you?"
"No," she lies.
"Why do you have to lie to me? I know that I am not a ninja, but I know when you're lying."
"Let it go," she pleas.
"Talk to me," he begs.
"There is nothing to talk about."
"There is something, or you would be talking about it."
"That does not make any sense."
"Ziva why do you have to keep everything from me?"
"There are things that you do not need to know."
"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?"
She looks at him for a moment, and then turns and stares out the window. She could not answer him. She could not tell him the things that she told no one. She was not afraid that he would betray her, she knew he was the one person who would keep her secrets. He would take them to the grave, but... she could not tell him, because he would not understand. It was difficult for her to understand sometimes. Why she had become the person she was. Why she couldn't let anyone in. Why she had decided that it was easier to feel nothing, than anything at all.
"I know more about you than you think I do," he reminds her.
"You do not know as much about me as you would like."
"So tell me."
"You would not understand."
"How do you know?"
"Because I know you. I know that if I told you, you would look at me differently. You would..."
"Ziva don't you know by now, I like you for exactly who you are."
"Who you think I am," she argues.
"I know that there are pieces that you don't want anyone to see, but at some point, some one is going to have to see them."
"Why should it be you?"
"Why not?"
"I can't," she blinks away tears.
"What is so bad that you can't tell me? After everything you have told me, after everything I know I don't understand what could be so terrible, that I would not understand."
"Everyone has secrets. If I tell you all of mine, then I will have none."
"Please."
"Just drive."
"Talk to me. Why did you let me drive? You never let me drive."
"Sometimes you have to let other people drive."
"Why?"
"I do not always get to be in control."
"I know that, but you rarely admit that. Whatever it is that is bothering you, it must be big."
"Yes," she nods.
"So tell me," he begs.
"A long time ago something happened, and I lost faith. While my faith was renewed, I never got all of it back."
"What happened?"
Ziva looks at her hand, and then she looks at Tony. His eyes meet hers for a brief second, before he redirects them, to the road.
"What was his name?" Tony asks.
"Gabriel," she admits.
"Gabriel? I have never heard you mention him."
"That is because I don't. I do not like to think about him."
"He broke your heart?"
"Sort of," she reveals.
"Who was he?"
"He was my first love."
"Your first love?"
"I met him when I was seventeen."
"What happened?"
"Life," she responds concisely.
"Life? That is pretty vague."
"I had one, he did not."
"Is that figure of speech?"
"No," she shakes her head.
"You never told him?"
"Told him what?"
"That you loved him?"
"He knew."
"He didn't feel the same?"
"He did."
They pull up to their destination. She bails out of the car, without another word.