Chapter Text
Eventually, they had to head home. The city outside the café had darkened, streetlights blinking to life one by one as the late hour crept in. Shadow had checked the time and muttered something about not wanting to stay out too late—Maria wouldn’t eat without him, and the thought sat heavy in his chest, even if he didn’t say much else.
Rouge simply nodded, grabbing her bag and sauntering toward the door with a practiced ease. Shadow followed a step behind, quiet, hands in his pockets, his thoughts already shifting back to the conversation from earlier. The bet. The plan.
The ride was short—just a few turns through sleepy intersections and down familiar roads. The city was beginning to quiet now, the rush hour long gone. Inside the car, neither of them spoke much. Rouge kept her eyes on the road, the faintest smirk playing on her lips. She didn’t need to say anything—she already knew he was thinking about it. She could practically feel the gears turning in his head.
Shadow sat in the passenger seat, staring out the window but not really seeing anything. His mind was busy sketching out possibilities and lining up the pieces.
Ten weeks. Ten weeks of calculated chaos, of forcing distance where Sonic clearly wanted closeness. Ten weeks to break down whatever image Sonic had of him—to make sure the hedgehog never looked at him the same again.
And at the end of it? Peace. Solitude. Silence. Maybe even the soft thrum of satisfaction from holding that $300 in his hand. Shadow didn’t care much for the money—he just wanted the result. The space. The end of whatever irritating pull Sonic had managed to wrap around him.
Rouge pulled up to the curb in front of his house. Her fingers tapped idly against the steering wheel before she turned slightly in her seat, eyes glinting under the dim glow of the dashboard.
That smirk hadn’t left her face the entire ride.
“So, Friday’s tomorrow,” she murmured. “Got a plan yet?”
Shadow gave a quiet hum, his gaze still focused on his side. After a beat, he nodded once.
Rouge nodded back, lips twitching into a knowing smile. “Good. Because I’m gonna need evidence.”
Shadow turned his head, just enough to glance at her from the corner of his eye. One brow lifted—barely.
“Photos. Notes. Anything that counts,” she clarified, folding her arms loosely. “I want proof of every move you make. I need to see the process in action—see how the great Shadow Robotnik breaks a heart without lifting a finger.”
She let out a chuckle, then tilted her head, eyes narrowing with a playful edge. “No proof, no three hundred. Deal?”
Shadow let out a soft huff through his nose—not annoyed, just resigned. It wasn’t a big ask, not really. He had already considered documenting the whole thing earlier, turning this ten-week operation into a personal log. A kind of record—something he could glance back on like an achievement, a reminder of how he reclaimed his quiet life by cutting off the chaos at its source.
“Yeah, whatever,” he muttered.
The words were low, final.
Without waiting for a reply, he undid his seatbelt, opened the car door, and stepped out into the cool air. He gave Rouge a curt nod over his shoulder before turning and heading up the path to his front door, steps steady and unhurried.
Rouge watched him go, eyes sharp and steady. The corners of her mouth lifted slightly as she started the engine again, the soft purr of the car breaking the silence. And as she pulled away from the curb, she hummed to herself—satisfied, maybe even amused.
This was going to be interesting.
As Shadow approached the front door, his shoes made soft thuds against the pavement, the quiet rhythm of someone familiar with every step.
He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out his keys, the faint jingle of metal slicing through the silence of the porch. With a quiet click, the lock turned, and the door swung open on its hinges. Warm light spilled out instantly.
Maria sat curled comfortably on the living room couch, legs tucked beneath her. The television screen flickered with soft tones, casting changing shadows across her face. She was watching one of those old romance films again—the kind with dramatic music and longing stares. A small smile tugged at her lips as her eyes stayed glued to the screen, but when she heard the door, she turned, and her face lit up.
“Welcome back, Shadow!” she called, voice warm and effortless. “Go change quick. I just finished cooking—ramen’s still hot.”
Shadow’s gaze flicked to the coffee table in front of her. Two bowls sat there, steam curling lazily up from each one. The broth shimmered beneath the light, rich and golden, with noodles bobbing gently in the heat.
He offered her a faint, genuine smile—small, but soft at the edges.
“Alright,” he murmured, voice low and tired but not ungrateful.
