It was strange, the way things worked out, the way things came, and went. It seemed, when he'd needed – wanted – it the most, it was always gone, or didn't work; then, when he didn't need it, it was there, just there.

Was it just that he didn't know what he wanted, or wanted the wrong things, or thought he needed things that he didn't, and overlooked the things he really needed?

How could he be sure?

He was sure of little, but that the process of living could be mean, to him, and everyone.

Or maybe that was just living?

Disclaimer I don't own the Pretender or any of its characters.