Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“One at a time, everyone. One at a time.”

The voice rang out, calm and cocky, belonging to none other than the boy who practically ran the place without even trying. He had the kind of confidence that could fill a room, sharp with humor, and carried himself like he knew exactly who he was. Which—he did. But underneath all that swagger, he had a good head on his shoulders. Smart, respectful, stubborn in the best way. The kind of guy who could ace a test, crack a joke, and hold the door open for someone—all before homeroom.

People gravitated toward him. Students, teachers, everyone. He had the charm, the warmth, the easy smile that looked too effortless to be fair. There was something magnetic about him—maybe it was the way he laughed, or how he actually listened when you talked. Whatever it was, it worked.

Every morning, he stepped onto the grounds of Westside Emerald High like he belonged on the front cover of a student handbook. That red blazer with gold trim? It fit him too well. Crisp white shirt, navy slacks, matching tie—it all looked tailor-made. And somehow, it never seemed like he was trying.

He was the bar everyone else measured up to. The guy people talked about in the hallways, stared at during lunch, and wrote about in diary pages.

Sonic the Hedgehog. The Golden Heartthrob.

“Sonic! Please sign my uniform!”

A girl from the crowd pushed forward, holding out a black marker like it was some kind of sacred relic.

Sonic let out a small laugh. “Pretty sure that breaks a rule or two,” he replied with ease, flashing that usual grin that made it hard to tell if he was joking or not.

Before she could argue, he turned, already moving on to the next admirer—this one clearly older than him, which… was a little questionable, but nothing new.

“Sonic! I left something on your locker,” the older girl said, voice soft and hopeful. She twirled a strand of hair between her fingers like it might keep her grounded. “I hope you’ll check it out when you can…”

Sonic gave her a lopsided smile. “I will. Promise.” He held up a hand like he was sealing the deal. “And hey, I’ll bet I’ll even love it.”

The girl let out a flustered giggle before walking off, leaving Sonic right where he always was—in the center of everyone’s attention.

And so, the usual chaos unfolds. Screaming, giggling, whispering—girls and even a few boys crowd around Sonic as he makes his way through campus. Hands reach out with handwritten letters, homemade crafts, jewelry that looks far too pricey for high school, flowers, sweets—anything they can think of to catch his attention.

And, true to his title, the golden heartthrob takes it all in stride. He opens every gift, flashes that signature smile, and thanks them like he genuinely means it. Maybe he does.

Luckily for Sonic, none of them are the obsessive type. No fights, no drama. Just the kind of admiration that borders on ridiculous but never crosses the line. It’s like just existing near him is enough for them—breathing the same air, sharing the same hallway. His presence alone is enough to keep them swooning.

Well… everyone except one particular someone.

Across the campus, someone watched the chaos unfold—arms crossed, expression unreadable, like he was witnessing a storm slowly lose momentum. Sure, the guy had charisma. No denying that. But he wasn’t the type to chase or be chased. Known? Definitely. Popular? Not quite.

Students respected him—for his brains, mostly. Not for anything loud or flashy. He ranked high, aimed higher, and made sure his name stayed right at the top. Teachers liked him too, always trying to push him into contests or school events. He turned them down every time. The spotlight never interested him. Competing on his own terms, in his own quiet way—that was enough.

Six months into the school year, and he hadn’t let up once. Always first. Always ahead.

Shadow Robotnik.

But as the months went by, one particular blue blur had a habit of trailing just behind him—and for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, it got under Shadow’s skin.

He’d never cared when others fell short. In fact, he expected it. But this one? This hedgehog? He was different. Always loud, always grinning, always carrying himself like the world was made for him. Like he had nothing to prove. And maybe that’s what annoyed Shadow the most.

Sonic made everything look easy—like he could coast on charm and still keep up. While Shadow pushed himself day in and day out, the other just… arrived. Effortlessly. And somehow, he was always right there. Just a step behind.

It was irritating. And Shadow couldn’t figure out why it bothered him as much as it did.

Snapping him out of his thoughts, Sonic glanced his way from a few feet off—those bright green eyes locking right onto him.

Shadow’s arms tensed where they were crossed. He watched, jaw tight, as Sonic—true to form—flashed a smug little smirk and threw in a wink for good measure.

Typical.

Shadow rolled his eyes, but of course, that only seemed to amuse him more. Sonic let out a quiet laugh, clearly entertained by the reaction he got.

And that made it worse.

It didn’t take long for students—and even teachers—to pick up on the friction between them. From then on, they were labeled as rivals.

They competed in everything. Every quiz, every event, every chance they got. Shadow found it petty, honestly. Pointless. But somehow, he still showed up, still kept score, if only to knock Sonic down a peg.

And every single time, Shadow won.

Without fail, Sonic would offer his hand after, flashing a grin and calling it “sportsmanship.” That gesture made Shadow grit his teeth every time.

Sonic wore his confidence like armor, ego high and untouchable. But even with all that bravado, he never treated Shadow with the same edge. He was always… friendly. Too friendly. Even when Shadow brushed him off, called him annoying, told him to get lost—Sonic kept showing up. Like it was some kind of game.

And he refused to stop playing.

In Sonic and Shadow’s class, today was the release of their exam scores. The same exam nearly everyone struggled with. But Shadow felt confident. He’d studied hard for this—sleepless nights, endless pages—and now all that was left was to wait.

He sat near the back, arms crossed, watching as the teacher began reading scores aloud.

“Shadow Robotnik. 98 out of 100.”

A few students clapped, surprised. Some even turned to look at him in awe. So far, he was the first to pass—and with the highest score at that. Most of the others were barely hitting 50.

He expected this. Still, he didn’t allow himself the satisfaction of a smirk. Instead, he looked away and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

Truth was, for all the confidence he projected when it came to academics, the nerves never really left him.

“Sonic the Hedgehog. 99 out of 100.”

The room erupted. Cheers, whistles, applause—like someone had just scored a winning goal.

Shadow’s eyes snapped up, landing on the figure sitting two rows ahead. Sonic had already turned in his seat, that ever-present grin aimed right at him.

Shadow’s grip on his pen tightened, knuckles pale, the plastic nearly cracking under pressure.

“Congratulations, Sonic. Highest score in the class. Keep it up!” Even the teacher clapped.

And Sonic? Still smiling, like it was personal. Like he knew exactly what he’d done. His grin only grew.

Shadow’s stare darkened. He clicked his tongue, looked away, forced his pulse to steady. Cool it.

This was a first. The first time Sonic had ever scored higher than him.

Because he was always supposed to be one step behind.

Even after the bell rang and the first few classes ended, Shadow couldn’t get that score out of his head.

Outside the classroom, the hallway buzzed with students heading to the cafeteria. Laughter echoed down the corridors, the sound of chairs scraping, shoes squeaking on linoleum floors. Talk of fries, sweets, and iced drinks floated through the air as the scent of something warm and buttery crept in.

But the classroom? Empty.

Empty except for two hedgehogs.

Shadow stayed in his seat at the back, hunched slightly over his desk. He hadn’t moved since the teacher dismissed them. Pen still in hand, he scribbled something—notes, a sketch, maybe just a distraction. He wasn’t sure.

Sonic stood up a few rows ahead, the quiet creak of his chair breaking the silence. Footsteps echoed as he walked toward the back. Shadow didn’t look up.

Instead, he kept his eyes fixed on the page in front of him, pretending not to hear the steps stop beside him.

Then came the familiar scrape of a chair. Sonic sat down next to him, unbothered.

“You did great, Shadow,” he said softly.

His voice wasn’t teasing this time. It was calm, sincere. Genuine, even.

Shadow’s pen paused.

“Congrats to the both of us,” Sonic added, resting his head on one hand, elbow propped on the table. His smile was easy, like it always was—but it didn’t feel smug this time.

Shadow turned to him with a glare. “Leave me alone.”

Sonic only hummed in reply, standing with a shrug. “Alright then.”

He turned and walked away without another word.

Shadow watched him go, the door clicking quietly. He let out a breath and muttered under it, “Good riddance.”

Though unexpectedly, just a few minutes later, the door creaked open again.

Sonic stepped back inside, carrying a handful of snacks like it was no big deal, and made his way to the seat he’d left earlier without missing a beat.

“Hey, I brought food,” he said casually, settling in as if nothing had happened. “Figured we could share.”

He unwrapped a sandwich, took a big bite, and chewed with the satisfaction of someone who hadn’t just been dismissed.

Shadow didn’t say anything at first. His eyes flicked to the foods now scattered on his desk—cookies, a pack of chips, two milk cartons, and a familiar pink one that made his eyebrow twitch. Strawberry milk.

“Do you not understand the words ‘leave me alone’?” he muttered, tone flat but edged.

Sonic just kept chewing, mouth full, and spoke through a grin. “Can’t hear you. I’m eating.”

Shadow exhaled, sharp and quiet. Of course he didn’t leave. Of course he brought snacks. And of course, of all the drinks, there had to be strawberry milk.

He hesitated for a second, jaw clenched—but hunger won. Without a word, he reached for the pink carton and popped the lid. He brought it to his lips, eyes still fixed on his desk, refusing to acknowledge Sonic sitting beside him.

But Sonic noticed. He always did.

He kept chewing, watching Shadow out of the corner of his eye, that faint smile returning as he hummed under his breath, satisfied.

Shadow pretended not to hear it.

The rest of break passed without another word between them. Just the quiet hum of the old classroom fan overhead and the occasional rustle of sandwich wrappers or chip bags.

For once, they were… calm. Not at each other’s throats. No sarcastic remarks, no eye rolls. Just coexisting.

Shadow’s pen scratched lightly against his notebook, the lines and scribbles from earlier sharpening into something more purposeful—neatly written notes, formulas, little underlines and highlights as he prepped for the next class. Focused, methodical. As always.

Sonic didn’t say much. He lounged beside him, tilted back in the seat like it was his own living room. He popped a chip into his mouth every few seconds, the crunch echoing in the quiet room. His leg bounced lazily, his eyes trailing over the notes Shadow was writing.

There was something strangely fascinating about watching the other work. Sonic didn’t admit it out loud, but Shadow had a rhythm to him. Something calculated, like everything had to be done just right. Like even his handwriting had something to prove.

He reached into the chip bag again and leaned closer. “Want one?”

Shadow didn’t look up. “No.”

Sonic smirked, shrugged, and kept eating. “Didn’t think so.”

Typical.

They sat like that—two very different storms finally lulled into a quiet lull. The classroom around them buzzed with faint noise from the hallway, muffled footsteps and laughter, the distant chatter of other students enjoying their break. But inside this room, it was just them, and a kind of silence that was weirdly… bearable.

Maybe even nice.

Shadow didn’t glance over, didn’t react, but for once—he didn’t ask Sonic to leave, either.

The rest of the school day passed in a blur—bells ringing, students rushing, voices echoing through the halls. The usual rhythm. For Shadow, it was just another routine he slipped through without thought. He kept his head low, eyes forward, his mind still circling around a certain score that shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did.

By late afternoon, the sky had already begun to dim, casting long shadows across the courtyard. That’s where he found himself—once again, seated inside a café with a familiar cup of bitter coffee and his usual company.

She sat across from him, one leg crossed over the other, sipping on something iced and sweet. Her indoor sunglasses were perched lazily on her head and her entire posture screamed effortless cool.

She talked with her usual flair, words spinning through every known school scandal, hallway drama, and whispered rumor like she was flipping through a magazine only she had the subscription to.

Shadow didn’t say much. He never really did. He just sipped his coffee, gave the occasional nod, and grunted here and there to let her know he was still listening—or at least trying to.

She arched a brow at him mid-sentence, a sly grin tugging at her lips. “Say, Shadow… anything exciting going on in your class? You look like you swallowed a lemon.”

Rouge the Bat.

A year older, a little wiser, and somehow always at the center of everything without ever getting touched by the chaos. She was the kind of friend people admired from a distance but didn’t know how to approach. Flirty, clever, confident. She didn’t need a crowd to prove her worth—just a few close people she actually cared about.

And somehow, Shadow ended up being one of them.

They’d known each other for nearly three years now. Long enough for her to read the shift in his mood without needing him to say a word. Long enough for her to know something—or someone—had gotten under his skin today.

She sipped her drink and waited. Shadow didn’t answer right away. He looked past her, watching out the window.

She tapped a freshly manicured teal nail against her plastic cup, the ice clinking softly inside as condensation dripped lazily down the sides. Leaning back on her seat with a dramatic sigh. Her expression somewhere between exhausted and theatrically over it.

“Because mine’s just—ugh—straight-up boring,” she groaned, giving her head a small shake. “Like, coma-inducing levels of boring.”

Her eyes slid toward Shadow, expectant and mildly amused, waiting for whatever sarcastic quip he’d throw back.

Shadow didn’t even blink. He brought the coffee to his lips, took a slow sip, and muttered without looking at her, “When has our class—or hell, the entire school—ever been exciting?”

Rouge chuckled under her breath, that knowing smirk curling at her lips as she stirred her drink with a straw. “Touché,” she hummed, casually tossing her hair over her shoulder. “You’ve got me there.”

She paused, letting the silence settle for a moment. Then she leaned in again, voice lighter, eyes gleaming with mischief.

“This is why, once we crawl our way out of this god-awful senior year, I’m dragging you with me to a way better school. New city. New scene. People who actually have taste.”

Her tone carried the kind of excitement that came from daydreams spun too many times—wild, dramatic, but rooted in something honest. As if she already saw it: different halls, better people, a cleaner slate.

Shadow raised an eyebrow, unconvinced but mildly entertained. “You planning the great escape already?”

Rouge ignored his dry tone and grinned wide. “Of course. I’m not sticking around here longer than I have to. And I’m not leaving you behind, grump.”

Then she glanced down at her outfit and perked up. “Although, the only thing I’ll give this place credit for… is the uniforms.”

She let out a laugh and reached into her bag to fish out her phone. Still in her crisp white blouse and red blazer over with her pleated skirt, she held up her camera and struck a quick pose, lips pursed, sunglasses lowered onto her nose just for effect.

Snap.

She turned the phone to show him the shot, glancing between the screen and his expression. “Come on, admit it. We look good in these. You in that blazer? Iconic.”

Shadow didn’t bother to look, just sipped his coffee again. But the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth didn’t escape her.

Rouge leaned back, satisfied. “Thought so.”

She was now comfortably settled in her seat, lazily stirred her drink with her straw before casting a glance again at the gloomy hedgehog across from her.

“You’re quiet today,” she said, her tone light but laced with observation. Her eyes narrowed just slightly, like she was trying to read something between his lines.

Shadow didn’t meet her gaze. Instead, he let his eyes trail the rim of his coffee cup as he gave a low, dull response. “I’m always quiet.”

Rouge arched a brow, “Mm. Not this quiet.”

She let her words hang in the air while watching him, arms crossed loosely, her expression casual but focused. Shadow didn’t say anything in return, but his posture gave him away. He wasn’t sulking—he never did that—but there was something stiffer about the way his shoulders sat. The way his fingers tapped restlessly against the cup. The way his jaw tensed, then relaxed, then tensed again.

She’d known him long enough to pick up the signals.

The way he avoided eye contact whenever something was gnawing at him. The subtle fidget in his fingers—folding and unfolding, flexing and tightening—whenever his mind spiraled into overthinking. The quickened, shallow rhythm of his breath when something threw him off balance, even if he pretended otherwise.

Right now, all of it was happening at once.

“Spill it.” Rouge’s voice cut through the lull in conversation, crisp and direct. Her teal-painted fingers tapped the rim of her cup, matching the sharp look in her eyes. She wasn’t playing anymore.

Across from her, Shadow’s brow knit tighter. He didn’t flinch, didn’t meet her gaze—just sank a little deeper into his seat as if the coffee in his hand could somehow distract her.

“What is there to spill?” he muttered almost defensively, the tension in his jaw betraying his attempt to stay indifferent.

Rouge arched a perfectly groomed brow, letting out a quiet sigh as she sipped from her drink.

“Shadow, please,” she said, tone dripping with exasperation and familiarity. “You’ve been radiating drama since you sat down.”

He didn’t answer right away. His fingers curled into a fist against the side of his cup, then uncurled again in a silent rhythm. She watched the movement—subtle, but telling. His gaze dropped to the table.

He exhaled slowly. “It’s just…”

A pause. Then another breath.

“It’s about Sonic.”

There it was.

Rouge didn’t say anything at first—amused but unsurprised. “You’re still stuck on that pettiness with Blue?” she said, flipping her hair off her shoulder with a flick of practiced flair.

Shadow shot her a look but didn’t deny it. “He just—” His voice trailed into a sigh as he shook his head. “He gets under my skin. Everything about him is just loud and smug and…” He simply groaned under his breath.

Rouge grinned over the rim of her cup, the smirk practically audible in her voice. “The more you hate, the more you love~” she teased, singing the words in a mocking lilt.

Shadow groaned once more, placing two fingers on his temple as if the words alone are causing him a headache. “Not this crap again.”

She laughed outright, loud enough to draw a glance from a couple of tables away. Shadow didn’t even bother hiding his eye roll.

Once she caught her breath, Rouge reached across the table and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“One day, you’re gonna thank me,” she said through a grin, still chuckling. “I’ve got instincts for these things.”

“Yeah, instincts and zero boundaries,” Shadow muttered, brushing her hand off like swatting a fly.

She didn’t press it further. Not now.

Instead, she took another sip of her drink and leaned back again, smirking like she already knew how this was going to end.

Another wave of gossip poured out of Rouge’s mouth, effortlessly entertaining yet somehow exhausting. Her words filled the quiet corners of the café, the low hum of conversation around them having thinned out as the evening crowd slowly trickled in. The warm glow of hanging lights above cast amber shadows across the table, now cluttered with empty cups and crumpled napkins.

A soft buzz from her phone broke her rhythm. She checked the screen, then sighed.

“Six already,” she murmured. Her voice lost its usual teasing lilt—more matter-of-fact now. She reached for her bag and stood up, stretching a little from sitting so long. “Let’s go.”

Shadow didn’t respond right away. He moved slowly, finally pushing himself out of his chair with the same drained expression he’d worn all day. They stepped out of the café, the evening air cooler now, breezing through the city streets with the scent of something floral and distant.

Rouge walked a few paces ahead before glancing back to make sure he was still with her. He was—quiet as ever—hands shoved into his pockets, eyes low.

They reached her car, parked in its usual spot just across the street. The pink paint caught the glint of streetlights as she unlocked it with a soft beep. Neither of them spoke as they slid into their seats, the doors clicking shut with a low thud.

This was routine now. School, café, then the drive home. Shadow never learned to drive. Not even a bike. And somewhere between convenience and habit, Rouge had just started bringing him home every day.

The car rumbled to life, headlights cutting through the evening as she pulled onto the road. Shadow leaned his head against the window, cheek brushing cool glass. Outside, the world blurred in motion—streetlights flickering past, trees shivering in the breeze, and above it all, stars beginning to show through the darkening sky.

His reflection stared back at him faintly in the glass. He looked tired. Not just from the day, but from something else he couldn’t quite pin.

That cocky hedgehog…

The thought burned in the back of his mind, uninvited. His jaw tensed.

There was something about Sonic that irritated him beyond reason. The way he smiled like he owned the whole room. The way he never took anything seriously. That stupid congratulations from him after scoring higher on the exam—it was infuriating. Even with that strawberry milk from earlier’s break time that Sonic bought for him.

And yet… it lingered.

He hated how it lingered.

Rouge drove in silence, glancing at him every now and then, but not saying a word. She knew when to let things simmer.

And Shadow, still leaning against the glass, just stared up at the stars—glittering, indifferent—wishing he could focus on anything else.

The drive passed in quiet. City lights drifted past in soft streaks, glowing against the windshield like fireflies. Rouge didn’t say much—not out of awkwardness, but familiarity.

A few minutes later, her car rolled to a smooth stop in front of a modest two-story house tucked between a line of quiet neighbors. The engine idled gently, headlights casting a pale wash across the pavement.

But Shadow didn’t move.

He was sitting still, upright, not asleep, not unaware—but somewhere else entirely in his mind.

Rouge glanced over from the driver’s seat. She didn’t push. Instead, she folded her arms loosely and waited, letting him take the silence for what it was.

Inside, Shadow was caught in a loop he couldn’t seem to pull himself out of. He didn’t understand why the thought of Sonic beating him to a test score—by one measly point—had latched itself to his brain like a splinter.

It shouldn’t matter. But it did.

And what bothered him more was why it did.

He exhaled sharply, jaw clenched as he stared at the shadowy blur of trees outside his window.

Rouge eventually reached out, fingers gently tapping the edge of his armrest. Her voice came quiet, low enough that it didn’t disturb the moment too much.

“We’re here.”

The words snapped him back. His shoulders tensed for a second before he straightened, blinking once as if surfacing from deep water. He glanced to his side, and sure enough—there it was. His house. Home.

“Right,” he muttered, almost to himself, fingers reaching to unbuckle his seatbelt. He pushed the car door open and stepped out into the cool night air.

Before he could walk off, Rouge leaned toward the window, her voice following him with a light smirk. Not teasing—at least, not fully. There was concern tucked beneath the mask.

“Take a rest, Shadow. We’ll talk tomorrow, alright?”

Shadow gave her a slow nod without turning back, his grip on the strap of his bag tightening. He made his way to the front door, quiet steps on the stone path. The key in his pocket felt heavier than usual as he slid it into the lock and stepped inside with a muted sigh.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Back in the car, Rouge lingered a second longer. She tapped her nails against the steering wheel and let out a chuckle under her breath—more fond than amused.

“Oh, Shadow… you’re such a mystery sometimes.”

Then, with a flick of her wrist, she started the engine again and pulled away from the curb, fading into the night like she’d never been there at all.

The moment Shadow pushed open the front door, the scent of garlic and tomato greeted him like a welcome he didn’t realize he needed. The warmth of the house wrapped around him—familiar, quiet, and full of life in a way only one person could manage.

Maria Robotnik. Shadow’s older sister.

She was already on her feet before he could say anything, stepping away from the living room with a bright smile, the hem of her cardigan swaying slightly behind her.