He toed off his shoes at the door and placed them beside the rack, carefully aligning them. His steps were quiet as he moved toward the couch, leaning down to wrap his arms around her shoulders in a quick but affectionate hug. It was a ritual by now—every day after school, a wordless reminder that she was the one good thing that never changed.
Maria hummed and patted his arm gently before he pulled away. Her smile lingered.
Moments like this reminded him—no matter how chaotic the outside world felt, no matter how drained he came home—there was always this. The soft and warm lighting, the smell of home-cooked food, and a loving sister waiting for him.
Shadow pointed upstairs with a slight motion, and Maria nodded, already turning back to her movie. She didn’t ask questions. She never did. She just waited patiently for him to come back and sit beside her.
Shadow’s footsteps were quiet on the stairs as he made his way up, the wooden steps creaking beneath him in familiar rhythm. It was the kind of evening where the house felt still—like everything was in its place, as it should be.
He walked into his room and dropped his bag near the bedside table. The clutter of the day faded away with the simple motion of setting it down. He slipped off his socks and placed them in the laundry basket, their fabric warm from the day’s wear. A small, almost unconscious gesture that reminded him of the difference between a hectic school day and the routine of being home.
Shifting into his house slippers, Shadow moved toward his closet, selecting a pair of comfortable clothing.
The steady rhythm of his movements felt like the quiet against the chaos he sometimes carried. The bathroom door clicked shut behind him as he washed his face, the coolness of the water grounding him in a way nothing else could.
It didn’t take long before he was downstairs again, his presence slipping into the living room. Maria hadn’t moved from her spot on the couch, her eyes still locked onto the television.
“Let’s eat now,” Shadow murmured as he sank into the couch beside her, the fabric of the cushions pressing into his back as he settled.
Maria didn’t take her eyes off the screen but responded with a simple nod. Her hand moved without thinking, grabbing the still-steaming bowl of ramen, lifting it carefully like she was used to the heat. Her enthusiasm was contagious.
Shadow rolled his eyes, though there was warmth in the gesture. He grabbed his own bowl from the table, the warmth of the broth reaching his hands as he positioned the chopsticks carefully. The steam rose lazily from the bowl, carrying with it a rich, savory aroma that made the air feel more alive. He took a slow sip, the heat of the broth filling his chest with comfort.
As he set his chopsticks down, he glanced at the television, curious about what had caught Maria’s attention so thoroughly. Shadow wasn’t exactly the type to get swept up in the melodrama of it all, but the way Maria leaned forward, her gaze intense as if she didn’t want to miss a single second, piqued his interest.
The woman’s voice rang through the living room, her words dramatic and raw as she shouted,
“But I love you!”
The rain poured down around them, a steady backdrop to the intense moment between the two characters. The scene felt heavy, thick with unspoken emotions. The man, eyes wide with disbelief, turned to face her, his movements fast, as if he couldn’t contain the urgency of what she had just said. Rainwater clung to both of them, their soaked clothes dripping with the weight of their confession. The tension in the air was palpable.
“I was waiting for you to say that.”
The man’s voice was thick with emotion as he cupped the woman’s face, his thumbs brushing her cheeks with an almost reverent touch. She stared up at him, her gaze soft, filled with awe and something deeper—something that Shadow couldn’t quite understand.
“I didn’t mean to make you mad,” the woman said, her voice trembling. “I forced myself to think that everything we had was nothing. But it was hard… forgetting about it. Because I love you.” Her hands covered his, as if she couldn’t let go of this moment, this truth. The way she said those words.
Shadow leaned back into the couch, watching everything unfold.
The quiet hum of the television was the only sound, apart from the occasional slurp of ramen.
The woman leaned in, their foreheads touching, and Shadow could almost feel the tension in the room. The anticipation of what was coming next—he could tell by the way the scene was building up.
“May I kiss you?” the man asked, his voice low and gentle, yet full of yearning. The woman giggled, her eyes fluttering shut as she nodded. And then, they kissed—softly, deeply, as if their entire world had narrowed down to that one connection, that single moment where everything else faded away.
The kiss lasted for a few seconds, but the film stretched it out. The music swelled, the rain pouring harder outside their fictional world. It was the kind of kiss that felt like a promise, the kind that lingered in the air long after the moment had passed. Eventually, the screen faded, and the credits began to roll, the soft music still playing in the background.
Shadow had finished his ramen long ago, but he hadn’t really realized it. Now, his attention returned to Maria, who hadn’t moved an inch, her eyes turned glossy.
