Why did she overshare? Because she knew, from ages ago (she’d caught him at it one day, without him realising), that the people who really wanted to hurt her already knew everything there was to know about her.
For them, there was nothing she could say that would surprise them: they understood her perfectly; could predict absolutely every action and reaction her being would engineer.
But for the people who still managed to love her for being herself – the self she saw as spontaneously, wondrously, truthfully frank; directly, unashamedly, brazenly unpredictable; handsomely, sexily, hopefully real – she still held out a real desire, almost painfully burning like the grasping of lustful passion, that maybe, just maybe, such jumping alive and being uncaged and flying so free could find its replica – its response she meant – via the information her oversharing might serve to provide; might serve to sustain in all of those others who never could predict her next step.
For if by oversharing she could, in some way, redress an awful balance of terrifyingly hierarchical weight – whereby those who wished her ill had all the information, whatever she did, said or felt, and those who wished her well had absolutely no clear view of her being, however hard she protested her reality – she wondered if in the future not only might she be loved by those who had loved her (had clearly always done so) but also, more clearly, more properly – more equally! – she might be understood by these others too: not as a threat to be dealt with (as per those who’d be wishing her ill) but, rather, much more significantly, a person to be cherished and nurtured with grand pleasure: to be valued in her self: to be treasured for the things she yearned might set her apart from the rest (and certainly be treasured for that which set her apart from him).