“There you are!” she called out with that usual excitement in her voice, crossing the hallway to meet him halfway. Her arms wrapped around him without hesitation, pulling him into a soft, tight hug that smelled like lavender and whatever shampoo she’d use today.

Shadow didn’t say a word—but his shoulders dropped, and he let his eyes fall shut.

Maria had always been that for him. A grounding point. His safe space. The only person who could silence the constant static in his head with just a hug.

Even now, that quiet moment of comfort was enough to loosen the tension in his chest.

She pulled back slightly and gave him a warm look, hands still on his arms. “Come on,” she said with a little nudge, “I made spaghetti!”

Shadow gave her a tired, barely-there smile as he stepped out of his shoes. “You didn’t have to wait.”

“But you know I don’t like eating alone,” Maria replied with a mock pout, her tone playfully exaggerated, even if her eyes held that usual tenderness.

Shadow nodded gently. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Maria just smiled and reached up to ruffle his head. “Go change. I’ll set the table.”

He watched her retreat to the kitchen—light on her feet, humming under her breath like she always did when she was proud of her cooking.

Shadow lingered for a second in the hallway before exhaling through his nose and heading upstairs. The familiar creak of the wooden steps followed behind him as he made his way into his room.

He dropped his bag beside his desk, already loosening the collar of his uniform.

And for a moment—just a moment—everything felt quiet again.

The soft clinking of utensils echoed in the quiet dining room, accompanied by the occasional hum of the fridge and the distant chirping of crickets outside their window. The evening air was calm, shadows stretching long through the warm-toned kitchen lights.

Maria twirled her fork into her plate of spaghetti with practiced ease, watching the steam rise and swirl above the dish. Her hair was tied loosely, a few strands falling across her cheek as she tilted her head with a gentle smile.

“So, how was the exam you’ve been prepping for days?” she asked casually, voice light between bites. Her tone didn’t press, but the question lingered in the air like an open door.

Shadow sat across from her, back straight, shoulders stiff, eyes focused on the food in front of him. He poked his spaghetti for a second longer than needed before finally replying, “I got a 98.”

His voice was soft, almost reluctant, like he wasn’t sure it mattered.

Maria’s eyes lit up instantly. “Oh wow! That’s amazing, Shadow!” she exclaimed, her face splitting into a wide, beaming grin. “I’m so proud of you.”

She reached across the table to gently nudge his arm, her enthusiasm never once feeling forced. And despite himself—despite the storm still quietly brewing in the corners of his mind—Shadow felt a flicker of warmth break through. His lips twitched upward into a faint smile.

“Thank you, Maria,” he murmured, and for a moment, it was easy to pretend everything was fine.

The clatter of silverware resumed, the two of them falling into a familiar rhythm—the sound of chewing, the passing of napkins, the occasional glance toward the clock on the wall. But Maria’s eyes kept flicking toward him. Shadow could feel it, even if she was trying to play it cool.

Eventually, she set her fork down with a gentle clink and leaned forward slightly. “You okay?”

It wasn’t an invasive question. It was soft. Quiet. Just enough to let him know she noticed.

Shadow froze for a second, fork mid-air. His mouth parted, ready to dismiss it with a half-hearted lie, but nothing came out. He shut it again. Swallowed.

He couldn’t lie to her. Not Maria.

He placed his fork down slowly and exhaled, the sound tired, strained. “Something’s just… been bothering me. Since earlier.”

Maria’s features shifted. The brightness in her eyes dimmed with concern.

“What’s wrong?” she asked gently, her voice barely above a whisper.

There was a pause before Shadow answered. He didn’t look at her at first, just stared at his now-lukewarm plate as if the words would be easier to say to the spaghetti.

“You… know Sonic, right?”

Maria nodded slowly. Her expression didn’t change—she didn’t jump to conclusions or press him further. She simply nodded, still and quiet, waiting for whatever came next.

Shadow’s fingers toyed with the edge of his fork, metal tapping lightly against the plate.

“I don’t know why it’s making me this mad,” he muttered, voice low, barely more than a breath. “But… he scored a point higher.”

His eyes stayed locked on the table, as if even looking at Maria would make the words harder to say. His jaw tensed.

“It shouldn’t bother me this much,” he added after a beat, frustration tangled in his tone. “But it does.”

He let out a sigh and shifted in his seat. The words didn’t land the way he wanted them to. They barely scraped the surface. He could feel the weight pressing on his chest, but all he could manage was to blurt the most surface-level version of it. Something safe. Something obvious.

Maria stayed silent, watching him carefully from across the table. The warmth in her expression never dimmed. She knew Shadow—better than anyone. She knew he didn’t unpack things easily. His thoughts didn’t pour out like hers did. They had to be pulled, gently, without pressure. Feelings were still a strange language for him, one he didn’t always know how to speak.

So she didn’t interrupt. She leaned forward slightly, resting her arms on the table, and waited.

Shadow drew in a breath and spoke again, this time his grip tightening around the fork, knuckles pale against the handle.

“I just…” he trailed off, swallowing the lump in his throat. “He did it so effortlessly. Like it meant nothing to him.”

His voice lowered, each word laced with irritation and something else—something raw and unspoken.

“That snarky, arrogant show-off,” he hissed, eyes narrowing at the invisible image of Sonic conjured in his mind. “He barely tried, and still—he beat me.”

He gave a hollow laugh and shook his head.

“And then he had the nerve to congratulate me. Congratulate us. Like it wasn’t a big deal.”

There was no anger in that last part. Just confusion. Weariness. His eyebrows furrowed as his walls started to slip.

“I thought we had a rivalry,” he said, voice quieter now, but more honest. “I thought he was trying to beat me. To rub it in. But the second he did, he just… congratulated me. Smiled even.”

He paused again, eyes flicking upward toward Maria. There was a flicker of hesitation there, the kind he only let show when he was close to the edge of saying something that mattered.

“I expected him to laugh at me. To gloat. To throw it in my face that I lost. That I wasn’t good enough.”

The last words came out more brittle than he intended, like he was only just realizing what they meant as he said them. And then he fell silent, finally lifting his gaze to meet hers.

Maria didn’t say anything right away. Her face was soft, brows slightly furrowed, but not with pity—never with pity. Just quiet understanding. The kind you don’t have to earn or explain yourself to. She saw him.

And that, more than anything, helped him breathe again.

Maria stirred her spaghetti with her fork absentmindedly before speaking, her voice calm and thoughtful—just like it always was.

“You know, Shadow…” she said, offering him a soft smile across the table, “we can’t really assume what someone else is feeling just by how they look. You think Sonic did it effortlessly, but… what if he studied just as hard as you did?”

Her words landed gently, but with weight. Not confrontational. Not dismissive. Just… gently honest. It was one of the things Shadow respected and loved most about Maria—she never pushed, only offered, and somehow always saw right through him.

For a brief second, he blinked. Her suggestion tugged at a new corner of his thoughts. He hadn’t considered that. Or maybe he had, but brushed it off because it was easier to be irritated. Easier to believe Sonic was mocking him by not even trying.

The idea sat with him quietly.

He didn’t respond right away, but Maria wasn’t finished.

“And besides,” she added, a playful grin tugging at her lips, “I bet he’s really happy about it too—that both of you scored so high on something no one else even passed.”

She let out a soft chuckle, the kind that naturally warmed the room without trying to. The dining light glinted in her blonde hair, and the faint sound of their wall clock ticking filled the space between them.

“You should be happy too,” she said, with a knowing look.

Shadow’s posture slowly relaxed, his fingers loosening around his fork. The sharp sting of his frustration hadn’t vanished entirely—he still didn’t like Sonic, and he wasn’t about to pretend otherwise—but Maria’s words had dulled the edge. He could breathe through it now. The pressure on his chest wasn’t crushing him anymore.

He gave a small nod, the corners of his lips lifting into something faint, but real.

“Yeah… maybe you’re right,” he murmured.

Even if he still wanted to punch that smug grin off Sonic’s face… he wasn’t boiling inside anymore. And that, for tonight, was enough.

The front door swung open with a dramatic creak, followed by a voice that could wake the dead.

“What up, fam!” Sonic hollered as he stepped into the house, dropping his bag with a thud. He kicked off his shoes in a rush, leaving them scattered by the door.

The response came fast—like muscle memory.

“Sonic!” came the familiar shout from down the hallway. Miles, also known as Tails—zipped into view.

“Hey, little bro!” Sonic grinned, already brimming with pride. “Guess what? Scored a ninety-nine on the exam i’ve been studying for days!” He puffed out his chest, tossing a thumb at himself like he just saved the planet. “Looks like I’m catching up to you, genius.”

Tails blinked, lips pursed thoughtfully for a second. “Still suck at science and geometry, though,” he quipped with a mischievous grin.

Sonic laughed as Tails jumped up, reaching to slap his brother’s hand in a high five. “But you did great!” Tails added with a giggle.

Sonic ruffled the fur on Tails’ head as he walked further into the house, his nose already picking up the savory smell wafting from the kitchen.

“Yo, Knux!” Sonic called out. “You made dinner yet or what?”

Across the living room, Knuckles sat on the floor with a dumbbell in one hand, flexing his arm like he was in the middle of a commercial. He didn’t bother looking up.

“Yeah,” he answered with his usual deadpan. “Made katsu.”

Sonic’s eyes immediately lit up. “Sweet! I’m starving!”

He slid across the floor in his socks and hurried upstairs to his room. The house echoed with the rhythm of a typical evening—the smell of fried chicken katsu, the sound of Tails humming something while busying himself, and Knuckles grumbling under his breath as he counted reps.

Everything felt normal. Warm. Lively. And loud—just the way Sonic liked it.

The dining table was comfortably cluttered—ceramic plates, soy sauce dishes, and a pitcher of iced tea halfway between empty and full. The overhead light cast a soft amber glow across the room, warming the wooden tones of the house as the three brothers sat down for dinner.

Knuckles set the last plate down with a small clatter before finally taking his seat. The scent of freshly fried chicken katsu filled the air, crispy breading still crackling under the heat. Sonic didn’t even wait for the steam to fade—he jabbed his chopsticks into the first piece and shoved it into his mouth with zero hesitation.

“Mmm—dude,” he mumbled mid-chew, waving a hand in front of his face as the heat hit him. “You seriously make the best food, Knux.”

He didn’t even finish cooling it down, just kept blowing between bites like he couldn’t stop even if he tried.

Across the table, Knuckles let out a short laugh under his breath, a half-smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t say anything right away—he didn’t have to. Sonic said that every time. And even if it was predictable by now, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like hearing it.

Tails was already halfway through his own plate, quietly humming as he ate, occasionally pausing to flick through something on his gadget propped against a napkin holder.

It didn’t take long for Sonic to clear his plate. He practically inhaled the last bite of katsu, mumbled a thanks to Knuckles mid-chew, and rushed over to the sink. The water ran as he quickly rinsed off the evidence of his meal, not bothering to linger for conversation.

“Gonna crash,” he called out as he padded across the wooden floor. His voice echoed faintly down the hall. “Long day.”

He took the stairs two at a time.

The second his bedroom door clicked shut, Sonic let out a breath and flopped back onto his bed. The springs creaked beneath him, and for a moment, he just laid there—arms splayed out, shoes kicked off, his eyes trained on the ceiling fan spinning slow, lazy circles overhead.

His muscles were tired, but his brain wouldn’t rest.

Shadow.

The name hovered in his thoughts like a song he couldn’t get out of his head. Something about the way the day played out—quiet, strange, and definitely not what he expected—kept replaying in loops behind his eyes.

During break time, he had brought snacks, something to congratulate the both of them for earning such a high score. Chips, cookies, sandwiches. And of course, two cartons of milk—one chocolate, one strawberry.

Shadow had grumbled to leave him alone, just like always. But this time, he didn’t actually push him away. He didn’t walk off. He didn’t roll his eyes or scoff and storm off like he usually did.

He stayed.

And out of all the things Sonic had brought, the only thing Shadow reached for was the strawberry milk.

Sonic smiled faintly at the ceiling, his hands now fidgeting with the edge of his blanket, thumbs brushing fabric in absent rhythm.

So he likes strawberry milk, huh.

It was such a small thing, stupid even—but it stuck with him. Maybe because it was new. Maybe because it felt like a crack in that cold, hard shell Shadow wore around himself like armor.

Sonic turned to his side, pulling his pillow closer as a little grin curved at the edge of his mouth.

Tomorrow, he’d bring strawberry milk again. No questions. No announcements. Just… slide it toward him, like it meant nothing.

But it did mean something.

From the first day Sonic stepped into that school, Shadow had been impossible to ignore. Always quiet, always distant, always tucked in the corners of the room like he didn’t want to be seen—but somehow still magnetic in his silence. Sonic couldn’t explain why, but his curiosity never left. There was something about the guy that made him want to know more.

Sure, everyone called them rivals now. Two top students, head-to-head in everything from test scores to club achievements. But Sonic wasn’t so sure that’s all there was to it. Rivalry sounded easy—this felt… messier. Complicated in ways he didn’t know how to untangle yet.

He tucked his arm under his head, the grin fading into something more thoughtful.

Tomorrow would be the same as always. Same routine. Same chatter in the halls. Same pile of gifts waiting in his locker. But he knew what he was actually looking forward to.

Seeing Shadow again.

Even if it was just a glance across the hallway or a quiet moment in the empty classroom during break time again—Sonic would be ready with a strawberry milk in hand.

Chapter Text

6:00 A.M.

The alarm clock blared in sharp, rhythmic beeps across the dim room. But for once, it wasn’t slapped into silence by a groggy hand and shoved off for five more precious minutes.

Sonic was already up.

He stood in front of his full-length mirror, adjusting the cuffs of his red school blazer with the kind of quick efficiency that suggested he’d been awake longer than the clock claimed. His reflection stared back at him—quills a little messy, collar sharp, expression unusually focused. With a final tug at the hem, he nodded to himself, flashing a half-smirk.

“Lookin’ good,” he muttered under his breath before pivoting on his heel.

His room, as usual, was organized chaos. Socks tossed near the bed, school bag half-zipped and sitting where he dropped it last night. He scooped it up, shoved the socks on without much precision—heel twisted, but who cared—and made for the door in a blur of movement.

He practically skated across the wooden floor, using the hallway wall to propel himself forward. His momentum carried him right to the stairway railing—and without hesitation, he swung his leg over and slid down.

“Woah—!” His balance wobbled at the end, one foot almost missing the landing, but he caught himself just in time.

The house was already stirring. The scent of buttered toast and bacon drifted in from the kitchen, and faint clatter echoed as someone shuffled around.

Once Sonic landed in the living room with a soft thud, he was greeted by the usual controlled chaos of a weekday morning.

Tails was already halfway through his breakfast, eyes bouncing between the screen of his tablet and the news playing low on the television. Knuckles stood by the stove, spatula in hand, flipping strips of bacon like it was a sport.

Tails glanced up—and blinked in visible surprise. “Sonic? Aren’t you usually still in bed by now?”

“Yeah, bud! But, uh—” Sonic trailed off mid-sentence, making a sharp turn toward the kitchen like a man on a mission.

He swiped a freshly toasted slice of buttered bread served on the table before the steam had even cleared. “Ahh—hot!” he winced, fanning the toast dramatically and then taking a bite anyway. The crunch echoed through the room.

He poured himself a glass of water, drained it in one breath, then set the cup down with a quiet clink.

Knuckles raised an eyebrow without turning away from the stove. “You in a rush?”

“Kinda,” Sonic muttered through another hasty mouthful, now snagging a strip of bacon off the plate before Knuckles could slide it to the table.

Knuckles sighed, but didn’t protest. “Always gotta make some kind of grand entrance, huh?”

Sonic smirked, grabbing a second glass of water. “Please. I don’t need an entrance for them to love me.”

Knuckles snorted under his breath. “Sure thing, Mr. Cocky.”

“Hey, I’m not cocky,” Sonic replied, already halfway across the room, grabbing his bag from the side of the couch as he spoke. “I’m just—confident.”

He dropped to the floor near the door and began yanking on his shoes with reckless speed, laces short and tangled.

Tails looked over, grinning. “You kinda are, though.”

Sonic looked up with a lopsided smile, not missing a beat. “I’m confident,” he repeated with mock pride, then stood tall as if he’d just won a debate.

“Welp, I’m out!” he said, waving a quick goodbye and pushing the front door open with the heel of his palm.

“Bye, Sonic!” Tails called after him as the door swung shut with a soft thud behind him.

Sonic jogged briskly down the quiet sidewalk, the early morning air still cool against his skin. His footsteps echoed faintly off the empty pavement as he reached the bike rack near the curb. Without breaking stride, he crouched and unlocked the chain from his bicycle, tossing it carelessly into the basket up front.

With one quick hop, he was on the seat and already pedaling. The breeze rushed past him, ruffling his quills and blazer sleeves, carrying with it the soft scent of dew-soaked leaves and distant bakery bread. His eyelids fluttered for a second as he inhaled deeply. Mornings like this? They weren’t so bad.

6:15 A.M.

A familiar sign flickered up ahead—a convenience store tucked between a dry cleaner and an old closed-down florist. He pulled into the lot, tires crunching softly against scattered gravel, and parked his bike near the front. The moment he stepped inside, the icy cool of the air conditioner swept over him like a wave.

Inside, it was quiet, save for the soft mechanical hum of refrigerators and the faint sound of a news broadcast playing from a tiny mounted TV in the corner. A couple of workers chatted near the coffee machines, their voices low and tired.

Sonic made his way down the narrow aisle, shoes squeaking slightly on the freshly mopped tiles. His eyes scanned the fridge lined with dairy drinks—plain milk, banana, chocolate—

There.

A familiar soft pink label caught his eye.

Strawberry milk.

His grin stretched wide. Without hesitation, he yanked open the fridge door and plucked not one—but two cartons off the shelf, the cold clinking lightly in his grip. He stared at them in his hands for a moment, proud like he’d just secured a rare treasure.

“Bet Shadow’s gonna love this,” he murmured under his breath with a small smirk, more to himself than anyone else.

He walked up to the counter, tapping the side of his shoes while waiting in line. Once he paid and the drinks were bagged, he stepped back into the outside warmth, a slight contrast from the chilly interior.

The brown paper bag crinkled gently as he placed it into his bike basket, making sure it wouldn’t tip over during the ride. With one final glance toward the store, he hopped back on his bike and began pedaling down the road again—his thoughts already drifting ahead to school, and a certain someone he was quietly hoping would smile.

6:30 A.M

Thirty minutes until class started. The school grounds were mostly quiet. The sun was still soft in the sky, its light bleeding gently through the trees that lined the front gates, casting long shadows across the pavement.

Sonic rolled in on his bike and hopped off with ease, quickly parking it by the side entrance and locking it. One glance around confirmed what he hoped for—no crowd. No fan club. No group of girls screaming his name. Not yet, anyway.

Perfect.

He grabbed the paper bag containing the cartons of milk and made a beeline for the lockers, weaving through columns of clean tile and bulletin boards covered in club posters. His pace slowed when he reached a specific section of the hallway—one far less populated.

One particular locker stood out. Not because it looked different, but because of who it belonged to.

Sonic glanced over his shoulder once. Then again. The coast was clear.

He crouched, setting his bag on the floor. From the front pocket, he pulled out a small blue notepad—edges bent, slightly wrinkled from being stuffed in a rush. He flicked it open, uncapped his pen, and scribbled a few words down with quick, messy strokes. His handwriting? Barely legible.

A top student with the penmanship of a kid learning cursive. That’s Sonic The Hedgehog to you.

Still, it got the point across. Probably.

He peeled the note from the pad, opened the paper bag, and took out a single carton of strawberry milk. Carefully, he taped the note onto it using clear tape, though he struggled for a few seconds—eventually having to bite off a small piece to make it stick just right. For a moment, he just stared at it—then proudly stood as he opened the locker door as quietly as possible. The hinges didn’t squeak. Of course it didn’t. Shadow’s locker was as spotless and well-maintained as everything else about him.

Sonic raised a brow, almost impressed.

He placed the carton on the middle shelf like it was breakable—delicate, important, intentional. Then, just as quickly, he shut the locker, palm lingering on the cold metal for a second longer than necessary.

The second carton of strawberry milk remained in the paper bag. He took it out and shoved it into his backpack, then crumpled the paper bag and tossed it into the nearest trash bin.

No one had seen him. He was sure of it.

With that, Sonic spun on his heel and hurried toward his classroom, avoiding the hallways where he knew students would start piling in. He didn’t have time for compliments or confessions or to sign someone’s uniform again. Not today.

Today, he had other plans.

6:46 A.M.

There were only a few minutes left until class officially started. The classroom was already half full—shoes scraping lightly against tile, soft murmurs bouncing off the walls, the occasional laughter from a group in the back.

Sonic sat at his desk, one leg bouncing restlessly under the table. His elbow leaned against the edge, fingers drumming in a slow, inconsistent rhythm. His eyes weren’t on the teacher’s desk or the board. Not on the chattering students around him either.

They kept drifting toward the back of the room—two rows behind, by the window.

Still empty.

His gaze flicked to the wall-mounted clock. 6:46 A.M.

Just a few minutes left.

He leaned back in his chair, brow creased slightly. Shadow’s never this late.

It wasn’t like he was counting the minutes or anything. It wasn’t like he noticed the exact moment that seat got filled every morning, or how the air seemed to shift when Shadow walked into a room.

No. Definitely not.

He sighed quietly through his nose and looked forward again, feigning indifference.

But still, his fingers kept drumming. Just a little faster now.

6:15 A.M.

“Shadow?”

A quiet murmur cut through the soft morning haze.

“Shaaaadow.”

No response.

The only movement from the bed was the sluggish rustling of blankets being yanked over a figure, followed by silence.

Maria stood in the doorway, blinking in faint confusion. That was odd. Shadow never overslept—not on school days. He was usually up before her, dressed and tucked into his morning routine like clockwork. She tilted her head slightly, a finger resting at her chin in mild concern.

Only 45 minutes left until class.

She didn’t like pushing him, but she knew how seriously Shadow took his schedule—how much school mattered to him. With a gentle sigh, she padded over to the bed, leaning down slightly to nudge the mound beneath the blanket.