She let out a satisfied huff, her eyes still locked on the screen. “I love this movie,” she murmured, her voice dreamy as she leaned back into the couch, a soft smile on her face. After a moment, she shifted her gaze to Shadow, her grin widening. “Too bad you didn’t catch it. It was so good.” With a final slurp of noodles, she placed her empty bowl down with a contented sigh, clearly pleased by the experience.
Shadow, though not particularly invested, couldn’t help but ask, “What’s it about?” A thread of curiosity tugged at his voice. After all, Maria seemed so absorbed—so moved. Maybe there was more to it than the predictable drama he’d assumed.
“Oh! It’s about two people,” she started, excitement lacing her voice as she gestured with her hands, “They share this incredibly sweet, loving moment in the beginning, and it feels like everything’s perfect.” Maria’s eyes sparkled as she recalled the plot.
“But then—about halfway through—everything shifts. The woman says she wants to forget about all of it. She pushes him away, thinking he’s better off without her. And that’s when the man—” Maria paused, her tone growing more animated, “—he just loves her so much that none of her flaws matter. He tells her she’s perfect just as she is.”
She exhaled deeply, almost as though the weight of those words had sunk into her. The dreamy hum that followed made it clear she was still lost in the world of the film. “I love this movie,” she whispered again, as if to herself.
Shadow blinked, a bit taken aback by how deeply Maria had connected with it. He hadn’t expected her to go on like that. A small chuckle escaped him before he could stop it. “I think that’s enough television for tonight.”
He stood up, grabbing both their bowls. Without another word, he moved toward the sink, the familiar sound of running water filling the space as he rinsed the dishes.
But Maria’s voice pulled him back. “You don’t get it, Shadow!” she said, still fixated on the screen, her tone full of playful exasperation. “You need to watch the whole movie to understand the whole thing!” Her eyes gleamed with enthusiasm, and her grin never wavered, like she was talking about the most important thing in the world.
Shadow smirked as he continued rinsing the bowls, the soft clink of ceramic and water a steady rhythm in the background. “Alright,” he said with a teasing tone, “I’ll take your word for it.” His hands worked mechanically, scrubbing the last remnants of ramen from the bowls. He wasn’t sure he’d ever fully understand what Maria found so captivating, but that wasn’t really the point, was it?
Maria kept her eyes on the screen, still watching even as the credits rolled on. Once they finally ended, she turned on the couch to face Shadow—her back now to the television—while he remained by the sink across the room. When she spoke, her voice had shifted—more thoughtful, almost wistful.
“Romance is such a funny thing, huh? It comes in all different ways,” she murmured.
Shadow glanced over his shoulder as he finished rinsing the bowls, now thoroughly scrubbed and washed, pausing for a moment.
“It could be expected, it could be not,” she continued, her voice barely louder than a whisper now, as though she were talking to herself more than anyone else. Then, with a stretch and a soft sigh, she rose from the couch and made her way toward the staircase.
“Well, I’ll head to my room now. What about you?” Maria asked, her smile wide and her gaze expectant.
Shadow nodded and turned his head to look at her, a faint, almost imperceptible smile tugging at his lips. “I still have something to do.”
Maria nodded faintly, her eyes trailing after Shadow as he gave the final bowl a careful wipe and returned it to the cupboard.
He walked toward her with a barely-there smile, something small but genuine, a trace of contentment in the otherwise calm expression he wore like armor.
Without a word, the two began to make their way upstairs. Their steps were slow, almost synchronized, and the air between them remained peaceful—thick with the familiarity of shared space and silent understandings. The hallway upstairs was dim, lit only by the soft golden glow of the wall sconce at the top of the stairwell. The light fell in gentle pools across the floor, washing their shadows long and thin across the carpet.
They paused when they reached the short distance between their bedrooms—only a few feet apart. Maria lingered by her door, fingers grazing the frame as she peeked toward him one last time.
“Good night, Shadow!” she called cheerfully, her voice still bright, always sunlit no matter the hour. It had that dreamy, floating quality she carried around like a second skin.
Shadow glanced over, his posture still, but his voice warmer than usual. “Good night, Maria.”
She smiled to herself, then slowly disappeared behind her door, the soft click echoing like punctuation in the quiet corridor.
They retreated into their separate worlds.
