Hypothetically, if the only choice you got is to do the wrong thing, then its not really a wrong thing; its more like fate. You have to do what you have to do.

We start each day with a blank sheet of paper in front of us, and what we write on it is up to us.

We all have such fateful objects -- it may be a recurrent landscape in one case, a number in another -- carefully chosen by the gods to attract events of specific significance for us: here shall John always stumble; there shall Jane's heart always break.

Maybe our mistakes are what make our fate.

As you grow older, it becomes harder to feel 100 percent happy; you learn all the things that can go wrong, you become superstitious about tempting fate, about bringing disaster upon your life by accidentally feeling too good one day.

Meeting you was fate, becoming your friend was a choice, but falling in love with you I had no control over.