“Shadow,” she called softly, “You’re gonna be late.”

A groan stirred beneath the covers. Then finally, the blanket slipped down just enough to reveal a pair of sleepy red eyes and a mess of quills flattened awkwardly on one side.

“Good morning,” Maria greeted, her smile warm and familiar as she crossed her arms and stood upright. “Go wash up, okay? You’ve only got a little time left, so I packed your breakfast for you instead.”

Shadow blinked slowly, rubbing the heel of his hand over his eyes before sitting up with visible reluctance. “What time is it?”

“Already 6:15”

That snapped him awake.

He jolted upright, feet swinging off the bed and landing with a soft thud on the wooden floor. He should’ve been up twenty five minutes ago. His brows furrowed, still half-lost in the fog of sleep.

Maria laughed quietly at his reaction, stepping back toward the door. “Did you have a nice dream, at least?”

He paused, her question catching him off guard.

His mind drifted—flashes of a vibrant blue blur, a grin too confident for its own good, a voice he could already hear in his head. Loud. Persistent. Infuriatingly... charming.

Shadow’s face scrunched, and he looked away.

“Not really,” he muttered under his breath.

Maria glanced over her shoulder with a grin she tried to hide. She knew well when Shadow actually had nightmares, and this one definitely isn’t. “Well, whatever it was, don’t let it follow you around today.”

Then she slipped out, shutting the door with a soft click.

Shadow sat still for a moment, eyes distant, lips pressed into a faint line.

And then, as if wiping the memory clean, he shook his head once, sharp and decisive. The dream was just a dream. Nothing more.

He rose to his feet and headed toward the bathroom, already peeling off the remnants of sleep.

Today was just another school day.

Or so he told himself.

6:39 A.M.

Shadow adjusted the navy-blue necktie with precision, standing stiff in front of the full-length mirror that leaned against the corner of his room. The knot sat a bit too tightly on the first try—he redid it, letting out a quiet breath of frustration. The ticking wall clock above his bed caught his attention, and he groaned at the time.

6:39.

He was cutting it far too close.

He should’ve been out the door five minutes ago, but he’d gotten caught up in the details—again.

His routine wasn’t fast, and it never had been. Mornings were sacred. Slow and methodical. Self-care was something Shadow took seriously—not out of vanity, but necessity. It grounded him.

He had already brushed his teeth and combed through his quills until they sat smooth and symmetrical. A subtle lavender-scented perfume lingered softly on his collar, layered gently atop the same lavender tone from his freshly washed uniform. The crisp polo had been steamed the night before. His face was freshly washed, moisturized, and dabbed with toner that Maria had gently forced onto him a few months ago—and which he now kept and loved it.

This was why he woke up early. Not just for punctuality, but for himself.

But today… he overslept, and now everything felt rushed.

He grabbed his bag from the bedside and slung it over his shoulder. The soft thuds of his feet, clad in freshly washed white socks, echoed against the wooden stairs as he descended—only to be met halfway down by a familiar presence.

Maria stood there with a lunchbox already in hand, waiting with a patient smile. “Here’s your breakfast.”

He didn’t have to say anything. She could read his whole morning in his face—his discontent with the lost time, the stiffness in his shoulders.

Still, she offered the container with both hands. Shadow took it and murmured, “Thank you.”

Then, before stepping past her, he paused—just long enough to give her a warm hug. It was brief, but full of silent appreciation.

“You’ll make it,” Maria said quietly, like a promise.

Shadow nodded and quickly sat down near the door to put on his shoes. Once finished, he stood up and gave her one last glance before pushing the front door open.

The outside air was brisk and clean. Overhead, a pale wash of morning light peeked from the edge of the rooftops, casting a soft glow along the quiet street.

He glanced at his watch.

Thirteen minutes left.

His house was a fifteen minute walk from the school, and on a normal day, he’d take his time and ride a bus. But not today.

This time, he ran. Waiting for a bus will take another few minutes, so running was the only possible choice.

Shoes tapping rhythmically against the pavement, bag bouncing against his back, Shadow cut through the still-sleepy neighborhood with purpose.

He didn’t like running late.

And even more than that… he didn’t like feeling unprepared.

6:57 A.M.

Shadow finally reached the school gate with a pant and a quiet, frustrated groan. His breathing came fast, shoulders rising and falling beneath the weight of his bag. His legs burned from the sudden running. This early in the morning, he was already wearing himself down—and he hated that.

He slowed to a brisk walk, wiping the back of his hand across his brow. He was meticulous about these things—sweat, disarray, the feel of his collar clinging to the back of his neck. That kind of discomfort lingered on him all day.

Originally, he meant to stop by his locker to grab the textbook for his fourth-period class. But with barely minutes left before the bell, he decided against it. That subject wasn’t until after break anyway. He’d retrieve the book later.

Instead, he cut straight toward his classroom.

He didn’t run—technically. Running in the hallways was against the school’s code, and even now, he clung to the last sliver of order in his morning.

6:59 A.M.

He pushed open the door to the classroom just a breath before the bell blared overhead. The noise startled a few heads to turn toward him, but Shadow didn’t meet anyone’s gaze.

He didn’t need the attention right now.

With his chest still rising and falling steadily, he moved to his seat without pause. His shoes tapped the floor softly, and he lowered himself into his chair, exhaling through his nose.

His body ached from the rush, and his mood soured further the second he felt the dampness sticking beneath his collar. That’s what bothered him most—feeling clammy, flushed. It made his skin itch, his muscles tense.

Shadow leaned forward slightly, elbow on the desk as he pressed two fingers to his temple, breathing deeply to pull himself back together. His expression remained calm, unreadable, but his fingers drummed once against the desk—an impatient habit he couldn’t kick.

With practiced ease, he reached into his bag and pulled out his notebook—the worn one he used for practically everything: class notes, sketches, fleeting thoughts. He flipped it open to a clean page and uncapped his pen just as the teacher began writing the first line of the lesson on the board.

No time to waste. No time to look around.

Especially not two rows forward, where he refused to glance.

Not yet.

Break time arrived with a soft chime of the school bell. The teacher barely finished dismissing the class before a wave of chairs screeched back across the floor, students already halfway out the door. Conversations spilled into the hallway, quick and eager—everyone hungry, loud, free.

The classroom emptied fast. Footsteps thudded, laughter echoed, the door swung closed with a light clack behind the last student rushing to the cafeteria.

And just like that, it was quiet again.

Two hedgehogs remained.

Sonic leaned back slightly in his seat, glancing over his shoulder. Two rows behind, Shadow sat hunched over his desk, one hand supporting his head as the other scribbled with quiet urgency across a lined notebook, occasionally taking a bite from his packed food that seemed to be a bagel. His brow was furrowed, shoulders stiff—like the tension hadn’t left since morning.

Sonic studied him for a moment. The way his quill tips twitched slightly. The way his pen dug deeper than necessary into the page. The way his breathing didn’t quite settle.

He looked exhausted.

With a small exhale, Sonic reached into his bag. Fingers curled around the familiar coolness of the strawberry milk carton—the second one he’d kept from this morning.

He stood up and took his time walking over. Each step soft, measured. No teasing grin this time, no flashy entrance.

Just a quiet offering.

Shadow didn’t lift his head. His pen moved fast, erratic. The frustration in him was palpable. Oversleeping had thrown his whole morning out of balance, and he hated that. Being late, being off. He was used to control. Routine. Structure.

Now, it felt like the day was dragging him around by the collar.

He didn’t even hear Sonic approach—not until the shadow fell across his desk.

“You okay?”

Shadow’s eyes lifted at the voice, sharp and red but dulled with exhaustion. Of course. Sonic.

He was already seated next to him—close, but with just enough space to keep it casual. Like always.

Shadow blinked once, slow. Then, without a word, he dropped his gaze back down to his notebook.

“You’re here to bother me again?” he muttered, pen continuing to scratch across the page.

Sonic tilted his head slightly, his voice gentler than usual. “Am I bothering you?”

A brief pause. Shadow didn’t answer right away, and for a second, it seemed like he might not. But then, with a quiet breath through his nose, he replied flatly, “Your presence alone is bothering me.”

There was no bite in his tone—just tired truth.

Sonic didn’t flinch. Didn’t roll his eyes or crack a grin. He’d heard worse. From the same guy. He let the words pass, unbothered, then a soft thud as he placed the strawberry milk on Shadow’s desk, right beside his lunch box.

“Here,” Sonic said.

Just that.

Shadow glanced at it. No reaction at first—just a long look. His fingers twitched, then he picked it up and popped the lid open with a bit more force than necessary. He took a long sip, nearly downing half the carton in one go.

Everything today had gone off-track. Oversleeping. Rushing. The heat, the noise, the sudden silence. And now, strawberry milk.

Of all things, it was this that softened the edge.

He wouldn’t thank Sonic. That would’ve been a disaster—Sonic would wear the smug look for a week, and Shadow’s patience was already on thin ice. So instead, he gave a small nod. Barely there.

Then went back to his notebook. This time, the pen moved slower. Smoother. Less like a weapon.

Sonic leaned back a little, watching quietly. His smile wasn’t wide—it was soft, subdued, private. Meant for no one else but himself.

He stayed like that for a while. Watching Shadow’s hand move across the paper. Listening to the subtle drag of pen against the page. Noticing how his shoulders had eased, even just slightly.

Something about being near Shadow, in moments like this, was… calm.

Weirdly calm.

But Sonic didn’t want to dig into that too much. Not now.

So instead, he stayed where he was, and let the quiet moment breathe. Because lately, these moments weren’t about rivalry anymore. Not like before.

And maybe that was the part he liked most.

Twenty minutes had passed since the last word was exchanged, the classroom now steeped in a kind of stillness that wasn’t awkward—just quiet. Peaceful.

Shadow glanced at his wristwatch to check the time, letting out a soft sigh. He carefully closed his lunch box and placed it back into his bag. Then, he stood from his chair, the legs scraping faintly against the tiled floor.

Time to grab the textbook he didn’t have the chance to get earlier.

He turned toward the door when Sonic’s voice broke through, casual but curious.

“Where you heading?”

“Locker,” Shadow replied flatly, not even sparing him a glance as he pushed the door open and stepped out. The hallway was mostly quiet now, emptied of most students who had either rushed to the cafeteria or found their favorite corners of the campus to lounge in.

Shadow’s footsteps echoed faintly as he descended the stairs, hands tucked into his pockets. The light through the windows painted long, slanted shadows along the corridor floor—shifting hues of gold and grey. Despite the sun’s warmth outside, the school interior carried that crisp chill of polished concrete and morning air.

When he finally reached the rows of lockers, the silence stretched even longer. He stepped up to his own and carefully opened it without much thought.

But when the contents inside his locker came into view, he stilled.

Inside, neatly placed on the middle shelf, was another carton of strawberry milk.

Attached to it was a small curled-up piece of blue notepad paper, stuck on with the help of clear tape. The handwriting was uneven—practically scribbled.

Shadow stared for a moment. Then reached in slowly, fingers brushing over the cool carton before tugging the note free.

He unfolded it. The writing was short.

Shadow,

Brought another strawberry
milk for you to save later!

That was it. No name. No signature. But the color of the paper, the unfiltered handwriting, the simplicity of it—it didn’t take a genius.

Shadow exhaled through his nose.

The penmanship was almost offensive. Like someone who stopped caring about neatness in the second grade and never looked back.

He pressed a thumb over the words once, lingering, then refolded the note and slid it carefully into the inside pocket of his blazer. He didn’t know why he kept it.

He just did.

He stared at the milk for another second before grabbing it and placing it under his arm. Then, finally remembering why he’d come here in the first place, he reached for the textbook and closed the locker with a soft click.

The hallway was still empty as he started walking back—textbook in one hand, the carton of strawberry milk in the other.

Break would end in a few minutes, but for the first time since the morning started, Shadow didn’t feel quite as drained anymore.

When Shadow stepped back into the classroom, the mood had already shifted. Students were trickling in, the volume rising with chatter and the scrape of chairs on linoleum. The quiet moment from earlier was gone—replaced by the usual bustle of his classmates returning from break.

He had half a mind to walk over and ask someone if the second carton of strawberry milk had been poisoned. It would’ve been a snide remark—his way of putting up a wall, of not giving any room to be read too easily.

But the timing wasn’t right.

Too many ears. Too many eyes.

So instead, he walked past Sonic without a word. No glance, no acknowledgment. Just a brush of presence as he made his way to his seat by the back, near the window—the one he always claimed. The sunlight filtered in there differently. Softer. Quieter.

He sat down heavily, the cool metal of the chair grounding him for a moment.

The two cartons of strawberry milk sat on his desk like evidence. One nearly empty, the other untouched. He stared at them in silence.

With a sigh, he picked up the first—what was left of it—and finished the last few sips. Then, without ceremony, he placed both cartons inside his bag, tucking them away like he could forget them.

Out of sight.

Out of mind.

He flicked his eyes toward Sonic’s desk. The other hedgehog had returned as well, but his gaze was firmly focused downward—on his notebook, maybe. Or pretending to be.

Shadow’s jaw tightened.

Why do I even bother?

The thought echoed in his head, bitter and sharp. His fingers curled into loose fists atop his desk, nails faintly digging into his palm. There was no real reason to feel like this—frustrated, unsure, tangled in a silence he didn’t quite know how to escape.

He shut his eyes for a second. Just trying to shake something off. As if willing his thoughts to fall back into place.

Don’t be fooled by cartons of strawberry milk, idiot.

He told himself this in the quietest corner of his mind. But the words didn’t hit as hard as he wanted them to. And the warmth sitting in his blazer pocket said otherwise.

As always, the hours slipped by like they meant nothing. Classes came and went—blurred pages, tired hands, the hum of restless students all bleeding into one long stretch of routine. Late afternoon eventually settled in, casting slanted sunlight through the windows like a quiet signal that the day was done.

Most days, this time would find Shadow half-listening to Rouge’s dramatic recaps—her latest gossip and unsolicited opinions. But not today.

Instead, he was here. In the library.

The quiet helped. Gave him room to breathe. He’d already texted Rouge, told her he’d meet her at the café soon. He just wanted to do a quick review—skim over the lesson from earlier before it left his memory for good.

The library was nearly empty, just the faint creak of wooden chairs and the occasional rustle of pages turning. A clock ticked somewhere in the back. Shadow had found a table tucked near the window, the light soft and low, just how he liked it. No chaos. No interruptions. Just the scratch of his pen as he flipped open his favorite notebook—worn, creased, filled with more than just lecture notes.

It was quiet.

Perfect.

Until, of course, it wasn’t.

Because fate—or something far more annoying—clearly hated him.

A blur of cobalt and that all-too-familiar voice broke the silence.

“Shadow! Mind if I sit here?” Sonic asked, in what could only be described as an energetic whisper. A contradiction in itself.

Shadow looked up just long enough to throw a dry eye roll in his direction before lowering his gaze and returning to his notes.

“Guess that’s a yes,” Sonic muttered to himself as he dropped his bag beside the chair and sat down like he owned the place.

He placed an open can of soda between them—too close for comfort—and set a book down with an audible thud before cracking it open.

Shadow’s eye twitched.

He glanced at the can. Open. Condensation forming at the edges. Sitting way too close to his notebook. “You should move that.”

Sonic barely looked up. “Oh, this? Nah, it’s fine. It’s not gonna spill.”

Shadow stared at him. Then at the can. Then back at him.

He wanted to argue. He really did. But the weight of the day was already pulling at his shoulders, and arguing with Sonic was its own kind of exhausting.

So he huffed. A short, annoyed exhale through his nose. And went back to writing—though a little more forcefully now.

The soda can sat there, bold as ever, like it was daring him to snap.

The silence barely lasted five more minutes.

Sonic had settled, flipping through the pages of his book, when it happened.

A small miscalculation. A flick of his hand. The open can of soda tipped.

And then everything unraveled.

The fizzing liquid spilled fast, pooling across the table like it had been waiting for the chance. It spread under Sonic’s palm and straight into Shadow’s notebook. The pages absorbed it instantly—ink smearing, paper crinkling, everything tainted with a sticky, sugary mess.

Sonic froze.

“Shadow, I—”

But he barely got the words out.

Shadow stood so abruptly his chair screeched against the floor. His expression had gone cold—no, colder than cold. It was fury frozen still.

He stared at the notebook in disbelief, chest rising and falling as if trying to keep something in check. The soda continued to bleed across the pages, spreading across the last things he’d written. Thoughts. Notes. Doodles. Fragments of his day, his mind. His quiet.

Gone.

He raked a hand through his quills, exhaling through gritted teeth. Then, with a sharp movement, he turned to Sonic.

Before Sonic could fully register what was happening, Shadow grabbed a handful of his blazer’s collar and yanked him forward—not violently, but firm enough to make his breath catch.

Sonic’s hands quickly reached for Shadow’s, trying to ease the grip. His brows furrowed, breath unsteady. Panic twisted in his chest as guilt settled heavy behind his eyes.

“I didn’t mean to—”

But the words died as Shadow leaned in, his grip tightening, his brows low and voice cold enough to bite.

“I’m gonna make you wish you were dead.”

It wasn’t a shout. It didn’t need to be. The quiet intensity was enough to make Sonic feel like the walls were closing in.

Then Shadow let go, a shove pushing Sonic back into his chair hard enough that the legs scraped and his balance tilted. He caught himself, barely, the air leaving his lungs in a short breath as he watched Shadow throw his bag over his shoulder.

Shadow didn’t even glance back at the notebook.

He just walked out.

Sonic sat there, stunned, watching the flicker of Shadow’s retreating silhouette disappear between the bookshelves and out through the door.

The soda still lingered on the table. The air felt thicker now, like the tension hadn’t fully left.

Sonic lowered his eyes to the notebook, its pages curled and ruined with patches of blue ink running in blurred trails. His throat felt tight.

“I’m sorry, Shadow…” he whispered, barely audible.

He reached out, carefully closing the cover—his fingers brushing over the soaked spine. Even in its ruined state, Sonic could feel the weight of it. Not just physically. This notebook meant something to him.

And now it was ruined because of him.

He slid the notebook toward himself. If there was anything left he could do—anything at all to fix it—he had to try.

He wasn’t just going to let this be the end.

Shadow stormed out through the school gates, the soles of his shoes striking hard against the pavement with every step. Frustration bubbled up with each movement, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. He barely noticed the golden hue of dusk falling over the schoolyard, or the breeze brushing through the trees. His mind was elsewhere—spiraling, steaming.

By the time he reached the café just around the corner, the sky had already begun to turn orange. He shoved the glass door open with more force than necessary, the small bell above it giving a sharp jingle that earned a few startled glances from nearby customers.

He didn’t care.

Not about the people. Not about the noise. Not about the mess he probably looked like.

His eyes immediately landed on their usual table by the window. Rouge was already there, her fingers wrapped tightly around a half-finished drink. She was staring at him before he even got close—her brow furrowed, lips parted, eyes scanning him with worry.

He didn’t say a word as he slid into the seat across from her. His hands curled into fists on the table, and he dropped his head forward with a quiet thud, exhaling like the day had wrung him dry.

“Shadow, I— What even happened?” Rouge’s voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the hum of the café like a blade. She leaned forward, concern flaring behind her lashes. “You look like you got hit by a bus. Then backed over. Twice!” She held up two fingers across his face.

Shadow didn’t respond at first. His fingers dug into his palms as he slowly lifted his head, pressing his temple into one hand like he was trying to keep the world from spinning.

“Can I tell you something?” he muttered, voice low and uneven.

Rouge nodded immediately. “Anything—yes. If it explains why you look like you’re about to start flipping tables.”

Shadow let out a breath through his nose and sat back slightly, though his shoulders remained tense.

“I’m just so…” he began, trailing off in a frustrated groan. “I’m so sick of that pestering blue hedgehog.”

Shadow jabbed a finger onto the table like he was marking the crime scene. “Ever since he walked into this godforsaken school, it’s like everything got worse.”

“I was just living my life,” he continued, gesturing vaguely. “Quiet. Peaceful. No drama. Then he shows up with that smug, shit-eating grin like he owns the place. And out of nowhere, he starts competing with me, irritating me, inserting himself into every corner of my day.”

He folded his arms with a dramatic huff, eyes sharp. “He’s made it his mission to personally ruin my life.”

Rouge blinked again, trying to keep up. “What did he do this time?”

“At break, he gave me a strawberry milk,” Shadow snapped, then faltered, like he realized how ridiculous it sounded. “Asked me if I was okay.”

Rouge’s brows knit together. “That’s… sweet?”

“No. No, it’s manipulation.”

He leaned forward, voice tightening. “Then I go downstairs to grab my textbook, and guess what I find in my locker? Another strawberry milk. With a note. A note, Rouge.”

His expression softened for a moment—just barely—as he added, “I actually thought for a second that—” But he cut himself off, shaking his head and dragging his hands down his face in frustration.

“And just when I finally get to the library—my one safe space—he shows up again. With a soda can. Opened.”

“Five minutes in, and he knocks it over. Right onto my notebook.”

“The one with—?”

“The one with everything. My lessons. My sketches. My writing. My thoughts.” He was nearly growling now, his hands gripping the edge of the table. “It’s ruined. The ink bled through. The pages stuck together. It’s gone.”

He slumped back, exasperated, like the damage was irreversible—and not just to the notebook.

“He ruined yesterday, and now he’s taken today too.”

He ran a hand through his quills again, letting the irritation settle into something heavier, quieter.

Then, under his breath—barely audible, almost like he didn’t mean to say it out loud—he added, “Can’t believe I even dreamt about him this morning. That’s why I was late.”

Rouge stared at him, stunned into silence. Her cup had stopped halfway to her mouth. For a second, she just blinked, mouth open slightly like she was still processing what she just heard.

Shadow didn’t meet her gaze. He was too busy staring out the window, expression unreadable. The sun was dipping behind the buildings, casting a gold tint over the sidewalk. His reflection barely registered in the glass.

Rouge finally set her drink down gently, eyes still on him.

“…You dreamt about him?”

Shadow said nothing.

She raised an eyebrow. Slowly. “Uh-huh.”

Shadow let his head drop onto the table with a quiet, miserable groan.