It was only 7 P.M, but to them, the day was already done. Maria would likely stay curled up in bed, phone in hand, rewatching another one of her favorite romance films—something she’d seen ten, maybe twenty times before. She loved the comfort of knowing exactly how the story would end.
The Robotnik household always went quiet early. It was a habit built over time, stitched into their rhythm. They were used to winding down with the setting sun. On most nights, they’d both be asleep by nine or ten. Unless, of course, Shadow had something pressing—an assignment due, a test to prepare for, or in tonight’s case… a plan to execute.
Shadow stepped into his room with a long, soundless sigh. The air inside was still, faintly cool, and held the subtle scent of clean linen and old paper. The lamp beside his bed cast a gentle glow across the shelves lined with books and sketchpads, all neatly arranged, untouched since morning.
His steps were purposeful as he crossed the room, heading toward his drawer. With a tug, the wooden panel creaked open, the aged runners protesting softly. Inside was a carefully curated chaos: spare pens, unopened packs of sticky notes, a few highlighters, and notebooks—some half-used, some brand new. It was all there, tucked and layered in that meticulous disorder only he could navigate.
Shadow may have appeared laid-back, even disinterested to those around him, but his room—and especially his drawer—told a different story. He was structured. Precise. If something ran out, it needed to be replaced. If something failed, he needed a backup. Everything had its purpose. Its place.
He sifted through the chaos, searching for something specific: a blank canvas to document his plan. After a few moments of rifling through the drawer, he finally found it. A notebook—unused, but not entirely untouched. He could see faint dust particles clinging to the cover, which he brushed off with a satisfied smirk.
His fingers traced the black cover, and for a brief second, his mind wandered. The notebook almost looked like something from a darker world—maybe a death note, he thought. A fitting metaphor, considering the task ahead. But if he got really into it, who knew? He might end up scribbling down a burn book like Regina George’s. He wasn’t particularly fond of that idea, though. He’d much rather go for the somber approach.
With a soft exhale, he walked over to his desk and placed the notebook on the wooden surface, the quiet scrape of it against the grain breaking the stillness of the room. He took a seat and carefully opened the notebook, the pages crinkling faintly under his touch. The first page stared back at him, wide and empty, daring him to begin.
The room felt colder now as he picked up a blue pen from the cup beside him. A mix of different colors—reds, blacks, and greens, but the blue felt more fitting. He stared out the window for a moment, the night settling in around him, the faint glow from the streetlights casting shadows that seemed to blur the edges of reality.
He needed a plan. Not just any plan. A clear, structured one. It was going to be a long haul—ten weeks. Seventy days. No, wait—fifty if he didn’t count weekends. And he wasn’t about to waste his time on weekends.
He stared at the blank page again, his thoughts drifting, weighing the options. The temptation to rush into it, to throw all the frustration and anger into the plan, almost overwhelmed him. But that would be a mistake. No, he had to take it slow. Steady. Methodical. Each step had to be calculated, and he needed to stay in control.
A slow smile tugged at his lips as he settled into the idea.
Every Friday night, he’d write down the most significant moments, the small victories of the week. Each day would follow a simple pattern—nothing too extreme. Documenting the progress. Slowly, but surely. It had to be strategic.
He could do this.
The pen in his hand hovered above the page, unmoving. He was supposed to write—he had to write—about him. That infuriating blue blur who had made himself impossible to ignore.
Shadow let out a quiet breath, then scribbled a few lines. But before he could get halfway through a sentence, his hand stilled. His mind paused, pulled by something distant—something small, but persistent.
He dropped the pen gently onto the notebook and pushed himself up from the chair. The soft creak of his desk chair broke the silence of his room. The floor beneath his slippers felt cool as he padded across it, walking toward the corner where his laundry basket sat tucked between the dresser and the wall. His uniform was folded properly inside, a splash of red among dark tones.
He reached in and pulled out his blazer, its fabric slightly wrinkled from the day’s wear. Carefully, he unfolded it, the scent of hallway dust and leftover cologne faintly lingering. Then, as if on instinct, his fingers slipped into the inner pocket.
There. His fingertips brushed against the edge of something—thin, smooth, slightly curled at the corners. He pulled it out slowly.
The paper felt familiar before he even saw it. A small, blue note. From earlier at school.
