Just doesn't seem half fair, I tell her in reply to her question, a question to which she already knew the answer. Known it for a long time, I think, but she'd asked anyway, perhaps just to see what I'd do. We could be beautiful, I offer by way of explanation. But she only looks at me expectantly, eyes six fathoms deep, the moment dizzy with potential. If I could make you understand, I finish, as her gaze washes over me with what may be sympathy, and might be disdain. Everything happens for a reason, she says, which is sometimes hard for us to see, and her fingers brush my cheek, my forehead, tracing herself into me. Could have been beautiful, I amend, knowing the moment has passed, and maybe understanding it for what it was.