“Anyway, first—breathe,” Rouge said, lifting a hand gently in front of her like a traffic officer trying to de-escalate a five-car pile-up. “Calm down, Shadow.”

Her voice, though calm, carried a firmness that didn’t allow room for argument. She inhaled slowly and made a dramatic point of exhaling with control, nodding toward him to follow her lead.

Shadow, still coiled up with frustration, stared at her blankly before finally letting out a shaky breath. Then another.

“In,” she guided softly, “and out.”

He did. Not gracefully, not completely relaxed—but enough to loosen his shoulders and pull the storm back just slightly.

Rouge offered a small, careful smile. “There. Much better?”

He nodded, slow and reluctant. His eyes met hers only briefly before he adjusted his posture, resting his back against his chair and letting his arms fall to his lap instead of the table edge he had nearly clawed through.

Rouge leaned in, lacing her fingers together in front of her like they were about to negotiate a ceasefire.

“Alright,” she said, her tone soft but serious. “There’s obviously a lot going on here.”

Shadow didn’t respond, but his eyes flickered toward her—watchful, waiting.

“But what do you want to do about all of it?”

Her voice lowered to a near-whisper, less like a friend offering advice and more like someone asking how far he was willing to go.

Shadow didn’t answer immediately. He glanced off to the side, jaw tight, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek. His fingers twitched slightly, tapping against his thigh.

Then, with a scoff, he muttered, “I want him to stop whatever bullshit he’s pulling.”

The words came out through clenched teeth, and his eyes rolled with practiced annoyance.

Rouge tilted her head. “Okay, fair. But let me ask you something.”

She gave him a long look.

“Do you hate him?”

That caught him off guard. Shadow blinked slowly, as if the question had taken a moment to fully register. He didn’t answer right away, and when he finally did, his voice was lower. More tired than angry.

“I didn’t even think about him before. Couldn’t care less.” He shrugged faintly, frowning. “But lately… he’s everywhere. Always doing something. And it’s really getting to me.”

Rouge hummed thoughtfully, tapping a single finger against her chin. She looked around the café once, scanning for any listening ears—then leaned forward again, elbows resting on the table, her eyes sharper now. A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, just subtle enough to be dangerous.

“I think…” she murmured, voice dropping as if she were about to reveal classified intel, “I’ve got a solution to your little problem.”

Shadow raised an eyebrow. Slowly. He said nothing, but his expression said enough: he was listening.

“And what exactly is it?” Shadow asked, his voice flat. Unimpressed. His arms folded, brows drawn low, but his foot tapped beneath the table—an involuntary twitch betraying his curiosity.

Rouge leaned back in her chair, adjusting her posture like she’d just stepped into her own personal boardroom. Her gaze sharpened. The café light reflected in her eyes, calm but calculating.

“Let’s make a bet,” she said smoothly, confidence blooming in her voice.

Shadow raised an eyebrow.

“Three hundred bucks.”

That got his attention. His expression shifted slightly, almost imperceptibly—but enough. His foot stopped tapping.

“You’re insane,” he muttered.

“I’m not kidding.” Her tone turned firm, grounded. No hint of teasing. Just solid steel wrapped in silk. “Three hundred dollars. If you can get Blue to hate you.”

Shadow blinked. He looked like he was still waiting for the punchline.

“Not annoyed, not mildly irritated,” Rouge continued, lifting her fingers one by one. “I mean loathe you. Detest you. Completely hate you. In ten weeks. That’s two and a half months of you doing whatever it takes to drive him away.”

She paused deliberately, watching his face for any flicker of emotion. When he opened his mouth, she cut in before he could form a thought.

“If you manage it,” she said with a smirk, “he’ll leave you alone for good. Just like you want, right?”

Shadow stared at her, his brows furrowing further, the weight of her offer settling in. He leaned forward slightly, almost confused.

“You really think it’d take me that long?”

Rouge gave a soft laugh, casual and knowing. She took another sip of her drink, letting the moment hang before answering.

“Come on, Shadow. We both know it’s not that simple.” Her voice dipped a little, thoughtful. “Sonic’s got that golden heart in him. You could humiliate him, trip him, dropkick his locker, and he’d still flash that stupid grin and ask if you’re okay.”

Shadow scoffed. “I could make him hate me in a week.”

“Then great,” she said sweetly, setting her cup down with a quiet clink. “Easiest three hundred bucks you’ll ever make. Unless…” Her lips curled. “You’re scared?” She said with a tilt of her head.

His eyes narrowed. “I’m not scared.”

Rouge leaned closer, locking eyes with him now, voice low, coaxing—almost challenging. “Then prove it.”

She drummed her fingers against the table, her words deliberate.

“Make the golden boy loathe your guts. Make him wish he’d never met you. Make him cry in front of his little cheer squad and tell everyone how horrible you are.”

Shadow exhaled through his nose. “That’s the bet?”

“Not quite.” She raised a finger, expression shifting from smug to sharp.

“If he falls for you instead…” Her eyes glittered, and her grin widened like a trap closing. “You owe me three hundred.”

Shadow froze.

He stared at her like she’d just asked him to build a rocket. “Are you out of your mind? Why the hell would I make him fall in love with me?”

“That’s the catch,” Rouge replied, swirling what remained of her drink. “You’re not trying to. All you have to do is make him hate you. Break his stupid, sunshine heart. Simple.”

She tilted her head.

“Unless, of course…” she added with a knowing gleam, “he’s impossible to hate. Even for you.”

Shadow didn’t respond. He looked away, jaw tight, his gaze fixed somewhere past her shoulder and out the café window where dusk had finally settled. The sky was darker now. Bluer. Quieter.

Every single day, without fail, that damn grin greeted him.

Always bright. Always loud. Always there—like some kind of cosmic punishment.

Shadow didn’t know what was worse: the way Sonic carried himself with that effortless confidence, or the way the entire school seemed to revolve around him. That obnoxious laugh that echoed down hallways. The way he talked like he owned the air. The ridiculous title: Golden Heartthrob—as if that wasn’t the most insufferable thing he’d ever heard.

He was reckless, showy, too good at everything without even trying. He made teachers melt and students grin. People followed him like gravity.

And somehow—somehow—he always found a way to talk to him.

As if they were equals. As if they were friends.

As if Sonic saw something in him worth understanding.

And Shadow hated that.

He hated the way Sonic looked at him like there was more to see. He hated the stupid strawberry milk on his desk. The soda in the library. The question, “Are you okay?” whispered like it meant something.

Maybe Rouge was right. If he made Sonic hate him—truly, genuinely loathe him—then maybe that relentless attention would finally vanish. Sonic would stop looking at him like that. Stop trying.

And then, maybe, Shadow could finally have what he used to enjoy so easily: quiet. Control. Distance.

Peace.

His fingers tapped against the edge of the table. Once. Twice. A slow rhythm in the low hum of the café, just beneath the murmur of conversation and the clink of coffee cups. A thought sharpened inside him. An edge.

Then a smirk ghosted over his lips.

Small. Dangerous.

“Alright,” he said finally, voice low, smooth, laced with something sharp. “Deal.”

Rouge leaned back in her chair with crossed arms, clearly satisfied, like a chess player who just watched their opponent move a pawn exactly where she wanted it.

“Mmm. I’m telling you, Shadow…” she murmured, almost sing-song, a flicker of thrill in her tone, “I’ve got instincts for these things.”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. She was already enjoying herself too much.

Ten weeks.

It was plenty. Maybe even too generous.

Shadow’s mind had already begun moving ahead—calculating, preparing. He could see it clearly: the look on Sonic’s face when it finally broke through to him that Shadow wasn’t like how he thought he would be. Wasn’t interested. Wasn’t someone worth reaching for.

He pictured the moment Sonic would walk away for good.

The quiet that would follow.

He didn’t smile, but something in his eyes flickered.

This wasn’t going to be difficult.

And so, with one final glance out the café window where the sky was now washed in navy and the streetlights hummed to life—

Let the loathing begin.

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.

Chapter Text

“Come in.”

The door creaked open slowly, hinges groaning softly in the quiet of the room. A warm strip of hallway light slipped inside before a small, familiar figure stepped through it—Tails, hesitant but trying to look casual.

“You okay?”

Sonic spun around in his gaming chair, its wheels giving a soft whirr against the floor. The moment his eyes landed on his little brother, his expression shifted—his usual energy not quite there, but a smile still forming out of instinct.

“Yeah, bud! I’m fine. What’s up?” he asked, offering a short wave toward him.

Tails stepped in fully now, letting the door click quietly shut behind him. He glanced down at the cold wooden floor, voice barely above a murmur. “I’m just... kinda worried.”

Sonic sighed, a sound that carried both fondness and fatigue. He nodded toward him, gently motioning for him to come closer. “C’mere.”

Tails moved without protest, hopping up to sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped slightly under his light weight. Sonic adjusted his chair and rolled forward, closing the space between them.

“You’ve been off,” Tails said, glancing up. “At dinner, you barely said anything. Even Knuckles picked up on it, and he’s usually too focused on hoarding the potatoes to notice anything else.”

That pulled a short chuckle from Sonic, and for a second, the tension in the air eased.

“You can tell us anything, you know?” Tails added, trying for a smile even though it looked a little unsure. “Especially me.”

Sonic looked at him for a moment, the light behind him dimming his usual gleam. “I know,” he said honestly. “I really do. I’m okay, though. Just thinking too hard, I guess.”

He reached out and ruffled the top of Tails’ head affectionately. The younger let out a small laugh, leaning into it.

“Thanks for checking on me, little bro.”

Tails nodded, but his eyes drifted past Sonic, narrowing slightly with curiosity. “What are you doing?”

Sonic blinked, glancing over his shoulder at his desk like he’d forgotten it was even there. “Trying to fix something,” he muttered, turning back to it as he rolled back into place. His voice had lost its lightness—tinged now with vague frustration and something quieter underneath.

Tails stood up, padding across the carpet with silent steps. His eyes scanned Sonic’s desk, where a thick notebook lay in the center—closed, but its battered cover looked nearly destroyed.

Tails tilted his head. “What happened?” he asked softly.

There was a beat of silence. Sonic’s fingers tapped lightly against the desk—once, twice—then stilled.

He didn’t answer right away, like the words were stuck somewhere deep, trying to surface.

Tails, watching closely now, saw it: the quiet way Sonic stared down at those pages, like the words inside were heavier than he expected.

Sonic let out a breath that passed somewhere between a forced chuckle and a sigh. His fingers hovered over the notebook for a second longer before finally brushing against its cover. It looked worse the longer he stared at it.

Then, slowly, he turned back to face Tails. His usual ease had gone stiff with hesitation, shoulders tense, eyes uncertain.

The quiet stretched between them. Not awkward—just thick with thought.

“…This isn’t mine,” Sonic finally murmured, voice low, almost like he was still testing the weight of the truth. “And I… I messed it up.”

Tails blinked and glanced at the notebook again. His brows pinched together, curiosity stirring beneath the confusion.

“Is it your classmate’s?” he asked, stepping closer.

Tails was someone who’s observant. What he saw in Sonic’s expression didn’t look like embarrassment—it looked somewhere like disbelief. Like Sonic still couldn’t quite understand how he’d gotten to this point. Like he hadn’t meant for any of this to happen.

Sonic let out another laugh, this one airier, flatter, as he leaned back in his chair and tilted his head toward the ceiling. His eyes tracked the overhead light like it might hand him a better excuse.

“You, uh…” he started, then paused. “You know Shadow, right?”

Tails blinked again—slower this time—and the edge of his mouth curled into a barely-contained smile. “The one you’re obsessed with?”

That made Sonic jolt to face him. His posture straightened like he’d been hit by static. “Okay, whoa,” he said quickly, voice a little too defensive. “I really think ‘obsessed’ is kind of a strong word.”

Tails didn’t drop the grin. If anything, it got smugger. He crossed his arms, tilting his head with exaggerated thoughtfulness.

“Hm, let’s see…” he mused, tapping a finger to his chin. “You bring him up in conversations that have nothing to do with him. Every time you come home grinning like an idiot for hours—it’s because of him. You’re always pestering me and Knuckles, saying you want to know more about him. You feel—”

“Alright, bud! I get it!” Sonic blurted, flustered and half-laughing as he lunged forward to clap both hands over Tails’ mouth.

Tails mumbled against his palms, giggling anyway as he swatted at Sonic’s wrists. Eventually, Sonic let go, shaking his head with a sheepish exhale.

“I think that checks off most of the symptoms under the dictionary definition of ‘obsessed,’” Tails said smugly, arms crossing again.

Sonic didn’t argue this time. He just turned back to his desk.

The smile he wore a moment ago faded as his eyes landed on the notebook again. His chest tightened.

Whatever laughter was in him had been pushed aside by the weight of guilt again.

He stared at it like it held more than words.

And maybe it did.

“What’s with Shadow, anyway?”

The kit’s voice was soft, almost a murmur. The kind that didn’t demand an answer right away. It lingered in the air, folding into the stillness of the room like it belonged there—like it was meant to live in the quiet spaces people usually avoided. A question born out of concern, not curiosity.

Sonic exhaled through his nose and crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes didn’t meet Tails’. Instead, they fixed somewhere beyond him, unfocused and uneasy.

“I don’t know…” he muttered. “He’s just… there.”

He shrugged, like that explained something. Like that was enough.

But when he flicked his gaze back to Tails, the unimpressed raise of his little brother’s eyebrow said otherwise.

Tails knew better. He always had. He had seen every version of Sonic—the brash, the bold, the broken. And one thing he knew without a doubt? Sonic always knew what he wanted. He wasn’t the type to be vague.

Sonic held the stare for a second longer, then sighed. His arms dropped, settling loosely on his lap. His posture slumped—not in defeat, but in admission. The kind of shift that meant the truth was about to slip out whether he liked it or not.

“He’s…” Sonic began, eyes drifting to the corner of the room, where the light didn’t quite reach. “Interesting. Mysterious.”

He huffed a dry laugh, shaking his head at himself. “He’s a tough case to crack.”

There was something fond in his tone. But there was a pull. A curiosity that felt deeper.

“I don’t think he even knows people notice him. But… he just stands out.”

Sonic’s voice dropped a little as he said it. Not quieter, but more careful. Like the words had weight to them he hadn’t expected.

“At least… for me.”

He took a breath—slow, deliberate—and finally looked at Tails. Fully this time. Green eyes meeting blue.

“And ever since I laid eyes on him, it’s like… I haven’t been able to look away.”

He paused. The next words didn’t need to be dramatic. They just were.

“And now I can’t stop thinking about him.”

There was no humor in it, no smirk. Just honesty. Raw, exposed, and real.

Tails didn’t answer right away. He just nodded, slow and thoughtful, his expression shifting into something distant. His brow furrowed like he was mapping something out in his mind—connecting pieces Sonic hadn’t realized were there.

Sonic watched him, waiting. Almost impatiently. Unsure of what he was going to say next. Thinking that he might not even accept anything but truth to be spilled over Tails’ mouth.

The silence lingered for a moment before the latter finally looked back at Sonic, his expression careful—like he was measuring his words before letting them go.

“You did say you two were rivals, though,” he said slowly. “Didn’t you? And that you liked… competing with him?”

He added air quotes as he said it, like he wasn’t sure if “rivals” was even the right word anymore. Especially he knows how Shadow meant to his older brother and the effect he has on him.

Sonic gave a low chuckle, running a hand through his quills. “I mean, yeah. I guess that’s how it started.”

His voice was lighter now, trying to play it off, but the corners of his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“It’s just kinda fun messing with him, y’know? He’s always brooding like he’s in some indie film. Half the time he looks like he doesn’t even blink. It’s weird.”

Tails cracked a small smile at that.

“I don’t even know when it turned into a whole ‘rivalry’ thing. I scored a point below than him on one exam, just once, and suddenly it was like we were locked into this… whatever this is.” Sonic shrugged, but his gaze softened. “I don’t think it was ever that serious.”

Tails didn’t respond at first. He just nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. The lamplight cast a soft glow over his face, highlighting the gentle lines of concentration on his brow. He looked more like a therapist than a little brother at this point—calm, observing, patient.

Then his eyes drifted to the desk again, to the notebook lying in plain sight like a half-confessed secret.

Tails reached out, brushing his fingers lightly along the ruined cover. His touch was careful, reverent almost, as if the book might fall apart completely if he handled it wrong.

“This his?” he asked, glancing up at Sonic. But his fingers never left the surface of the notebook.

Sonic shifted in his chair, the wheels creaking slightly beneath him. His voice dropped a notch, more serious now.

“Yeah. It is.” He exhaled through his nose. “He actually told me to move my drink away. Literally told me. Like, word for word. And what did I do?”

Tails stayed silent.

“I brought an open can of soda, put it too close, and well… it happened. Just like he said it would.”

The guilt hung thick in his voice. Not just because of the notebook, but because of what it meant to Shadow. And, maybe, what it meant to him.

“I didn’t think it would matter that much,” Sonic added, softer now. “But when I saw how he reacted after… it kinda hit me. So now I’m trying to fix it.”

Tails finally lifted the notebook from the desk, holding it delicately in both hands. He ran his thumbs along the edges, flipping it open carefully.

The damage was clear. Pages stuck together. Ink bled and blurred, some entire sentences smudged into nothing. The soda had warped the paper—crinkling, discoloring, weakening. Some parts were beyond salvaging. Others barely clung to legibility.

Sonic leaned in slightly, watching him. His eyes flicked between the notebook and his brother’s face, waiting—hoping—for even a glimmer of a solution. He wasn’t good at fixing things. Not like Tails.

Tails continued turning the pages slowly, his brows furrowed in concentration. Sonic could almost hear the gears turning in his head.

Finally, after a few more silent seconds, Tails looked up, eyes sharp with focus. Not hesitant. Certain.

“I have an idea.”

Shadow sat in the back of the bus, pressed against the cool window as the city passed by in fractured glimpses—blurred trees, crooked power lines, kids dragging their feet to class, the occasional honk from impatient drivers. The morning light filtered through a hazy grey sky, streaking through the smudged glass and lining his sharp features in silver-blue.

His fingers tapped a slow, calculated rhythm on his thigh.

He wasn’t nervous.

Just… planning.

The day had already begun in his head a few hours ago—every step thought through, every reaction mapped. He wasn’t just going to school. He was entering the first stage of something bigger. Something personal.

Fake vulnerability.

That was the opening move. The first bullet point on his Loathe Tracker—highlighted, and even underlined.

The kind of thing Sonic would never see coming.

Shadow’s gaze drifted to the reflection in the window—his own eyes staring back, half-lidded, unreadable. A mask already in place.

Why vulnerability?

Because Sonic was easy to read. A bleeding heart type. The kind of person who heard a quiet sigh and thought it was a cry for help. You show the slightest crack, and he’s already kneeling, trying to glue you back together—whether you asked him to or not.

And Shadow had no plans of being honest.

It’s bait, he reminded himself.

He recalled exactly what he’d scribbled in the notebook the night before:

“Shrug like you don’t know how to respond. Keep it vague—‘not good with people,’ ‘don’t like being seen,’ something like that. Maybe a sigh. Maybe not. Let the silence do the rest.”

Sonic would take it from there. He’d try to connect the dots, try to find some tragic backstory, something broken to fix. He always did. He couldn’t help himself.

Shadow had seen it firsthand—how Sonic softened around people who seemed damaged. The shift in his tone, the way his eyes got a little too wide, a little too hopeful. Like he was waiting for someone to need him.

And all Shadow had to do was let him believe that.

Let him think there was something real there.

Because the trick wasn’t in pushing Sonic away. Not yet. The trick was drawing him in. Letting him think he mattered. Letting him care. The higher he climbed, the more he believed, the harder he’d fall when the truth finally hit.

That none of it was real.

That Shadow had never wanted him in the first place.

He closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the low hum of the bus engine and the rustle of backpacks and tired voices. The plan was in motion.

The rumble beneath the bus jolted Shadow back to the present, snapping the thread of thought still looping through his mind like a needle through fabric. Outside, the familiar gates of Westside Emerald High loomed ahead, the morning haze curling around the iron bars and sun casting long shadows across the pavement.

The brakes hissed. The vehicle shuddered to a stop.

A stream of students began to rise from their seats, their voices rising with them—murmurs, footsteps, the scrape of backpacks and scuffed shoes against the bus floor. Shadow remained seated, unmoved. He never liked moving with the crowd. He waited, gaze fixed on the window, until the last pair of shoes clattered down the steps and the din had faded into distant chatter.

Only then did he stand, pulling the strap of his bag tighter over his shoulder.

Outside, the air was cool, tinted with the sharp scent of morning dew and something faintly floral drifting in from the bushes that lined the front of the school. A breeze tugged gently at the edges of his blazer as he stepped off the bus and made his way toward the main gate.

He checked his watch. 6:30 A.M.

Good.

Yesterday he had arrived barely a minute late. That wouldn’t happen again—not on a day like this.

The halls were still waking up. The low murmur of early students echoed quietly, a scattered handful of conversations floating through the corridor. Lockers creaked open. A laugh rang out from somewhere behind him. But none of it touched him. None of it mattered.

Sonic wouldn’t arrive for another ten minutes. And in that brief, precious window of silence, Shadow could breathe. Could exist.

Alone.

He had no interest in watching another chaos unfold at the campus once their precious little heartthrob approaches the gates. It’s honestly sickening. He had no time for nonsense today.

So, he reached the classroom and slipped inside. The scent of dust and dry air clinging faintly to the corners of the room. His footsteps were muted against the tile as he crossed toward his usual seat—back row, by the window. The place he always claimed.

The chair scraped faintly as he pulled it out and sank into it, exhaling through his nose. His bag hit the floor with a soft thud. He leaned forward, resting his chin against his palm as his eyes wandered to the window beside him.

Outside, the sky was a bright blue, and the grass and trees were a vivid green, still damp with morning dew. The colors felt almost too familiar.

Tch.

He shook his head and brought the topic back into his head. Fake Vulnerability.

The phrase echoed again in his mind, sharp as ink on paper.

He could still see the words scrawled beneath it in his tracker. Each bullet point calculated with intent. Controlled. Like chess moves in a game he didn’t plan on losing.