He stared at it for a moment in his palm, not unfolding it right away. The room was still, except for the subtle rustling of trees outside his window and the distant sound of a car driving by.
After a pause, he walked back to his desk and sat down again, posture stiffer than before. His hand remained closed around it, knuckles taut. For a second, he debated whether to even look at it again. It wasn’t important. It was just paper. Just words.
But that didn’t stop him.
He slowly set his closed hand atop the desk, fingers loosening. The note unfolded like muscle memory—gentle, precise, like replaying a scene he’d seen one too many times.
His eyes scanned the familiar scrawl. He didn’t need to read it again to remember what it said, but he did anyway.
Like a recording. Something to replay. Something he couldn’t yet throw away.
Shadow,
Brought another strawberry
milk for you to save later!
His thumb hovered just over the edge of the note, tracing its fold like it might change what was written inside. His brows remained knitted in the same furrow they’d taken on the moment he unfolded it. The silence of his room only made it feel heavier, as if the note itself was some great, unspeakable weight.
With a quiet groan, he leaned back in his chair, staring down at it like it had insulted him. The thought of crumpling it and tossing it into the trash crossed his mind more than once. Quick. Simple. Done.
But then another idea slipped in, casual and sly.
Maybe it could be useful. Not in any sentimental way—please, no—but as leverage. A note like that? From him? It might come in handy. For teasing, maybe. Or blackmail. Light blackmail.
He rolled his eyes at himself and grabbed his notebook, flipping to the very back. He slid the note inside, leaving it open just enough that the scribbled, messy writing could still be seen. Barely legible, and yet it felt like it glared at him from between the pages.
With a sigh, he slouched forward, the weight of the moment shifting again as something else nudged at the edge of his thoughts. Along with the note… there’d been that stupid bottle of strawberry milk.
He stood once more with a huff and made his way around the bed to where he always dropped his bag after school. The floor creaked faintly beneath him. Unzipping the bag, he reached inside and, sure enough, there it was. Slightly warm, but still sealed. The bottle caught the light in a soft, almost innocent pink.
He held it in both hands, studying the label. Even if it came from the one person he could barely tolerate, it felt like a waste to just toss it. It was good strawberry milk. And Shadow wasn’t the type to waste anything decent—no matter where it came from.
So, wordlessly, he turned and padded across the room toward his mini fridge in the corner. The cool air brushed against his skin as he opened it. He placed the bottle neatly on the middle shelf.
The door shut with a soft click.
He shook his head at himself, a dry exhale escaping his lips as he returned to his desk. The notebook was still open. The note still visible.
Shadow sat down again, his chair creaking faintly beneath him.
He picked up the blue pen again, the one he’d used earlier. The lamplight above his desk cast a warm glow across the blank page, giving the paper a soft, almost inviting hue.
But what he wrote was far from warm.
He turned the notebook back to its first page, His gaze settled on the words he had scribbled earlier—words born from a mix of annoyance, determination, and, if he was being honest, a touch of spite. Then, in the top left corner of the page, he scrawled:
Loathe Tracker.
The ink bled a little at the edges, sinking into the grain of the page.
This notebook was no longer just a notebook. It was a record. A space for every cruel twist, every smug thought, every foolproof plan that would bring the blue hedgehog down a peg—or ten. Each entry would be calculated. Strategic. Personal.
Officially, he called it The Loathe Tracker.
He leaned back slightly in his chair, glancing around the room. It was quiet except for the faint hum of his mini fridge and the occasional creak of the house settling.
This was his new notebook now. His replacement.
But every time he thought about the one it replaced—the one he’d cherished for so long—his jaw tightened. It made his chest tighten, too. That notebook had pages filled with honest thoughts, private ones. Sketches. Ideas. All of it ruined. Disrespected.
And the reason why?
That obnoxious, infuriating, idiotic blue hedgehog.
He could still see the scene playing in his mind like a reel that refused to stop. Shadow had been in too disbelief to do anything but leave it behind in the library, stunned into silence. That notebook was as good as dead to him now.
There was no fixing what was already broken. That’s what he had always believed.
And yet, even now, the echo of that loss twisted somewhere in his gut.
He blinked, snapping out of the thought, and looked back down at the open page beneath his pen. Focus. This was the new beginning. A petty one, maybe, but a necessary one. He would start from here—start documenting everything about him. The truth. The lies. The irritating persistence. The plan.
