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He had always tried to be good. He had always wanted to be good. Wanted to live up to himself, wanted to live past his circumstances wanted to live well enough, live easily enough, to one day be good.
He knew things didn’t come easily. He knew that you couldn’t choose the easy way out. He knew that being good wasn’t easy, and he didn’t ask that it be easy. All he asked was that it be possible.
(And it hurt when that hope turned out to be the lie he’d always guessed it was.)