1. Maintain eye contact within class hours.

It was simple. Almost insultingly so. But effective.

Shadow wasn’t the type to seek attention. Everyone knew that. He was cold, distant, unreadable by default. So if he suddenly looked, held Sonic’s gaze even when he wasn’t expected to—it would stir something. Spark that familiar itch in Sonic’s brain.

Sonic’s curiosity wasn’t just a trait. It was a flaw. One that Shadow intended to exploit fully.

He glanced at his watch again. 6:45 A.M.

Right on cue.

The door swung open, and there he was—Sonic the Hedgehog, in all his unruly, unbothered glory. His backpack was lazily slung over one shoulder, the strap slipping just enough to look accidental. His blue quills stuck out like he’d rolled out of bed and never once considered a brush. And yet, that familiar, obnoxiously wide grin was already stretching across his face, lighting up the room before he even said a word.

Shadow didn’t move much. Chin still resting in his palm, but he turned his eyes toward the door—already watching. Already waiting.

Sonic hadn’t even made it to his seat before he was intercepted. A group of students—people Shadow privately labeled as followers, not friends—rushed up to him like it was a daily ceremony. Greetings flew out like confetti. Laughter sparked in return. Sonic chuckled, tossed back remarks, patted shoulders. His voice rang through the air like a jingle that stuck to the walls. The grin on his face widened by the second.

Shadow didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

He simply waited.

The classroom was warmer now, full of morning chatter and the distant click of lockers slamming shut beyond the walls. The sunlight through the windows had shifted just enough to catch the edge of Sonic’s cheek as he finally peeled away from the crowd and moved toward his desk.

And just as Shadow expected—before Sonic even reached for a pen or opened his bag—he turned.

Only slightly. A casual glance over his shoulder, like he hadn’t already felt Shadow’s stare burning into the back of his head.

Their eyes met.

Shadow saw it—the subtle hesitation in Sonic’s expression. The rapid, unconscious blinking. That split-second confusion that crossed his features, like his brain wasn’t entirely sure what to do with the gaze locked on him.

Then, in typical Sonic fashion, he covered it up with bravado.

A cocky smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, followed by an exaggerated wink. And just for good measure, he wiggled his damn eyebrows.

Shadow wanted to roll his eyes. Or punch him. Maybe both. But instead, he remained still, cold, unreadable. No raised brow. No scoff. Just unwavering eye contact. A sharp contrast to the way he usually looked away the second Sonic acted like an idiot.

And that—that—was what did it.

He caught it. The subtle crack in Sonic’s expression. A flicker of surprise. The momentary falter before he coughed, turned back around, and pretended to dig through his bag with more purpose than necessary.

Shadow let his hand slide down from his chin, fingers tapping faintly against his desk.

That’s a first.

Progress. Small, but deliberate.

There’d be more where that came from.

The day unfolded the way it always did—class after class sliding into the next like clockwork—but Shadow wasn’t here for routine.

Not today.

He kept his eyes steady, unblinking, every time Sonic turned his head. Longer eye contact. Never a flinch. Never the first to look away.

And never, ever a reaction.

It wasn’t hard. Shadow knew how to keep his face still. He had always mastered the art of silence. But now, silence wasn’t just solitude—it was strategy. A tool.

And it was working.

Each time Sonic threw a glance his way—sometimes just a passing flicker of blue in the corner of his vision, sometimes a full turn in his seat—Shadow could feel it. That growing restlessness. A slow-burning interest creeping across Sonic’s expression like fog across glass.

Confusion, every time.

The kind that tugged at Sonic’s brows. That made him squint, just slightly. Like he couldn’t make sense of what was happening, and it bothered him. Like something felt off in a way he couldn’t explain.

Perfect.

That’s what Shadow needed.

The longer Sonic stayed confused, the deeper he’d dig. The more he’d lean in, thinking there was something beneath the surface he could help fix or figure out.

He always took the bait.

And once he believed it—once he thought this quiet, intense version of Shadow was real—it would only take a snap. A shift. One small reveal that the vulnerability he’d seen wasn’t vulnerability at all. That the whole thing had been an act. That he never really mattered in the first place.

The goal was simple: get him invested.

And then disappear.

Break time arrived like a slow exhale, quiet and still, the kind of silence that settled into the corners of the classroom once the noise of footsteps and chatter had filtered out into the hall. The soft hum of distant voices echoed faintly through the walls, but inside, the classroom felt untouched—just desks, empty chairs, and the two hedgehogs left behind.

Shadow didn’t move from his seat near the window, still hunched over his desk. The early light filtering in through the glass caught against his quills, casting soft shadows over his fur. He didn’t glance up when Sonic stood.

The other hedgehog made his way over with that same easy, confident stride—shoulders relaxed, grin already forming as he pulled out the chair just beside Shadow and dropped into it with a practiced nonchalance.

Sonic leaned forward and dragged both his arms on top of Shadow's table. And rested his chin on both crossed hands.

“Can’t take your eyes off of me, huh?” Sonic teased, voice light, smug, playful. His usual game.

Based on Shadow’s observance he knows that Sonic expected the usual return: a glance, maybe a snort, the classic roll of eyes followed by a curt “Leave me alone.” That was how this went because, that’s how he always responded.

But instead… Shadow gave nothing.

His gaze stayed low, fixed on the grain of the desk beneath his fingertips. He sighed softly, not dramatic, but quiet enough to draw attention—and then turned, slowly, to meet Sonic’s eyes. His face was unreadable at first—calm, closed-off—but there was something else there. Just behind his crimson eyes, Shadow made sure to sprinkle just a bit of sadness through it.

Not enough to cry. Not enough to speak. Just enough to notice.

The silence held between them like thread. For once, he saw Sonic’s smirk faltered as he shifted his position.

“You okay?” Sonic asked, voice dipping—softer now. The playfulness gone, replaced with something much closer to concern.

There it was.

Shadow blinked slowly and looked away again, gaze returning to the desk like the question had been too much. He gave a quiet shake of his head, deliberately slow, deliberately controlled.

He could already feel Sonic’s long stare.

While Sonic? He couldn’t believe any of this was real. Because this wasn’t how Shadow used to act, this wasn't how he used to work.

Shadow could feel Sonic leaning in, just slightly—waiting, searching for something in his silence. Maybe a word, maybe a crack. Maybe anything that would explain what was happening in front of him.

And that was the point. To leave him wondering.

Shadow exhaled shakily and turned his head away to the other direction as if the air itself had become too heavy to face. Then, slowly, he brought his hands up to his face—covering it with trembling fingers, letting his shoulders curl inward. A small, forced sniffle slipped through.

He made sure it sounded just real enough.

Beside him, Sonic froze. He had never—never—seen Shadow like this. Not even close.

“Hey—Shadow… what—what happened?” Sonic’s voice cracked slightly, uneven with confusion. His hand twitched, hovering close to Shadow’s shoulder, unsure if he should touch him. He didn’t. Not yet.

Shadow didn’t respond. He kept his face buried in his palms, breathing shallow, shaky. His body language screamed distress—but it was all precisely calculated. Every angle. Every pause. Every flicker of false vulnerability.

Sonic shifted in his seat, concern spilling across his face like ripples over still water.

But before anything else could be said, Shadow abruptly stood. His head stayed low, quills drooping forward as he turned sharply and strode out of the classroom without a word. His steps were quick, uneven—enough to look rushed, almost panicked. The door swung shut behind him with a dull thud.

His fake sniffles echoed faintly down the hall, each one dragging Sonic deeper into the lie.

And then—out of sight, at the top of the stairwell—Shadow stopped.

The act dropped instantly.

He tilted his head back, blinking at the ceiling like it bored him. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, slow and cold. He shook his head with quiet amusement, rolling his eyes in the dim light.

“Moron,” he muttered under his breath, before turning and disappearing down the stairs.

Shadow made his way down to the ground floor, his steps steady and purposive.

He slipped past the main corridor, heading toward a quieter part of the campus—a tucked-away alcove behind the old greenhouse, hidden just enough from view to feel like its own pocket of the world. It was shaded by the tall overgrowth of ivy and glass, the sun filtering through in soft, patchy beams. And like clockwork, she was already there.

Rouge sat perched on the bench like she belonged in an editorial spread. One leg tucked elegantly under the other, her phone in one hand and a half-melted iced coffee in the other. The gloss on her lips matched the glint in her eyes—even when she wasn’t looking up. She made stillness look stylish.

Shadow let the smallest smirk ghost across his face as he slid onto the bench beside her. He slouched back, exhaling like he’d just finished a performance.

Rouge finally glanced over, her lips curling as she turned her phone off and let it place on her lap, following up with a shake of her drink. “Look who decided to grace me with his presence,” she teased, arching a brow, arms folding loosely across her chest.

Shadow’s gaze remained ahead, but the hint of smugness stayed on his face. “Had to get out of the classroom. I couldn’t even stand him trying to comfort me.”

Rouge blinked once, unimpressed. “Comforting?” Her brow lifted higher. “Thought the whole point was making him hate you?”

Shadow rolled his eyes, the smirk slipping just slightly. He finally turned his head to face her. “It’s strategy.”

Rouge’s expression flattened. “Elaborate.”

Shadow let out a soft huff, leaning closer. “I’m making him think he’s close. That he’s earned something. Connection, sympathy—whatever he thinks it is. Then the second he gets comfortable, I pull away. Nothing brutal. Just… vanish. Cut the thread clean.”

He gestured it vaguely with his fingers as if snipping an invisible string between them. “That was just the first part. Week One.”

Rouge’s previous skepticism shifted into amusement. She tilted her head, a sly smile spreading as she took another sip of her coffee. “Well damn,” she said. “Didn’t think you had the patience to play the long game.”

“I don’t,” Shadow said bluntly, settling back again. “But he’s already reacting. It’s working.”

Rouge watched him for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly beneath the shade of her lashes. “Confident?”

Shadow only shrugged, the gesture relaxed, almost bored.

She let out a soft laugh, shaking her head as she brought her phone back up to her face. “You better hope it works. You already know Blue’s built different.”

“I know,” he said coolly, turning toward her with a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “So you better start preparing that $300.”

Rouge turned to face him, lips curling into a grin. She tossed her head back and laughed.

“Please,” she scoffed. “I’ll make it $400 if you manage to pull off your little façade in less time than I gave you.”

Shadow lifted a brow, skeptical. “You’re kidding?”

Rouge chuckled again and glanced back down at her phone, typing something out lazily. “Obviously. You should know that by now.”

A faint breath of amusement escaped Shadow as he shook his head. His gaze drifted forward, quiet again, and his thoughts slowly folded back in on themselves—pulled toward the storm he’d willingly stepped into.

They let the silence settle after that—comfortably, like muscle memory. This place, this corner, had always been their escape from the rest of the world. The quiet away from everything loud, messy, and overstated. They didn’t need to say much here. It was the only place on campus that didn’t ask for anything from them.

Still, Rouge had noticed—Shadow hadn’t been showing up as often lately. Sure, sometimes it was studying, sometimes it was just plain mood. But other times… she knew what it really was.

He stayed in the classroom. Because someone else was there. Someone loud, messy, overstated.

But Shadow hadn’t realized that part yet.

Not really.

Not yet.

The bell rang sharply through the hallways, and the usual shuffle of students echoed in waves as they returned to their classrooms. Break time was over.

Rouge had left a few minutes earlier, slipping out from their usual hidden corner of campus. Shadow remained behind, unmoving on the bench, letting the moments drag. He had no intention of walking in early, not when he could spare himself the immediate weight of Sonic’s gaze. Better to give him time to stew. Let the confusion do its work.

By the time Shadow reached the classroom, the halls had mostly emptied. He stood just outside the door for a breath, his hand on the frame. And then—like flipping a switch—he slipped the mask back on. Expression steady. Eyes dulled just enough to glint with something like sadness.

Inside, the room had settled. The bell had already rung. Papers rustled. Chairs scraped faintly. Conversations dropped into silence. But Sonic’s eyes were already there—locked on him the second he entered.

Shadow didn’t look directly at him, but the air felt taut with it: the stare, heavy with something unsure, maybe even searching. Confusion, worry—it was still there. Tangled all over Sonic’s face, just like Shadow wanted.

Shadow’s steps were quiet as he moved down the row. He made sure to pass directly by Sonic’s desk. Close enough to catch his attention, but not enough to break stride. Not enough to give him anything.

He didn’t spare him a glance.

But he felt it—that flicker of warmth against his side, the way Sonic’s eyes followed him, silently trying to piece him back together. Once he was out of Sonic’s line of sight, Shadow tilted his head ever so slightly downward, lips twitching into the faintest smirk. Quick. Barely there. Satisfied.

Then it vanished.

He dropped into his seat, posture relaxed, shoulders unbothered. The next professor entered and the lights dimmed slightly at the front of the room, screen flickering to life.

As the lecture began, Shadow let himself glance once across two rows ahead. And there it was: Sonic, turned toward him already, brows knit tight. Still watching.

But even now, Sonic was the first to look away.

The hours dragged on with a heavy kind of weight, the tension between them thickening little by little as the day slipped by. Every passing minute felt longer, more drawn out, stretched taut over unsaid words and lingering glances.

By the time the last class ended, the sun outside had already begun its slow descent. The afternoon light spilled through the windows in golden streaks, dust particles dancing lazily in the beams. The bell’s echo hadn’t even finished ringing before students shot up from their seats, eager to leave the day behind. Chairs scraped back, shoes shuffled against the floor, and voices filled the air in a rush of post-lecture chatter.

Everyone seemed in a hurry—zipping their bags, cramming their notebooks in, bumping into desks and one another. But not Shadow.

He stayed seated, deliberate in every movement as he placed his supplies back into his bag. One item at a time. No urgency. Just quiet composure.

Across the room, Sonic lingered.

He moved slower than usual, not for lack of energy but out of something else—something quieter. His hands packed at a similar rhythm, but his eyes kept drifting sideways. Just quick glances, never long enough to be obvious. Still, they landed on Shadow every time. Watching him. Studying him.

Shadow didn’t return the looks this time. But he didn’t have to. He felt them. Every time Sonic glanced over, it buzzed in the space between them like a quiet frequency no one else could hear.

One by one, the classroom emptied. Backpacks swung over shoulders, the chatter faded down the hall, and desks were left scattered in their usual after-school disarray.

Eventually, only two remained.

Again.

Sonic and Shadow. Alone—just like they were that morning, just like they had been before. But this time, it was different.

This time, the silence wasn’t comfortable.

As Shadow slid the last of his supplies into his bag, Sonic’s eyes flickered with impatience. His movements were rushed, hands scattering his books and pens in his haste to catch up. He was still trying to process everything that had just happened—still caught somewhere between frustration and something else, something he wasn’t ready to admit yet.

When Shadow finally stood and started heading for the door, Sonic didn’t waste a second. He grabbed his bag and swung it over his shoulder, the strap catching on his arm as he quickly stepped in front of him. His words felt heavy on his tongue, unsure as they left his lips.

“Shadow…” His voice faltered briefly, uncertainty creeping in. He exhaled, trying to regain his composure, before continuing, “Do you wanna… go get some ice cream? Maybe… talk about this?”

The hope in his eyes was evident, but fleeting. He didn’t even know why he was asking—it wasn’t like he’d expected Shadow to agree.

Shadow stopped mid-step, eyes briefly closing as he processed the request. His jaw tightened. A wave of distaste rose in him, but he buried it beneath a practiced indifference. He gripped the strap of his bag harder.

“I’ll think about it,” he muttered, his voice flat, as he brushed past Sonic, heading for the door.

Sonic didn’t let the space between them grow. His steps were fast, but not rushed—matching Shadow’s pace. Sonic swung the door open with a quick motion as he gestured for Shadow to go ahead, offering a sheepish grin, though the corners of his mouth faltered slightly, unsure of how to read the moment.

Shadow’s gaze dropped, a slight scoff in his throat, before he turned to face him. He let out a breath—half exasperated, half something else. He shrugged, a small, barely noticeable movement, and stepped out of the classroom.

Before Sonic followed him, he took a quick glance back, making sure everything was in order. The lights were off, the plugs were pulled, and the room was spotless—just the way it should be. Satisfied, he closed the door behind him with a soft click.

His gaze landed on Shadow, already standing near the staircase. A small smile tugged at the corner of Sonic’s lips without him meaning to. It felt like the briefest moment of peace amidst everything else, and he couldn’t quite ignore the way his heart skipped a beat. He quickly chuckled, trying to brush it off, adjusting the strap of his bag before walking over to Shadow. No need to think too much about it.

As they started descending the stairs, the noise of the school day slowly faded into the background. Each step felt like it took a little longer than it should have, the silence between them pressing in, but Sonic wasn’t one to let it linger for long. He glanced sideways at Shadow, then exhaled, ready to get some clarity.

“So,” he began, his voice light but holding a hint of curiosity, “have you thought about it?”

Shadow didn’t look at him, his attention focused solely on the stairs beneath them. “I’m still thinking.”

Sonic felt his stomach tighten, but he wasn’t about to let it show. He nodded, turning his gaze ahead, letting the silence grow again. They were walking side by side, but it felt like they were moving further apart with each step. The campus was nearly empty now, only a few stragglers milling about. The bell had rung long ago, and the air felt still, too still. Sonic noticed how the usual noise of students had quieted, leaving the pair in an almost eerie peace.

It didn’t take long for them to reach the gates, the school grounds now feeling abandoned in the late afternoon haze. The sky was nearing dusk, the orange and pink hues of sunset just beginning to spread across the horizon. The streets outside were quieter than usual, as if the world was waiting for something.

Sonic glanced at Shadow, wondering what he was really thinking.

The air outside was cooler than expected.

Shadow stepped out first, his shoes meeting pavement with a steady rhythm. Across the road, leaning against her pink car, Rouge was easy to spot. Her arms were crossed and her face was buried in her phone, her expression unreadable beneath the light from the screen.

Shadow’s gaze lingered for a moment, then shifted back to Sonic beside him. “I thought about it,” he said quietly, almost as an afterthought.

Sonic slowed to a stop, turning slightly toward him. “Yeah?”

Shadow didn’t meet his eyes. “Maybe next time,” he murmured, the words falling like a soft dismissal. He didn’t wait for a reaction—he just picked up his pace, crossing the street without glancing back.

The wind tugged gently at Sonic’s quills. He stood there for a second too long, blinking as if trying to process something that slipped through his fingers. His hand tightened instinctively around the strap of his bag. A pause. Then he bit the inside of his cheek and drew a shallow breath through his nose.

“…Next time?” he echoed under his breath, almost unsure if he’d imagined it.

He glanced across the street where Shadow had already neared Rouge’s car. The streetlight above them flickered faintly to life, casting a long silhouette behind him. Sonic’s chest gave a small pull he didn’t want to name, and with a quiet exhale, he turned and made his way toward the parking rack. His steps were light but aimless, as if the day had just left a weight he didn’t quite know how to set down.

Rouge noticed him first in the corner of her eye, approaching with the same calm, calculated pace that always made him seem like he was walking through fog. She slipped her phone into the pocket of her blazer and rested a hand on her hip, the other loosely holding her car keys. The late afternoon light caught the metal of her earrings, glinting briefly before fading again.

A faint smirk tugged at her lips as Shadow crossed the street and came to a stop in front of her, all sharp posture and tired eyes.

“You sure you’re not making him fall for you instead?” Her voice was smooth, laced with just enough amusement to poke at him without drawing blood.

Shadow blinked at her, slowly and unamused. His brows furrowed, an expression caught somewhere between disgust and disbelief. “What the hell are you talking about?” He gave her one last deadpan look before pulling open the passenger-side door and slipping in without another word.

Inside, he dropped his bag onto the dashboard, buckled in, and leaned back into the seat. His expression leveled out into something cold and unreadable, his gaze fixed ahead, jaw set.

Rouge turned around the car and slid into the driver’s seat with the same ease she carried through everything. She tossed her bag to the side and twisted the keys into the ignition, engine humming to life. Before shifting gears, she glanced at him, voice low but curious.

“You walked out the gates with Blue.”

Shadow didn’t even blink. He crossed his arms loosely, eyes still on the windshield.

“He asked me out for ice cream. Said he wanted to talk about this,” he muttered, rolling his eyes.

Rouge let out a small laugh, full of disbelief and intrigue. “No way. What’d you say?”

Shadow finally looked at her, unimpressed as ever. “I told him… next time.”

Rouge’s brow rose slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing her face before she refocused on the road and pulled away from the curb. “Ooh… really going for the long game, huh?”

Shadow clicked his tongue, turning his head to watch the buildings roll by outside the window. The sky was turning a cooler shade now, the gold draining out as evening crept closer. Streetlights flickered faintly to life one by one.

It was only the first day, and yet—he could feel it. The shift.

That hesitation in Sonic’s voice, the light in his eyes when he asked, the nervous energy in his laugh—it was already working. Already unraveling. Sonic, of all people, asking him to get ice cream and talk? It was strange. Offbeat. Too genuine.

But not unexpected.

Shadow leaned back deeper into his seat, lips twitching faintly as he stared out at the quiet cityscape blurring past the glass.

If this was how things went on day one, he could only imagine what the rest of the week would bring.

The familiar hum of tires against pavement faded as Rouge pulled up to the curb outside Shadow’s place. The streets were quiet this late in the afternoon, shadows stretching longer across the pavement, soft golden light bleeding through the windshield and dancing on the dashboard. The engine gave one last sputter before she turned it off.

The silence between them lingered for a beat.

Rouge shifted in her seat, her arm slinging casually over the backrest as she turned to fully face him. Shadow, meanwhile, was hunched in his seat, forehead nearly touching the cool windowpane, gaze locked on the row of hedges across the street like they had something to offer him.

“Okay,” Rouge said, her voice slicing clean through the quiet. “Let me get this straight.”

Shadow didn’t flinch, but his ear twitched at her tone.

“Are you even aware of how you look when you’re around Blue?”

He turned his head just enough to glance at her, eyes half-lidded with disinterest. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m saying,” Rouge continued, cocking a brow, “it looks like you’re being sweet. Like actually sweet. You’re making it real easy to forget this whole thing’s supposed to be fake.”