Tomorrow marked the last day of the school week. It seemed like the perfect time to begin. Up until now, he hadn’t shown Sonic even the barest thread of attention, except to tell him—repeatedly and with increasing irritation—to leave him alone.
But Sonic? Sonic never listened.
That stubbornness was one of the things he loathed most about him. Or told himself he did.
Still holding the blue pen, Shadow lowered the tip to the next line and wrote:
About Sonic the Hedgehog.
He stared at the words for a moment. The handwriting was firm, sharp, deliberate.
Then he set the blue pen down, reached over to the same cup filled with different colored pens and pulled out a black one instead. The cap clicked off, and he immediately continued, the darker ink bold against the page.
And with that, the next part began.
Line after line, he started to plot. Each step was written with a cold, almost mechanical rhythm, like a checklist dressed as a journal. A satire in disguise. It wasn’t just emotional venting—it was practically a manual.
A how-to guide. A petty, detailed, bullet-pointed guide to loathing someone.
Specifically? A school’s most beloved heartthrob.
And Shadow planned to do it better than anyone ever had.
Loathe Tracker
About Sonic The Hedgehog.
March 06 7:36 P.M
I’ve known him for six months. That’s all it took—for him to arrive, smile, and take up space like he owned it. One foot in the door and the whole school seemed to orbit around him.
Too confident. Too joyous. His laugh? Loud, contagious, always at the center of a crowd. He was immediately likable. People gravitated to him as if they’d been starved for light and he walked in as the sun.
Before the month was over, they were calling him “The Golden Heartthrob”. Ridiculous. But he didn’t shy from the title—in fact, he leaned into it. Like it validated him. Like he wanted it. The moment he accepted that name, something shifted. He became more open. More present. As if the praise emboldened him to turn the charm up even higher.
He flirted with everyone. Smiles, winks, charming little quips that made people melt. But never seriously. Never fully. Never committed. Like he knew the exact amount of affection to give without crossing a line. It was calculated. It had to be. No one is that effortlessly adored.
I watched from a distance. Always from a distance.
He received gifts like he deserved every one. Smiled like he genuinely appreciated them—even the ones he probably hated. That’s the thing—he made people feel seen. And that made it worse. Because none of it felt real.
And still, somehow, he saw me.
He noticed me when no one else did. Just once, at first. A glance. A nod. I ignored it. But he kept doing it. Again and again. Smiling like he knew me, teasing like we were friends, always acting as if I was part of his little world.
I wasn’t. I never asked to be. I don’t even want to be.
He’s loud. He’s impulsive. He has no sense of boundaries or subtlety. And yet, he always manages to pull attention—to draw people in, including me. That’s what I hate the most. I hate that somehow, despite every attempt to stay out of his reach, he keeps finding ways to drag me into his orbit.
He never looked like someone who’d care about grades. But suddenly, he’s tailing me. Always one step behind. Challenging me. Making it a competition I never asked for. I worked for years to be where I am. I bled for it—sleepless nights, meticulous notes, study routines, repetition, sacrifice. That first rank is mine. Earned. Deserved. Not for anyone else. But for me. For something to hold onto—proof of what I’m capable of.
And then he decided—without warning, without explanation—that he’d start chasing it too.
One day, out of nowhere, he just started competing.
He challenged me. In every exam. Every grade. Every opportunity he could twist into a contest. Always a step behind. Always smirking like it was a game. And I won—most of the time. But once... I didn’t.
And I still don’t know how it happened.
That loss clawed at something in me. Because while I was exhausting myself, he made it look easy. Effortless. Like he wasn’t even trying. Like he was meant to be right behind me, or worse, ahead of me. Like it was natural. Like I was disposable.
And it made me question everything. Made me wonder if everything I’ve done means nothing—if someone like him can just step in and take it.
And of all people—for it to be Sonic? No. I can’t accept that.
He’s unbearable. Always throwing that grin at me across the classroom. That damn wink like we’re in on some secret. As if we’ve been building toward something. As if he wants closeness now, not just rivalry. Like he wanted something even more.
What does he want from me?
He grins like he knows something I don’t. Watches me when I study. Leans too close. Talks too much. Smiles too wide. He’s infuriating. Every time I try to shut him out, he slips through again—easy, breezy, like nothing I do matters.