Shadow scoffed, his expression unreadable. “I told you already. It’s all part of the plan.”

Rouge gave a faint, skeptical smirk—tight and unimpressed. “Right. Play your long game if you want, it’s even kind of impressive. But I’ve seen the way you act around him.” She leaned back against the seat, eyes fixed on him. “You do realize you’re putting yourself in a very messy spot, don’t you?”

He didn’t respond.

“You’re showing him a version of you that doesn’t exist,” she said, voice lower now, almost careful. “But at the same time… you’re letting him get too close.”

The weight of her words hung in the small space of the car, thick and quiet.

Shadow’s jaw worked, but his lips stayed shut. His eyes had sharpened, now watching the reflection of the fading sky on the car window.

Rouge tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “You sure you’ll be able to cut him off when he actually starts to care?”

That struck something. Shadow blinked slowly, just once, like the words didn’t sit right. Like they hit something he hadn’t allowed himself to name yet.

“He’s not going to care,” he muttered, too defensive, too fast. “It’s just acting. You’re the one who said it—if I get him to hate me, I win.”

His voice had a clipped edge now, sharp enough to bite if she pushed too hard. “This is the only way it works. If I let him come closer on his own, he’ll figure it out—he’ll see I’m not worth the trouble.”

Rouge didn’t look away from him, even when he dropped his gaze again.

“Or maybe,” she said softly, “you’re scared he’ll see the real you… and still stay.”

Her words were quiet, but they sank fast, like a rock into still water.

Shadow looked down, his fists clenching and unclenching. His voice dropped low, almost beneath his breath.

“It’s safer like this,” he said. “If I control it, I don’t get hurt.”

Rouge let out a quiet breath of laughter—not mocking, but knowing. She leaned back into her seat fully, her fingers curling around the steering wheel.

“Sure, babe,” she murmured, tapping her nails against the leather. “Safe.”

The silence lingered between them, stretched tight like a thread about to snap.

Rouge stayed quiet for a while, eyes fixed on the street ahead, fingers still tapping lightly against the wheel. Then she exhaled, low and steady, like she was choosing every word before it left her mouth.

“I know you, Shadow,” she said finally. “You think no one sees you, but I do. Always have.”

He didn’t move.

“You’re like a book left wide open,” she continued. “But all the pages are blank—and only the ones who truly matter stick around long enough to read between the lines.”

Shadow finally turned to her, brows raised, his voice bone-dry. “Wow. That was… poetic,” he said, dragging the word like a weight. “Want me to grab a pen? Might as well help you write your next bestseller.”

He made a show of reaching for his bag, rummaging through it with mock commitment.

Rouge scoffed, her lips twitching but not quite smiling. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I’m not. You just always sound serious right before you say something absolutely insane.”

She leaned forward a bit, her voice dipping lower—firmer now, without the usual edge of sarcasm. “Just don’t come crying to me when it stops feeling like a game.”

That one hit harder. It wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t even advice.

It was a warning.

The words settled in the cramped car space like dust in the air—visible, heavy, impossible to ignore.

Shadow didn’t say anything. He unbuckled his seatbelt with a soft click, pushed the door open, and stepped one foot outside.

But then she spoke again—calmer this time, almost absentminded, as if she wasn’t sure if she wanted him to hear it.

“I told you to make him hate you,” she murmured. “Not break yourself in the process.”

That made him pause—not long, just a heartbeat—but enough.

The porch light from his house flickered on as he walked away, casting a long shadow behind him. He didn’t glance back. Didn’t say anything. The car door shut with a firm thud, and then it was just Rouge again, sitting in the stillness he left behind.

She blinked once, her gaze trailing to the empty passenger seat. Her nails stopped tapping. The space beside her felt hollow, even though it always did when he sat there—always half-present, half-armored.

She leaned her head back against the seat, exhaling slowly—heavily. The sound unfurled in the still car like smoke, dissolving into the quiet hum of the night around her.

Her nails tapped against the steering wheel—once, twice—then stilled, as if the rhythm had no more reason to continue.

The engine came to life with a low growl. She pulled away from the curb and eased into the stretch of road ahead, streetlights bleeding gold across her windshield in slow, rhythmic patterns.

“I told you to make him hate you,” she muttered under her breath, voice rough at the edges. “Loathe you. Despise you.”

The car rolled forward, tires gliding over cracked asphalt. She kept her eyes on the road, but her thoughts were lodged somewhere behind her, in the space Shadow left behind.

“I said that because I knew you’d listen.” Her jaw tensed. “You always listen when it hurts you.”

Rouge gripped the wheel a little tighter.

“I know you, Shadow. Better than anyone. You run the moment it stings. You’ve built your whole life around dodging what you don’t want to feel.”

The silence in the car felt heavier than before. Not empty—but full of everything unsaid.

“But you don’t hate him.” Her lips curled, not quite a smile. “You don’t even know him that well. But you’re already holding back.”

A laugh slipped out—short, dry, and tired. Like she was scolding herself for even bothering to say it aloud.

She turned onto a quieter street, the houses spaced farther apart now. More shadows than windows. More quiet than comfort.

“You look at him like you’re hoping he never looks back,” she whispered. “Because if he does… if he actually sees you—really sees you—and stays…”

Rouge’s voice drifted off, caught in the weight of the thought.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. Her next words were softer than breath.

“…Then what?”

The question didn’t need an answer. It already lived in the air around her—uneasy, fragile, too honest to hold.

Her hands relaxed on the wheel just a little.

“Then you’ll have to stay too.”

Shadow stepped inside the house, barely noticing the tension settled between his brows. The silence of the house greeted him first—thick, warm, familiar. Not the kind of silence that crept in unwanted, but the kind that had known him long enough to stay out of his way.

The scent of simmering curry floated through the air, heavy with spice and something sweeter beneath it—coconut milk, maybe. It clung to the walls, seeped into the hallway, settled into his clothes like memory. Maria was cooking. That much was obvious. She wasn’t in the living room, which meant she was probably by the stove, focused on whatever was bubbling in that pot.

Shadow quietly slipped off his shoes, aligning them precisely on the rack by the side wall. The soft shuffle of his socked feet slid over the hardwood floor as he moved through the house, the faint creaks underfoot familiar enough not to startle.

The kitchen light cast a soft golden hue over the space, flickering ever so slightly as the wind outside nudged the windows. Maria stood by the stove, sleeves slightly rolled, stirring gently. The ladle moved in a slow rhythm, and for a moment, Shadow simply watched—watched the small, quiet scene unfold like he wasn’t part of it yet.

She must’ve sensed him because she turned before he spoke, placing the ladle down and securing the lid over the pot with practiced ease. When her gaze met his, they both instinctively stepped forward—no words needed.

Her arms opened just as his did.

The hug was quiet. Wordless. A pause in motion.

Shadow held on a little longer than usual—not in a dramatic way, but enough that Maria noticed. His grip wasn’t tight, but it was steady, like the world outside had asked too much of him today and this was the only part that hadn’t.

He exhaled into her touch, barely audible. Just enough to let the weight go.

When they parted, Shadow offered her a small smile, brief but real.

Maria’s smile was wider. Her eyes softened, glancing back to the stove with quiet joy. “I’m almost done cooking,” she said gently. “By the time you change and wash up, it’ll be ready.”

Shadow nodded faintly, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to resemble a smile. Without another word, he turned and slipped out of the kitchen, his steps slow and deliberate as he headed toward the stairs.

The familiar creak beneath his foot as he stepped onto the first stair didn’t bring its usual comfort. Instead, he paused halfway up the staircase, his fingers clenching tightly around the strap of his bag like it was anchoring him to something steady.

Rouge’s voice rang again in his head—quiet, stubborn, and far too clear.

His chest tightened. He shook his head once, sharply, as if that might knock the echo loose. But the words were lodged there, threaded into the back of his mind. A quiet groan escaped his throat, low and tired, before he forced himself to keep going—up the rest of the stairs and into the solitude of his room.

He flicked the light on. A dim, pale glow cast across the space: same bed, same desk.

Shadow walked over, setting his bag down beside the bed with a thud and moved toward the closet, pulling out a loose shirt and some clean sweats. He changed quickly, automatically—like routine might steady his pulse. The used uniform were tossed into the laundry basket without thought.

He made his way to the bathroom next. The door shut behind him with a soft click.

Faucet on. Gloves off.

He splashed cold water against his face. Once. Twice.

It hit hard—shocking enough to jolt him, but not enough to numb anything real. He stood there, leaning forward slightly, eyes locking onto his own reflection in the mirror above the sink.

His chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm. His eyes were rimmed with fatigue, too many thoughts stretched thin behind them.

A twitch of frustration crossed his face. He stared too long. Thought too long.

Then his fist came down against the edge of the sink with a sharp thud—not loud enough to echo, but loud enough to sting his knuckles. He gripped the porcelain tightly after, his shoulders rigid, his breath now shaky.

He didn’t want to admit it aloud. Not even to himself.

“She’s wrong,” he muttered, voice barely more than gravel in his throat. “She doesn’t know anything.”

But the ache in his chest contradicted him. The thoughts that lingered long after the conversation had ended.

Because Rouge always knew.

He didn’t take long. A few minutes at most.

The thought of Maria waiting pushed him to move quickly, and once he was clean and dressed, he made his way downstairs.

By the time he reached the dining room, Maria was already at the table, scooping steaming rice onto plates with practiced ease. The golden curry shimmered in the light, thick and fragrant, already poured neatly over the rice. She glanced up as he approached, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek before laying the utensils down.

“Come eat, Shadow,” she said, her tone bright but not forced.

He walked over and took his seat, the chair scraping lightly against the floor. He rested his hands on the table, watching Maria finish setting everything before sitting across from him.

The silence that followed was natural. Easy. They ate slowly at first, the sound of silverware against ceramic barely cutting through the quiet.

The curry was perfect, of course. It always was.

But Shadow wasn’t tasting much. Not really.

His mind drifted again, distant, thoughts crowding in places food couldn’t reach.

Maria noticed first. Her gaze lifted from her plate.

“Shadow?” she asked gently. “You okay?”

He blinked, pulled back into the moment by her voice. He hadn’t even realized he’d stopped moving. His spoon hovered above his plate, untouched for longer than he thought.

He nodded once, small and mechanical, then looked back down and scooped a bite of rice and curry. He took it without a word, chewing slowly, like it might ground him.

It wasn’t the food. Maria’s cooking never failed—it was warm, rich, like home. But that ache in him was different. Quiet, but heavy. Like it settled in his chest and refused to move.

And Maria knew.

She didn’t push. She never did.

She could see it—the stiffness in his shoulders, the way his eyes seemed to look past his plate instead of at it. But she didn’t press for answers. Maria understood that Shadow only spoke when he was ready, and forcing him never worked. It never had.

So instead, she reached out.

Her hand brushed lightly over his shoulder, a quiet touch that said more than words would have. Just enough to remind him she was there. Just enough to remind him he wasn’t alone.

Shadow glanced over at her. She offered a small, warm smile—steady, familiar, unchanging.

He gave her one in return. Faint, but real.

Maria let her hand fall back to her side and returned to her food without another word.

The rest of dinner passed in silence. But it wasn’t the kind that screamed. Not like the silence earlier in the car, or the kind that echoed inside his head when Rouge’s words started looping back again.

This silence was still. Calm. The kind you could sit in without drowning.

Dinner ended quietly, with empty plates and half-full glasses that still held warmth from the meal. The soft clinking of silverware being set down signaled the end of it, and Maria, ever gentle, began gathering the dishes.

“I’ll handle these,” she said casually, though her eyes lingered on Shadow longer than the words might’ve suggested. “You should head upstairs. Get some rest.”

Shadow hesitated. His fingers toyed with the edge of the placemat, his posture still uncertain.

“I can help,” he offered, voice low, a touch strained.

But Maria just tilted her head and gave him that soft look of insistence—the kind that made arguing pointless. Not stern, just sure.

Shadow watched her a moment longer before offering a quiet, “Sorry,” almost like he disliked that she could read him so easily.

He stood, pushing his chair in with barely a scrape, then stepped around the table toward her. She paused mid-motion, and before either of them said another word, he pulled her into a hug.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t stiff. Just still.

The kind of hug you give when words wouldn’t reach the place you needed them to.

Maria returned it without question, arms wrapping around him with practiced ease.

Eventually, he stepped back, offering her a faint nod of thanks, then turned for the staircase.

The hallway was dim and quiet. The floor creaked under his footsteps as he ascended, his fingers dragging slightly against the wooden railing. Each step felt heavier than the last.

He entered his room and closed the door with a soft thud behind him.

It was cooler here—quieter too. The kind of quiet that settled into your bones when no one else was around. The faint hum of the ceiling fan stirred the stillness, pushing air that didn’t quite ease the weight pressing on his chest.

He crossed the room with slow steps and dropped into his desk chair. The wood creaked beneath him, familiar and worn.

For a long while, he just sat. Arms resting on his desk.

And he breathed.

In.

Out.

Then again—this time slower, more unsteady.

He shut his eyes tight like it would somehow shut the day out with them. But it didn’t. The memories didn’t fade. The words didn’t disappear.

He exhaled hard and dragged his palms down his face, fingers pressing into his jaw as if the pressure might ground him. Then he rolled his shoulders back, quick, jittery—like trying to shake something loose from under his skin.

It didn’t budge.

It clung to him, coiled around his nerves, tightening with every breath.

It hadn’t even been ten minutes since he’d closed his door, and already the silence was pressing too hard against his ears.

With a quiet groan, Shadow pushed himself off the chair, the legs scraping softly against the floor. His footsteps were measured as he made his way to the hallway again.

He descended the stairs, each step light but deliberate.

In the kitchen, Maria stood at the sink. The faint sound of running water and the clink of ceramic plates filled the quiet.

She hadn’t noticed him yet.

Shadow approached slowly, not wanting to startle her. “Maria,” he called out gently.

She turned, hands dripping, and wiped them on her apron. Her brows lifted slightly at the sight of him—surprised, but not alarmed. A small smile followed, laced with quiet curiosity.

“What is it?” she asked softly, though her tone was already warm and open.

Shadow glanced toward the front door, then back at her. “I’m heading out for a bit,” he said, his voice low, careful. “I just… need some air. I won’t be long. Promise.”

Maria studied him for a second longer, something unreadable in her eyes. Worry, maybe. Understanding, definitely. She didn’t press. She never did.

Instead, she nodded. “Alright. Text me if you need anything, okay?”

He offered a small nod, then, almost as an afterthought, a quiet smile. “I will.”

Shadow stepped away from the kitchen and toward the entryway, pulling his brown coat from the rack. The soft rustle of fabric filled the still air as he shrugged it on.

Before opening the door, he paused.

Something made him turn around.

Maria was still there, watching him from the kitchen threshold, her figure outlined by the soft overhead light. She didn’t say anything. She just raised a hand and gave him a small, silent wave.

Shadow held her gaze for a moment longer, nodded once, and stepped outside—into the cool, open night.

He needed this.

The air outside was brisk. He pulled his coat tighter around himself and tucked his hands into the deep pockets, letting the street breathe around him.

The world felt different at night. Calmer. Slower. The usual chaos of the city had wound itself down to a gentle hush—cars were sparse, lights low, and the chatter of strangers replaced with the occasional distant hum of a passing bus.

Shadow walked with no destination in mind, only the intention to keep going until his thoughts quieted. The soles of his shoes tapped rhythmically against the pavement, past convenience stores he knew by heart, past bakeries whose windowpanes still held the faint glow of warm lighting.

Then he slowed.

Just a few paces ahead was the bookstore.

It was modest in size, wedged between a flower shop and a vintage record store. Shadow had passed it a dozen times before, always telling himself he’d stop by eventually. Tonight, he did.

The bell above the door let out a delicate chime as he stepped inside.

Warmth greeted him instantly. Not just in temperature, but in atmosphere. The lighting was low, soft golden tones filtering through hanging lamps that made the polished wooden floors glow. Shelves towered neatly in rows, each one brimming with stories bound in worn covers and crisp spines.

It smelled like aged paper and cedar shelves. Like rain hitting a porch. Like silence that welcomed rather than warned.

Shadow took his time moving between the aisles. He wasn’t looking for anything in particular—he rarely was—but there was a strange comfort in the quiet hum of turning pages and the soft scuffs of shoes from other readers scattered around the shop.

He let his fingers graze the spines as he walked. Fiction. Mystery. Poetry.

Then he stopped at a corner that felt more secluded than the rest. The light was dimmer here, the hum quieter. Overhead, a wooden sign hung crookedly with faded gold lettering that read:

“Classics.”

Shadow hummed under his breath—barely a sound, more of a reflex. His fingertips hovered along the spines of the books, tracing the subtle textures of leather-bound covers, embossed titles, and weathered edges. Some volumes stood thick and intimidating; others were slimmer, more worn, the gold lettering faded from time and hands before his.

He let his eyes wander, observing the delicate variance in design—how some publishers framed their titles with florals, others with stark serif fonts or minimalist palettes. Then, something caught his eye.

He reached out, tugging a book from the shelf with careful fingers, easing it out slowly. The shelf was packed tight, and pulling one allowed a bit of space for the surrounding volumes to breathe. He glanced down at the cover now in his hands, brushing a thumb over the smooth print.

Pride and Prejudice.

One of Jane Austen’s best-known works.

He blinked at the title, mildly surprised by his own selection, then turned the book over once—curious.

His eyes drifted back to the shelf, casually scanning over the empty spot where the book had been. But then, just as he tilted his head slightly—

A flicker of blue on the other side of the shelf.

Movement.

Shadow’s gaze narrowed. The shelf was tall but open enough near the sides to catch glances through the gaps. And he was certain—he’d seen it. That unmistakable hue.

For a second, he told himself it couldn’t be.

But then his voice, unthinking and unfiltered, slipped out low and almost too soft to hear. “…Sonic?”

It wasn’t meant to be said aloud. And yet, it had been.

There was a pause.

Then, from the other side of the shelf, a voice returned his name—quiet and surprised, maybe even hesitant.

“Shadow?”

Of course. Just his luck.

Tucked in the narrow space left behind by the two missing books, Sonic’s face appeared—framed neatly between the hardcovers like some kind of illusion. His eyes widened at first, caught off guard, but only for a moment. The surprise faded quickly, giving way to a crooked, quiet smile.

Shadow froze, still half-hunched in front of the shelf, book in hand and brain slowly catching up.

“Wait a sec,” Sonic whispered, his voice soft with amusement. Then he disappeared behind the shelf again, out of sight, footsteps retreating only to loop around.

Shadow blinked. Once. Twice.

And then—there he was.

Sonic rounded the end of the aisle, now properly on Shadow’s side of the shelf. He approached slowly, stopping a few feet away, as if unsure how close was too close. Still wearing his uniform, blazer slightly wrinkled, tie half loosened like he hadn’t bothered fixing it since school let out.

Shadow’s gaze trailed down, noting the book in Sonic’s hand. Nothing about this scene made sense.

Sonic, ever too casual for his own good, filled the silence.

“Oh—uh, I haven’t gone home yet,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I kinda just wander after school sometimes.”

His voice wasn’t loud. It matched the hush of the bookstore, where every sound felt like it needed to be folded into the quiet instead of disrupting it.

Shadow returned his attention to the shelves, eyes scanning the spines with practiced indifference. “I didn’t ask,” he muttered.

Sonic let out a breathy chuckle and turned his attention back to the books, moving a few steps over to browse a different section of the same long shelf.

“Right,” he said simply, a hint of amusement lingering in his tone.

A hush had fallen between them again—soft and heavy, like the kind of silence bookstores are built to hold. The amber glow from the overhead bulbs settled over the rows of spines, casting long shadows between shelves and across the corners of their faces.

Then, like easing a toe into still water, Sonic spoke once more.

“Hey, Shadow?”

Shadow shifted slightly. His hand hovered near a hardback with worn gold print. He didn’t turn fully—just glanced over his shoulder.

Sonic held up a book with a quiet confidence, thumb tucked casually against the edge of the cover. “Have you read this yet? Persuasion—Jane Austen,” he said. His voice came out steady, light, but not unserious. “I kinda like her stuff. Maybe you should give it a try.”

He had another book in his other hand, glancing between the two, then back to Shadow like he was weighing recommendations with the ease of someone who did this often.

There was something oddly calming about the way he said it. Almost like the words had a rhythm—unhurried, sure of themselves, and yet delicate. The kind of tone someone might use when reading to themselves just for the pleasure of it.

Shadow’s eyes lingered on the title, registering the author’s name. Same as Pride and Prejudice, the one still pressed in his hand. He hadn’t read either. Not yet.

He gave a small, barely-there nod and turned back toward the shelf, dragging his eyes across a row of Brontës.

“You read?” he asked, voice low but intentionally sharp-edged, meant to sound more like a scoff than curiosity. His gaze didn’t move from the spines, but he was listening—carefully.

There was a beat. Then Sonic responded, not at all offended.

“Yeah! I do.” His voice perked up, though still wrapped in the soft hush the store demanded. “It’s just… peaceful. And quiet.”

Shadow smirked faintly to himself, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Pegged you as more of a party-goer.”

Sonic didn’t hesitate. “Well—yeah, I kind of am. But I also like reading.” He shrugged, shifting his weight to one foot. “I like both.”

There was a pause, like he was considering whether to say more. Then, quieter, “But sometimes when I read in quiet places like this… it just makes me feel open, you know?”

Shadow exhaled through his nose, eyes skimming the shelf but not seeing much anymore. He rolled his eyes—but only faintly, and only to himself. No sharp remarks this time.

The book in his hand suddenly felt heavier than it should’ve. He slid it back into its slot with careful fingers, the sound of the spine sliding against the shelf wood oddly final.

Something in his chest tightened.

It was subtle at first—barely a tremor. But the longer he stood there, the more it crept in. A discomfort that wasn’t exactly physical, but it pulsed in his throat and tingled under his skin. The bookstore’s warm lighting, once inviting, now felt too dim, like the air wasn’t circulating. The faint hum of the overhead lights had somehow grown louder. Every creak of the floorboards, every page turn from the far-off tables—it all suddenly pressed on him like static.

Too much. Too close. Too strange.

He needed to leave.

His eyes flicked back to the shelf in front of him, unmoving. Just books. Spines of novels lined up in neat rows, and yet none of them looked like anything he wanted to see right now. He looked briefly at Sonic, who was still holding the Austen book as if he hadn’t noticed the shift in energy. Shadow immediately redirected his gaze elsewhere, settling it on a faraway corner of the bookstore that offered nothing but distance.

“I have to go,” he said, voice low but steady.

He didn’t wait for Sonic to respond. He stepped forward, brushing past the shelf edge and moving toward the exit. But just as he reached the space between aisles, Sonic’s voice called out from behind.

“Shadow—wait.”

His steps halted. Only slightly.

The air hung for a beat as Shadow turned his head over his shoulder, meeting Sonic’s eyes from a short distance away. Sonic wasn’t smiling now. His brows were knit with something that looked like hesitation. Vulnerability, even.

“Can we…” Sonic’s words slowed, caught between nerves and hope. “Can we talk about what happened earlier? At school?”

He tried to take a small step closer, but Shadow turned his face away, back toward the rows ahead of him.

“Next time,” he said flatly.

No rise. No explanation. Just two words.

And then he walked.

He pushed open the door, the warmth of the store falling away like a curtain. Outside, the air was brisk and sharp—cool against his face, curling against his neck despite the collar of his coat. The sky had already faded to navy, clouds hovering thick behind the streetlamps.

He paused for a moment on the sidewalk, slipping his hands into his pockets. Inhaled. Exhaled. The night carried a quiet weight, but it wasn’t the same kind of quiet as the bookstore. This one didn’t press on him. It gave him space.

His feet began to move again, automatically tracing the path back home.

The quiet of the evening didn’t demand anything from him—not answers, not confessions, not even words.

He had told Maria he wouldn’t be out long. And maybe it was for the best.

He hadn’t expected Sonic. Not there. Not like that.

But for all the strange tension coiled in his chest, there was also… a strange sense of stillness. Not relief, exactly. But something like it. A calm that didn’t have a name yet.

And he let it walk home with him, step after step, under the pale glow of the streetlights.

“I don’t get him.”

Sonic’s voice cut through the quiet clatter of the dining room, sharp and exasperated. He was still mid-chew, rice sticking to the corner of his mouth as he stabbed at the last bits on his plate. Across from him, Tails and Knuckles were already finished with their food, their plates scraped clean. But neither had left the table—clearly, they were bracing for one of Sonic’s post-school venting sessions.

Tails leaned forward, resting his arms on the edge of the table, chin in his palm. “What happened now?” he asked, more out of routine than curiosity.

Sonic dropped his spoon into the plate with a soft clink and leaned back in his chair, arms flailing a bit as he spoke. “Okay—so earlier, right? We’re in class, and I swear Shadow was just staring at me. Like, not glancing. Staring.”

He gestured a fork dramatically toward both brothers before going back in for another scoop of rice, barely giving himself time to chew before continuing. “And I tried to play it cool, I did. I figured maybe he was zoning out or whatever—but then break hits, and I go over to ask what’s up, right? And get this—he just leaves. I think he was crying—or something.”

Knuckles raised an eyebrow, exchanging a glance with Tails.

Sonic groaned. “It doesn’t make sense, at all. He’s not the type to get all emotional in front of people.”

He set his utensils down, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface.

“Then when the last class ended, I tried to ask him about it,” Sonic said, spoon clinking softly against his plate as he sliced through the last piece of meat.

“But he just brushed it off again. Said, ‘next time.’” He stabbed the piece and popped it into his mouth, chewing quickly. “Then guess what?”

Knuckles and Tails didn’t respond. They were both leaning back in their chairs now, arms crossed, expressions blank in a way only years of sibling tolerance could allow.

“I told you guys earlier I’d be home a little late, right? I actually dropped by that bookstore down the city,” Sonic went on, words muffled slightly through the last mouthful of food. “And out of nowhere—boom. Shadow’s there too.”

He scraped the last of his rice into his mouth and set his utensils down with a sharp clatter, the finality of it echoing slightly in the kitchen’s dim silence. Outside, the crickets had just begun to chirp, and the soft hum of the overhead light buzzed above them.

Sonic stood up, taking his plate and utensils to the sink. He ran the water, steam rising as it hit the warm ceramic. “So I ask him again, y’know? About what happened at school. What was up with him leaving the room like that, or why he acted off all day.”

His voice was tighter now. Not angry—just puzzled. Worn out from trying.

“And what does he say?” Sonic scrubbed harder than necessary. “He says next time. Again.”

Tails tilted his head as he watched his brother from behind. “What if he doesn’t really want to talk about it?” he asked quietly, testing the waters.

Sonic groaned, dragging a dish towel over his damp plate. “I know. But… today was just weird. It’s like he was… open. Way more open than usual. Which makes zero sense considering what I pulled yesterday.”

Knuckles finally spoke, his voice low and firm. “Maybe you should just let him be for now.”

Sonic turned, towel in hand, and raised a brow at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Knuckles shrugged with a slow breath. “It means, you should wait. Let him bring it up when he’s ready. Don’t corner him.”

Sonic didn’t say anything at first. Just finished drying off his plate and utensils before putting them away in the drawer with a muted click. His movements slowed as his thoughts caught up to him.

“Yeah,” he said, the word more of an exhale than anything. “Maybe you’re right.”

But something in his voice was still tense, like letting go of control wasn’t something that came naturally to him.

He ran a hand through his quills and started walking toward the hallway. “Anyway, I’m crashing early. Goodnight.”

He gave a lazy salute over his shoulder and jogged up the stairs, the sound of his footsteps softening as he disappeared down the hall.

Silence followed for a moment before Knuckles sighed and glanced at Tails.

“You think he’s ever gonna stop talking about that Shadow guy?”

“I don’t think so.” He chuckled.

Knuckles let out a soft huff, shaking his head. “We sound like we’re in some kind of weird support group.”

The two of them shared a quiet laugh, but behind it was the same old familiarity. They’d been listening to Sonic talk about Shadow for months now. From the very first day he came home after enrolling, rambling about the guy who was apparently his polar opposite. From rivals to whatever strange limbo they were in now—Sonic never let it go.

They’d never even seen Shadow in person. Not once. And still, the guy practically lived rent-free in their house.

Knuckles leaned back and folded his arms behind his head. “One day, I just wanna know what’s so special about this guy.”

Tails smirked, pushing his chair back with a creak. “Same.”

But even as they stood to leave the kitchen, the feeling lingered. The sense that Sonic—despite all the confusion and weird moments—wasn’t just fixated.

He was already in deeper than he realized.

The rest of the night passed quietly on both ends.

For Sonic, it was a restless kind of quiet—where thoughts replayed in loops, looping too loud for sleep to come easy. The walls of his room felt thinner than usual, like they could hear him think.

For Shadow, it was the kind of silence that settled deep in the bones. A cold, still kind of calm, interrupted only by the faint hum of the city outside his window and the distant ticking of the wall clock.

Neither of them knew it yet, but the night was only a pause. There was more coming—more than either of them expected.

The weekend finally arrived—a break from the long, dragging hours of school and the noise that came with it. For most, it was a breath of relief. A reset.

But for Shadow, it wasn’t rest. It was solitude.

He welcomed the quiet, yes—but it came with a heaviness that clung to his ribs. At least on weekdays, he had distractions. The rush of classes, the buzz of campus life, even Sonic’s relentless energy. Now, the silence made everything echo louder.

Weekends usually meant time with Rouge. Whether they were getting overpriced drinks downtown, raiding each other’s closets, or just lounging on her couch with some ridiculous show playing in the background—it was their ritual. Their constant.

But today was different.

Shadow hadn’t spoken to her since last night. Not a word. Not a text. The memory of their conversation was still a weight on his chest. Every word Rouge said, calm but cutting, had stayed with him. She had sounded serious in a way she rarely did. And that scared him more than he wanted to admit.

He sat on the edge of his bed, phone in hand, Rouge’s contact glowing on the screen.

He didn’t press it.

His thumb hovered, but the knot in his stomach held him back. Maybe she needed space too. Maybe pushing would only make things worse. That tone in her voice—it wasn’t anger. It was disappointment. And somehow, that hit harder.

He hated how much he cared about her opinion. Hated that beneath the pride and the frustration, there was something else—a fear. A quiet, gnawing fear that maybe this was the start of her pulling away. And if Rouge walked away from him, then what was left?

Shadow let out a sigh, sharp and low. With a flick of his thumb, he locked his phone and tossed it onto the pillow beside him. It landed face-down, screen going dark.

He slumped back down on the bed, eyes locked on the ceiling, gaze flickering occasionally on the overhead fan.

The silence in the room stretched long. But his mind didn’t stop. It ran in circles—over Rouge’s words, over the encounter he had with Sonic last night at the bookstore, over everything he didn’t want to feel.

And still, the ceiling gave no answers.

Sunday crept in quietly, casting a soft gray over the city. The kind of day where time felt slower, stretched thin between yawns of wind and the quiet hum of life outside.

Shadow hadn’t left his room since morning.

The air inside was still, too still, save for the occasional creak of wood beneath the walls. He sat at his desk, slouched forward, elbow braced against the tabletop and his forehead pressed against his palm. In front of him, his Loathe Tracker sat wide open. Pages filled with sharp bullet points, paragraphs, and notes written in unforgiving ink.

His eyes skimmed over the week’s plan for what felt like the tenth time. The heading Fake Vulnerability—highlighted and underlined, stared back at him like a dare. He had five days left before he was supposed to switch gears—to pivot, adapt, move onto the next tactic. But right now, this was the play.

His gaze fell to the list beneath the header. Each line held weight. Precision. Intention.

1. Maintain eye contact within class hours.

Done. Friday. And it had worked.

He shook his head and continued reading the next line slowly.

2. Call out his name but don’t say anything.

Simple. Minimal. But just enough to get under Sonic’s skin. To keep him guessing. Shadow could already picture it—Sonic turning around with those brows furrowed too tightly, the way his mouth hung open a second too long, trying to figure out if something was wrong or if he’d missed something.

It made Shadow want to laugh. He didn’t, but the corner of his lip tugged ever so slightly.

That was the brilliance of it, wasn’t it? The illusion of comfort. Make Sonic believe Shadow was slowly letting his guard down. Make him believe he had a foothold in Shadow’s space.

It would reel him in. Confuse him. Disarm him.

Perfect.

But even as Shadow sat there, eyes locked on the page, his fingers hovering over the edge of the notebook, something gnawed at the back of his mind.

He hadn’t talked to Rouge. Not yet.

Shadow figured he’d save it for tomorrow—Monday. A clean slate. Talking to her face-to-face felt better than calling, especially after how their last conversation ended. He hoped the weekend was enough time for things to settle between them. Two days of silence. That had to count for something.

He just hoped she’d be where she usually was—tucked in one of their hidden campus spots, waiting outside the school gate with her phone shoved on her face, or maybe even already seated at their usual table in the café they used to frequent before heading home.

Shadow skimmed once more through the notes and scribbles that filled the page like the remnants of a storm. Ink strokes crossed and curved, bullet points marking moments that now felt distant, even if they had happened only days ago.

With a slow breath, he turned the page—clean, untouched. Blank like a reset. The crisp paper barely made a sound as it fell open.

He reached for the edge of his desk, fingers brushing past the cup of pens and the small stack of supplies sitting neatly to the side. His hand paused over the notepads—bright colors stacked together, each one small enough to be missed but distinct enough to catch the eye.

His fingers settled on the green one. It felt right.

He peeled a single sticky note from the stack and pressed it to the top corner of the new page, smoothing it down with quiet precision.

Shadow leaned back slightly and stared at the fresh page. He’d almost forgotten to mark the results of the first day, a habit he’d told himself he’d do every night. But the weight of the last few days had blurred everything. Time felt thick, unfocused. He only remembered now because of the silence, the stillness that let his thoughts finally settle enough to remind him.

He reached for the black pen from the cup—his usual. Clean ink, consistent flow. The tip hovered just above the green note, unmoving for a beat too long.

His mind pulled back to Friday. Slowly. Like walking backward through fog. Not everything came at once, but the pieces returned—his plan and Sonic’s reaction.

He pressed the pen to paper.

And he began to write.

March 07 W1D1

I think it worked. Kept my eyes on him long enough—he got confused, asked twice. Once during class, again at that weird bookstore encounter. Perfect reaction.

Rouge and I argued after, though. Still not fixed.

Shadow shook his head, a quiet exhale slipping from his lips as he dropped the pen back into the cup. He lingered a second longer, rereading the short note he’d just scribbled onto the green pad. His gaze lingered not on the words, but on the space between them—hesitating before he gently shut the notebook.

The soft rustle of paper and the faint thud of the cover closing seemed louder in the stillness of his room. He slid open the desk drawer and tucked the tracker away, careful and deliberate, even if no one had ever tried to look inside—not even Maria. She always respected his space. Still, hiding it felt like a ritual, something that steadied his thoughts.

Once it was tucked out of sight, he rose from the chair slowly, the wooden legs creaking beneath him.

Shadow moved without thinking, his steps barely making a sound as he drifted to the corner of the room. There, tucked away, sat his mini fridge. His hand hovered for a moment before finally closing around the handle.

As he opened the door, a low hum of cool air greeted him. His eyes settled on the lone item resting on the center shelf—a pastel pink carton of strawberry milk.

He stared at it.

Right. That.

He hadn’t even remembered putting it in there. Probably left it untouched since Thursday. And of course it was that strawberry milk. The one Sonic had left in his locker.

He hovered for a second, then took the carton out. Popped the lid open with a low click. He brought it to his lips and took a slow sip—careful, steady, like the drink might betray him if he wasn’t paying attention.

A soft hum slipped past his throat as he exhaled, carton still in hand. His thumb brushed absentmindedly against the front, tracing the spot where that note used to be. The empty space felt too loud all of a sudden.

He crossed the room, heading to the window. The curtains were drawn, but he pushed them aside with one hand and unlatched the window. It creaked open, letting in a gust of wind that carried the faint scent of dry pavement and tree bark. The afternoon haze spilled in, diffused and gold-tinged.

He leaned his elbows on the windowsill, carton in hand, sipping slowly as the air moved through his room.

It was quiet. Peaceful.

He exhaled, long and slow, letting the rest of the hours bleed into the usual routine.

Monday came cloaked in an overcast sky, a thin gray sheen blanketing the campus. The breeze was light, but enough to rustle the trees lining the sidewalk, their leaves whispering above the low hum of early morning chatter.

Shadow stood near the main gate, leaning casually against the brick wall, arms crossed, gaze sharp. He’d been there for a while, watching the crowd, timing everything just right. His expression didn’t give anything away, but his mind was already several steps ahead—his next move calculated, rehearsed, ready.

The usual chaos buzzed near the gates—mostly centered around the same blue hedgehog who, once again, had a crowd orbiting him like he was gravity itself. Shadow’s foot tapped softly against the pavement, his jaw tightening as Sonic threw his fans a few lazy winks and playful waves, tossing flirtatious remarks like confetti.

“Pesters,” Shadow muttered under his breath.

But eventually, like all things, the scene settled. Students remembered they had lectures to get to and drifted off, one by one, until Sonic was finally alone. His pace slowed as he walked through the campus, gaze skimming the area.

Then Sonic saw him.

It was subtle, but Shadow noticed it immediately—how Sonic’s expression shifted. Like his eyes softened, almost tender, like the grin he wore was no longer for show.

Shadow’s brows knit instinctively. He didn’t like that look. He didn’t know what to make of it.

Still, Sonic kept walking forward, raising his hand in that annoyingly effortless way he always did, accompanied by a wink. “Hey, Shadow!” he called out, voice light, easy, like they’d been friends for years instead of rivals by proximity.

He was already passing by when Shadow made his move.

“Sonic?” His voice cut through the air loud enough for a few stragglers nearby to glance their way.

Sonic stopped in his tracks. He turned fully to face him, that same bright smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah?”

Shadow inhaled, carefully letting his posture shift. A flicker of fake hesitation crept into his body. He kept his eyes from locking too long with Sonic’s, letting them roam briefly before casting them down. He shook his head.

“Never mind,” he said quietly, waving his hand once like he wanted to dismiss the moment entirely.

Sonic blinked, clearly thrown off. His brow furrowed just slightly, and he took a few steps closer.

“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now, more cautious. The kind of tone that didn’t match his usual carefree rhythm. It almost sounded… worried.

Shadow hadn’t expected that. He felt the confusion prick at the edges of his plan, but pushed it down before it could show. He couldn’t afford to hesitate.

With his gaze still fixed below, he gave a small nod, lips tight. No movement. No reaction. Just enough to get Sonic to move on.

Sonic shifted his weight, the heel of his shoe dragging slightly against the pavement. He didn’t leave. Instead, he spoke again, voice lower now—gentler. Softer. It almost didn’t match the boy everyone else knew.

“Wanna head to class together?” he asked, a quiet invitation. Not pushy, not forced. Almost like he didn’t want to spook him.

Shadow blinked, taken off guard.

That… wasn’t supposed to happen.

This moment was meant to confuse Sonic. Throw him off balance. Leave him unsure. Yet somehow, it was Shadow who felt the hesitation crawl up his spine, like his plan was already backfiring in the subtlest way.

Still, he couldn’t let that slip. He gave a curt nod—twice—keeping his expression even. Sonic’s offer wasn’t just casual conversation. It was progress. If Sonic was volunteering to walk beside him, it meant something. It meant Sonic was beginning to trust him, to feel closer to him. That kind of closeness was exactly what Shadow needed.

The closer Sonic believed they were… the more it would sting when Shadow ended it.

And that was the goal.

So Shadow stepped forward, leaving the wall behind. His shoes struck the concrete with quiet, even steps. Sonic lingered just for a second, watching him move, and then caught up with a few quick strides. The rustle of his uniform, the faint shuffle of his shoes, all fell into rhythm beside Shadow’s steps.

Around them, other students bustled past in pairs or alone, their chatter rising and fading like waves. Yet somehow, the space between Sonic and Shadow felt quiet—tuned into a different frequency.

Sonic didn’t say anything else at first, and Shadow didn’t either. He kept his arms crossed as they walked, gaze forward, not daring to glance sideways.

But he could feel it—Sonic’s presence beside him, easy and unbothered. Like this was normal. Like it was natural.

And maybe that’s what unsettled him the most.

The first half of the period slipped by in a quiet haze of droning lectures and the steady clatter of pens.

Shadow sat still, posture stiff, eyes glued to the front like he was actually absorbing what the teacher was saying. But his focus kept slipping. His mind wandered—his eyes wandered more.

Two rows across. That familiar flash of cobalt blue.

Sonic had his back straight, eyes on the board, occasionally jotting something down in that messy, looping handwriting of his. His foot bounced rhythmically beneath his desk, and every so often he twirled his pen between his fingers with almost obnoxious ease.

Shadow didn’t realize he’d been watching until Sonic glanced over—just a quick, passing look.

The moment their eyes nearly met, Shadow quickly—though subtly—shifted his gaze back to the front, letting out a quiet exhale.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Sonic’s head tilt back toward his notes.

When the bell rang for break, Shadow was the first one on his feet. The sound barely finished echoing before he was out the door, weaving through the flow of students in the hallway with practiced ease.

By the time he reached the stairwell, the chatter behind him blurred into white noise as he descended.

On the ground floor, he stopped and braced a hand against the wall, trying to even out his breathing.

Everything felt heavy. Like his body was one step ahead of him, reacting before he could stop it. He hated that feeling. That loss of control.

He walked across the campus, heading toward the tucked-away corner where few students ever wandered—their usual spot, his and Rouge’s.

But to his dismay, the bench was empty.

Shadow’s steps slowed. The hollow ache in his chest deepened, and his brows pulled tight. He approached anyway, letting himself sink into the worn bench. He leaned back, and tilted his head above. Eyes shut.

Where is she?

It couldn’t be possible that Rouge had finally had enough of him… right? Shadow’s brows furrowed at the thought. He didn’t want to believe it—but pushing the idea away was becoming harder and harder.

His position remained for a while. His fingers brushed over his face, pressing lightly against his eyelids like that could ease the dull headache behind them.

Everything about today felt off. Like the smallest things were gnawing at him, stacking on top of each other until his thoughts couldn’t breathe.

He let his hands fall to his lap, waiting. Hoping she’d show up—her sultry voice cutting through the air, maybe even tossing out a teasing snicker like nothing ever happened.

But for now, the bench stayed cold. The quiet clung to him.

The day was barely halfway over, but Shadow already felt like it had lasted weeks.

By the time the break ended, the halls slowly emptied back into the classroom’s static hum. Shadow stepped inside just as the bell rang, the faint echo of conversation still hanging in the air. He scanned the room out of habit, eyes landing almost immediately on Sonic.

There he was—of course—perched casually on the edge of his desk, surrounded by a small crowd. Mostly girls. Their laughter rang out too easily, echoing off the tile floor and plain walls. High-pitched, drawn-out giggles like they wanted to be overheard. Sonic, for his part, didn’t even seem to notice. Or maybe he just knew exactly what he was doing.

He leaned back slightly, one hand gripping the side of the desk, his body language open, inviting. His words floated effortlessly, whatever he was saying igniting another round of laughter. His smile grew wider, eyes bright and easy, like he belonged under a spotlight instead of cheap classroom fluorescents.

Shadow’s gaze narrowed just slightly. The dull light overhead didn’t seem to dim Sonic at all—in fact, he made the space feel more alive. It annoyed him.

He huffed quietly under his breath and started toward his seat, shoulders squared like always. But then he veered, almost too naturally, angling past Sonic’s desk. His footsteps slowed when he neared, stopping just a breath away.

The group’s giggles stuttered into awkward quiet as a few heads turned to glance at him. Shadow kept his eyes forward, only flicking toward Sonic once.

“Sonic,” he said low, barely above the hum of classroom noise—but loud enough. Calculated.

The response was instant. Sonic’s body turned slightly, a spark of alertness in his movement as he looked over his shoulder. His posture shifted, like he’d been caught off guard. For a split second, his smile faltered—but when he saw who it was, it returned with something even softer. Brighter.