He walks around with those stupid messy blue quills like he’s too good to brush them, like he knows he looks good either way. People fall all over him for it. I’ve seen it. I’ve heard it.
But when he looks at me—it’s different. I can't stand it.
His eyes—those bright, foolish green eyes—they see too much. He studies me. Grins like he understands something I don’t. And I hate that. I hate how he laughs with his whole body. I hate how his eyes barely closes when he smiles too widely. I hate how he listens to people like he genuinely cares. I hate that he remembers names, faces, details no one else would bother keeping. I hate how he’s kind even when no one’s watching. I hate how sincere he is.
I hate how good he is. I hate how real he seems.
He’s everything I don’t understand. And still—he keeps getting closer.
He’s everything people love. Everything I resent. But soon, he’ll hate me too. Just like the others. Just like they always do, even when they know nothing about me.
He’ll see something different. Something cold. Something that doesn’t want him around. Something that might not even be me anymore.
All of it—for him to finally leave me alone. For me to earn the peace I’ve always needed. And the peace he owes me.
Shadow released a slow, heavy breath—one he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, as if the act of writing it all down had taken something out of him. His fingers loosened around the black pen, letting it fall gently beside the notebook with a soft thud.
He leaned back, the chair creaking beneath him, and let his eyes drift over the words he’d scrawled with so much care. Line after line, sentence after sentence—every piece of it about him. Every thought, every observation, every insult laced with just enough veiled emotion to sting.
It was messy. Not the handwriting, no—his handwriting was always neat. But the feelings were. Unfiltered. Sharp. Tangled.
Too much.
His gaze stayed on the page for a moment longer, jaw clenched, chest tight. He huffed and dragged both hands up over his face, pressing his palms hard against his eyes. This was ridiculous. A waste of energy. Why was he doing this? Writing down thoughts like some emotionally repressed teenager pouring his heart into a diary.
Just thinking about Sonic made something churn in his stomach—rage, maybe. Frustration. A sick kind of irritation that always came when someone was too close for too long.
He let his hands fall away and stared at the full page again. The pen’s ink had bled slightly where he pressed too hard. His grip had been tight without realizing. His handwriting, although clean, had more pressure than usual. He could see it now—the lines etched faintly into the next page beneath.
His fingers ran through his quills, tugging lightly at the ends as if the irritation might escape that way. But it didn’t. It lingered.
With a tired exhale, he flipped to a fresh page. The crisp paper glared back at him, too clean, too untouched. He picked up the pen once more, letting it hover above the lines. His thoughts slowed, not because he lacked ideas, but because what he was about to do now felt… more calculated.
More personal.
He was glad Rouge made that bet. As ridiculous as it sounded, it was the only thing that pushed him past the edge of his restraint—gave him the shove he didn’t know he needed. Without her smug little challenge and that sly smile of hers, maybe he would’ve kept all this anger buried beneath forced indifference. Maybe he would’ve continued pretending that Sonic’s presence didn’t grind at him every single day. Maybe he would’ve kept bottling it all in until it spilled over on its own, at the worst possible time.
But she lit the fuse.
He hated how easy it had become to write about Sonic. Hated how much space the hedgehog had taken up in his thoughts, in his life—uninvited, unrelenting. But thanks to Rouge, he finally had a reason to channel all of it. A plan. A goal. Ten weeks. That was all he needed. Ten weeks to ruin the golden image Sonic had built for himself. Ten weeks to make him back off. To erase the illusion that they could be anything more than rivals.
His pen moved again, slower this time. Each plan was noted carefully—nothing too dramatic, nothing too obvious. Just enough to tip the scales. Just enough to make Sonic see someone completely different than whatever version of Shadow he’d conjured up in that annoyingly optimistic brain of his.
Little irritations. Subtle sabotage. Cold detachment.
He rolled his eyes as he wrote, mumbling to himself under his breath.
“Fake golden heart. Self-made heartthrob. Everyone with bad taste can’t seem to get enough of him.”
Tch. Let’s see how long that fantasy lasts.
He added a few more bullet points, the plan forming with startling clarity. It felt good. Like reclaiming something. Like drawing a line.
But even after everything—even with all his confidence, sure that he’d win this bet—there was a gnawing feeling that clung to him, quiet and relentless. He tried to shake it off, but it clung too tightly. Still, he hoped.
Hoped that none of this would backfire.