It was… warmer.

Shadow stared at him, unmoved. Why was he smiling like that?

Sonic gave a small hum in acknowledgement, gaze lingering with that same upward look—genuine, relaxed, unguarded.

Shadow let a pause hang between them. His eyes flicked sideways, mimicking hesitation. Then, as if discarding a second thought, he shook his head and said flatly, “It’s nothing.”

He waited a beat longer—long enough to catch the faintest trace of confusion flicker across Sonic’s expression—then turned and walked away, slipping into his seat without another glance.

Meanwhile, Sonic was left blinking, caught in that split second of silence like it had somehow thrown him off balance.

His brow creased, the edges of his smile faltering—not in disappointment, but confusion. Again.

Something was going on with Shadow. That much was clear. And whatever it was, Sonic was determined to figure it out.

His eyes lingered, watching Shadow walk off, his back turned, shoulders stiff as he returned to his seat near the window. The morning light poured in through the glass, dust particles catching in the sunlight and drifting around him like snowflakes. Shadow didn’t seem to notice. He sat back, angled slightly toward the view outside, expression unreadable from where the other sat.

But then, Sonic noticed everything. The way Shadow’s features softened when sunlight touched his face and spilled over his quills. He noticed the subtle change in his eyes—not the usual darkened stare, but something gentler. And he noticed how Shadow’s brows weren’t furrowed in annoyance this time. Instead, he looked… almost surreal.

Sonic swallowed thickly, fingers tightening around the edge of his desk like he needed something solid to anchor himself. A small cough escaped him, barely real but necessary, and he turned back toward the cluster of girls who were still standing nearby.

“Sorry about that,” he said quickly, his voice dipping back into its usual easy charm.

The group didn’t question it. They giggled again, jumping right back into their conversation like nothing happened. Sonic leaned in with a grin, laughing when expected, tossing out the occasional snarky one-liner like it was second nature. His tone hit every note it was supposed to. Effortless. Charismatic.

But still—his eyes drifted.

And underneath the practiced ease of his smile, something tugged at his chest. A pull he couldn’t shake, no matter how much he tried to mask it with laughter and quick wit.

It was like whatever string tied him to Shadow hadn’t loosened. If anything, it was pulling tighter.

After hours of dragging through schoolwork, pop quizzes, recitations, and the occasional classroom chaos that came with a restless student body, the weight of the day finally began to settle. The sky outside dimmed to a gentle late-afternoon hue—clouds turning golden along the edges, shadows stretching quietly across the school grounds.

Then, at last, the final bell rang.

It didn’t come as a relief to Shadow—not today.

He wasn’t in the mood to deal with Sonic’s questions. Not the confusion in his voice, not the searching looks that he was sure would follow him out the door if he lingered. He had one goal now: find Rouge.

His bag had already been packed, zipped, and swung over his shoulder before the professor had even stepped out. By the time students began chatting and moving from their seats, Shadow was halfway to the door, ignoring the noise behind him. He barely caught the flicker of hesitation on Sonic’s face as he passed—the pause, the look that hovered somewhere between wanting to speak and staying silent.

Shadow didn’t stop.

He couldn’t afford to.

Not when his thoughts were already spinning with possibilities.

What if Rouge had left early? What if she was too upset to wait around? What if she ditched the usual routine and took the car without him?

His pace quickened, but his face stayed composed—shoulders firm, jaw set, like always. But underneath it all, there was a nagging pressure in his chest. Guilt. Uncertainty. Frustration. He hated how those feelings made him feel cornered.

By the time he pushed through the school gates, the chatter behind him faded into a soft murmur. The quiet was immediate, almost startling, broken only by the late breeze that swept through the trees lining the path. It tugged lightly at his quills and cooled the back of his neck. The sun was lower now, casting amber light over the pavement, dusting everything in a warm, almost too-peaceful glow.

But she wasn’t there.

Shadow scanned the usual spots—by the gates, under the trees, across the parking lot—but there was no sign of Rouge.

He let out a breath through his nose. Not quite annoyed. Not quite surprised.

Just… hoping that the last option hadn’t slipped away too.

There was only one place left: the café.

It wasn’t far—tucked a little beyond the campus, hidden just enough to keep most students from finding it. That was part of the charm. It was never overcrowded. Never noisy. Just a quiet pocket of the world where time seemed to move slower, and for once, Shadow hoped it still did.

He stepped onto the path leading that way, shoes tapping against the concrete. The wind curled around his frame again, and this time, he let it. The quiet gave him space to think—but only just. His thoughts still raced ahead of him, chasing whatever version of Rouge might be waiting inside.

Or not.

The bell above the door gave a soft chime as Shadow stepped inside the café, a wave of cold air curling around his quills—sharp, clean, and a stark contrast to the warmth still clinging to the late afternoon outside. The familiar scent of roasted beans and sweet syrup lingered in the air, grounding him in the quiet rhythm of the café.

Shadow’s eyes immediately moved left, to the usual table by the window.

Empty.

His brows pinched together slightly. He clicked his tongue and let his gaze linger on the space a second longer before moving toward the counter.

The barista already recognized him, giving a short nod. Without needing to say much, he placed his usual order: an Iced Strawberry Latte, with extra espresso shot.

As the order was being prepared, Shadow leaned his elbow against the counter, glancing sideways. His voice came quiet, calm. “Did Rouge come by today?”

The barista paused for only a second before answering. “Haven’t seen her,” they replied, shaking their head. “Not yet, at least.”

Shadow gave a simple nod in return, a small thanks, though the stiffness in his shoulders didn’t ease. He stepped aside, waiting, tapping his fingers lightly against the wooden surface.

Minutes slipped by.

When his drink was handed over, he took it with a brief nod, the cup already damp with condensation. He jabbed the straw through the lid, took a slow sip—biting cold with a bitter kick—and made his way toward their spot.

Still empty...

The table by the window caught the afternoon light just right. The sun filtered through the glass in soft lines, casting a pale glow across the floor.

Shadow dropped his bag under the table and took his seat. One hand held the drink while the other pressed against his cheek, propped up on his elbow.

He stared outside.

Not really at anything.

Just letting his eyes follow the movement of cars and passersby, the trees swaying just slightly with the breeze. The ice in his cup clinked gently as he drank, a repetitive sound against the hush of the room. Every now and then, he blinked slowly, but his thoughts kept circling.

Still no sign of her.

Still no message.

Still sitting alone in a space meant for two.

He was already halfway through his drink when something caught his eye—subtle, familiar, unmistakable.

Rouge.

His spine straightened without thinking, shoulders pulled back slightly in composed reflex. There was no mistaking her: the confident stride, the glint of her earrings catching light, the slow sway of her bag slung over one shoulder like she owned the sidewalk. Shadow caught the slight roll of her eyes at something someone said near the entrance, but her pace never faltered. She hadn’t seen him yet—at least, he didn’t think so.

He turned his eyes away, as if he hadn’t noticed. Focused instead on the delicate swirl of condensation dripping down the plastic cup in his hand, tracing the way one droplet slid toward his gloved knuckles. His heart ticked a little faster. Not out of nervousness—but anticipation.

A second later, the bell above the café door chimed softly, the sound echoing faintly under the hum of background chatter. He cleared his throat and coughed once, subtle enough to not draw attention, but just enough to mask the impulse to look.

Out of his periphery, he could see her at the counter, speaking to the barista with a casual flick of her hand. She was ordering—probably her usual, though she had a habit of changing things up without warning.

Shadow drummed his fingers lightly against the wooden table, his rhythm steady but aimless.

Would she come over?

His drink was nearly gone now. Only a few stubborn cubes of ice clinked together at the bottom. He kept his gaze on the window, watching the outside blur as his reflection ghosted over the glass.

A few minutes passed. Then he heard her footsteps—confident, measured, heels clicking softly against the tile. Shadow didn’t turn, not immediately. Only when her shadow crossed into his line of sight did he allow his eyes to flick upward.

She slid into the seat across from him, setting her bag down with a soft thud. Her drink followed next with a muted clack against the tabletop. She didn’t look at him right away either. Instead, she fussed briefly with the small purse looped on the back of her elbow, drawing out her phone. Her movements were calm, almost lazy. Like she was waiting for him to say something first.

But it was Rouge who spoke—unsurprisingly—the moment the silence between them began to stretch too long.

“So,” she said, tone light, voice curling around a soft chuckle. “You done sulking like a repressed emo teenager yet, or what?”

There was no bite to it this time. No edge. Nothing like the last time they’d spoken when her words were sharp and distant. Now, her tone was dry with amusement, but underneath it was something else too—something easier. Warmer.

Shadow felt his shoulders ease, just slightly.

A breath escaped him, quiet, almost like a laugh. His lips tugged upward in something real, something rare.

“Not yet,” he replied, voice low but amused. “I take my time. Had to make sure I found you the perfect pen for your next book.”

Rouge rolled her eyes—but not without a smile forming at the corner of her lips.

They shared a quiet laugh—low and fleeting, like the breeze outside brushing against the café windows. The kind of laugh that didn’t try too hard. The kind that settled naturally between them, like it had a right to be there.

Shadow’s gaze eventually drifted from his drink to Rouge, and when he looked at her, it wasn’t sharp or guarded like usual. His eyes softened, carrying the weight of something wordless—apology, regret, sincerity. All unspoken, but present. Heavy in the air between them.

Rouge met his eyes, and something in hers shifted too. Gentler. Warmer. Forgiving.

She knew him too well to need words. Shadow was never great with them—not when it came to feelings, at least. He was the type who showed up when it mattered, who carried weight in his silences, who believed that gestures meant more than declarations. Rouge had grown used to that rhythm a long time ago.

So even if he didn’t say it out loud—even if his voice didn’t crack or break or beg—she understood. That look was enough.

“I thought you wouldn’t come,” Shadow murmured after a pause, voice low, not accusing, but touched with something uncertain. He kept his eyes on her.

Rouge tilted her head slightly, her lips quirking in that usual, knowing way. “Of course I would. We were slammed today. I didn’t get to drop by during break—we had this stupid activity that chewed up the whole period. And our last sub decided to go ten minutes overtime.”

Shadow let out a small breath of amusement, barely a smirk—but one touched with fondness. “Right.”

Rouge raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly in her chair. “What? You scared I wasn’t gonna drop you off later?”

He scoffed, half-playful, half-defensive. “Please. I don’t depend on you.”

His tone was dry, but the roll of his eyes was familiar—less annoyed and more amused—and the corner of his mouth betrayed him, tugging upward again.

Rouge gave him a look, something between an eye-roll and affection, before sipping her drink.

It wasn’t long before they found their way back to the rhythm they knew best. The easy banter. The shared glances. The subtle laughter laced with history. It wasn’t loud or dramatic—just quiet comfort, stitched back together after a small unraveling.

Shadow sat back slightly in his chair, gaze drifting to the window again.

And for the first time all day, something in his chest eased.

They were okay.

They always would be.

They stayed in the café for about an hour. Shadow talked more than he usually would. Ranting, almost. Letting his thoughts spill out in fragmented sentences and low murmurs. His words weren’t dramatic—they were measured, honest, a little bit tense. He talked about his confusion, his frustrations, the weight sitting in his chest since the whole plan had taken off. Every so often, he paused, brow furrowed, then picked up where he left off like it was safer to let the thoughts out than hold them in.

Rouge listened.

She didn’t interrupt much—just slid in the occasional dry remark, a smirk tugging at the edge of her mouth, her tone half-teasing, half-grounding. She let him speak but didn’t let him spiral. Her eyes stayed locked on him through it all, unwavering.

When he finally fell quiet, she leaned back in her seat and crossed her legs, her cup now half-empty.

“Well,” she said after a beat, her voice lighter but laced with something firm underneath, “if you really want to keep going with this, then fine. I’m not gonna stop you.”

Shadow blinked, almost taken aback by her immediate agreement, but before he could speak, she continued.

“But you better not break yourself in the process, got it?”

Her tone softened at the end, just slightly, and her gaze held his like she was daring him to nod too quickly. Shadow held her stare, jaw clenched subtly, then gave a slow, wordless nod.

Rouge also reminded him to consider both sides of the bet—just in case he forgot. But this time when Shadow nodded, it was more certain than before.

Something shifted between them after that. Not dramatically—there was no sweeping closure or cinematic resolution—but enough. Enough to ease the tension that had been sitting between them since a few days ago. Enough to find their way back to steady ground.

Rouge dropped him off at home just as the sky dipped into twilight, the horizon still holding on to streaks of soft pink and fading orange. The ride back had been different this time—not heavy, not silent like it usually was. Their conversation had been easy, scattered between playful remarks and quiet acknowledgments. Not everything was patched up, but things felt better. Lighter. A shared understanding now floated between them, and Shadow allowed himself to lean into it without overthinking.

The street outside was still, the only sound being the gentle rustle of leaves against passing wind. He stepped out of the car with a quiet thanks, one Rouge replied to with a small smile before driving off.

Shadow sat at his desk, the day’s weight pressing down in a way that didn’t suffocate him this time.

Before him sat the Loathe Tracker, flipped open to the same page where he had first stuck the green notepad just the day before. Now, a second square had been added beneath it—fresh, blank, waiting. The green paper caught the lamplight with a soft sheen, like it was daring him to fill it.

He held the pen in his hand, tip already hovering above the notepad, but his hand didn’t move right away. Instead, his mind slipped back to the events from earlier.

With one last breath, Shadow lowered the pen and began to write, the ink gliding smoothly across the paper as he captured the highlights of the day.

March 10 W1D2

The plan worked. He looked confused again—just as expected. It was a small win, but it still counts.

Rouge and I finally talked. Things feel normal and lighter now.

Not a perfect day, but better. That’s enough.

He exhaled softly, the kind of sigh that slipped from his chest like quiet relief. A small, satisfied smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—brief but real—before he placed the pen back into its cup.

His fingers brushed against the notepad’s edge. He flipped a few pages back, letting them glide under his fingertips until he landed on the next entry. The one written beneath the heading Fake Vulnerability.

1. Maintain eye contact within class hours.

Done.

2. Call out his name but don't say anything.

Done.

3. Stay closer than usual.

This one lingered on the page longer. It wasn’t a simple throwaway gesture. No, this one might actually stir something. A shift. A crack in the surface.

Shadow’s eyes narrowed slightly, just thinking about it. This part was meant to sell the illusion—that his walls were beginning to crumble. Let Sonic believe he was gaining ground. Let him think there was something soft buried under the cold. But never actually give him the win.

That was the game.

He gave a slow nod to himself before closing the tracker and slipping it into the drawer, pushing it to the back.

Then, he leaned back in his chair. He stared up at the ceiling, lids falling shut, letting himself picture the next day.

Tomorrow would be interesting.

Tuesday arrived with sharp clarity. The morning sun was unforgiving, casting golden streaks across the pavement and making everything feel louder, brighter—more awake than it had any right to be.

Shadow stood near the school gates, arms crossed, his eyes following the ebb and flow of students trickling in. It was the same chaos as every morning—laughter echoing, shoes scuffing against pavement, hurried footsteps darting around conversations. And at the center of it all, as always, was Sonic.

Sonic thrived in it. Effortlessly magnetic, effortlessly surrounded. He was the kind of student who gravitated to noise and energy, and most times, they gravitated right back. He was the initiator, the one who always made the first move—always the one closing distances.

But not today.

Shadow spotted his opening as Sonic finally broke off from the crowd, walking alone toward the building. Without hesitation, he stepped forward and fell into step beside him. No words, no warning.

Sonic stiffened just slightly, as if his body had registered the change before his brain caught up. But then that trademark grin crept back into place—easy, teasing, familiar.

“Shadow?” he asked, raising a brow with a tilt in his voice, all playfulness. “You wanna walk to class together again?”

Shadow kept his expression unreadable but glanced toward him with a short nod.

For a split second, Sonic looked like he didn’t know what to do with that. His smile faltered just enough to show surprise before he let out a breath of a laugh and looked away, clearly thrown but trying not to show it.

Shadow said nothing more, gaze drifting forward as they walked in sync toward the building. The world around them carried on—buzzing with morning chatter and slamming lockers—but for that short walk, the space between them felt charged.

The hours drifted by, blurred between half-hearted lectures and idle glances at the clock. When break finally came, the class emptied out with the usual scrape of chairs and hum of chatter spilling into the hallway.

Perfect timing.

Shadow remained behind, quiet and composed, watching the last student slip out the door. Just like the past few days, they were alone again.

But this time, he was the one making the move.

Sonic, ever predictable in his small comforts, had stayed too—already settled at his desk, nose tucked into a book. The light coming in through the windows hit his quills. He looked oddly calm in silence. Shadow had almost forgotten that Sonic liked reading when things got quiet like this.

Shadow stood, keeping his movements casual, and crossed the room with steady steps. His fingers brushed the back of the chair beside Sonic’s as he pulled it out and sat down without a word. The scrape of the chair made Sonic glance up briefly—and then that familiar grin flickered across his face.

“Miss me already?” Sonic teased, voice light, eyes bright with mischief as he turned back to his book.

Shadow exhaled through his nose and rolled his eyes. Still, he leaned in a little—close enough that their arms could nearly brush. He rested his cheek against his palm and tilted his head to face him.

“What are you reading?” he asked, low and even, just above a whisper.

It was quiet enough for the softness to linger.

Sonic blinked a few times, clearly caught off guard, and let out a chuckle. “Just something I grabbed from the library days ago. Romance stuff,” he replied with a shrug, eyes flitting back to the pages, a faint flush coloring his cheeks.

Shadow didn’t respond. He just watched.

Watched how Sonic’s eyes flicked back and forth with each line. How his brows occasionally furrowed when something gripped his attention. How the sunlight hit his quills and made him look like he belonged in the warmth. It wasn’t like Shadow to notice details like that—not unless he meant to.

But now, he couldn’t help it. Being this close made everything unavoidable.

The color of Sonic’s eyes. The way his lips parted slightly when reading. The subtle rise and fall of his shoulders with every breath. Everything felt heightened, like the air between them had thinned.

And that annoyed Shadow more than anything.

He scowled to himself and turned his head away with a huff, biting down the quiet frustration blooming in his chest.

Sonic noticed. Of course he did.

“You tired of staring already?” he asked, not looking up, but the grin was unmistakable in his voice.

“Quit it,” Shadow muttered, voice sharp but lacking bite.

Sonic laughed—just a short, easy laugh that broke through the stillness like sunlight cracking through blinds. Shadow risked a glance back at him.

And regretted it immediately.

That brightness again. That damn light Sonic carried like it belonged to him alone.

And just like that, Shadow hated him even more.

March 11 W1D3

He’s probably pulling a move of his own now. Has he caught on? The way he laughed earlier like none of this matters as if he was already used to it. And yet, it worked. My plan landed. But it didn’t feel like a win. If it doesn’t sit right, can it even be called success? Why do you let people look at you like that? What are you trying to prove, letting anyone near you for too long? You’re not charming. You’re just loud. And you’re not fooling me.

Ever since yesterday, something had shifted in Shadow’s chest—small, almost imperceptible, but there. It stirred quietly beneath his ribcage like a ripple from something thrown too close to the surface.

And he hated it.

Still, it only pushed him to escalate. If the plan was going to collapse, it would collapse on his terms. The rise needed to be just as steep as the fall.

Back at his desk that morning, the air around him still carried the weight of dawn. The window near his bed let in streaks of pale light, and outside, birds chirped lazily. He reopened the tracker, flipping past Tuesday’s entry and skimming over the neat, deliberate handwriting he’d etched under the label:

4. Make it seem like you’re laughing at his jokes. (But don’t actually.)

That was today—Wednesday. And it was perfect.

The first half of the day had slipped by quietly, the usual noise and movement fading as the bell rang for break. One by one, the students filtered out of the classroom until only Sonic and Shadow remained.

Shadow eased into the seat beside Sonic, repeating the move from the day before. Sonic’s head was bowed, absorbed in his book, completely unaware of the storm of thoughts brewing just beside him. Shadow’s eyes drifted to the window, watching how the sunlight poured through the glass, warming the worn wooden desks.

The stillness stretched too long, and then Sonic cleared his throat softly. Shadow turned, caught off guard by the sudden sound and the bright gleam in Sonic’s eyes.

“What did the hedgehog say when he got stuck in the door?”

Shadow raised an eyebrow, already bracing himself.

Sonic leaned in, that smug grin playing at his lips. “Quill you let me in?”

Shadow blinked. It was terrible—painfully so. Yet just in time, he executed his move.

He turned his face away, cheek pressing lightly into his palm, and let out a quiet huff—sharp and deliberate, barely more than a breath. A fake laugh, perfectly measured, just enough to bait Sonic without giving him the satisfaction of a real one. He could never quite bring himself to laugh at Sonic’s dumb jokes.

Sonic’s reaction was exactly what Shadow wanted.

“Wait—” Sonic exclaimed, eyes wide. “Did you just laugh at my joke?”

Shadow said nothing. He stared out the window, focusing on the way the sunlight touched the edges of the trees outside.

“You totally did! C’mon, do it again! I didn’t catch it!” Sonic pressed, leaning a little closer, clearly thrilled.

“I’ll say another joke if it means making you laugh.” He added, clearly feeding off the moment.

Shadow finally looked back, eyes cool but something quieter beneath them. He shook his head, voice low. “Please don’t.”

Sonic’s expression faltered for a moment before determination took over. “Too bad. I’m telling you a joke that’ll make you laugh even louder.” He put the book down, fully focused on Shadow now, as if breaking through that wall was the only thing that mattered.

Spoiler Alert: Shadow didn’t laugh again.

March 12 W1D4

I tried to laugh at his joke—but it was just too undeniably stupid. He even kept trying to make me laugh more, but everything he said sounded ridiculous. When I finally let out another fake laugh, he acted like he had uncovered buried treasure. It’s stupid.

Shadow’s Loathe Tracker sat tucked away in his drawer, and yet its contents seemed to haunt his every step. The days had started with control, with calculation. But now, it all felt heavier than it should. As if he was carrying more than just a plan.

Every moment felt sharpened by a quiet pressure he couldn’t quite name.

The rest of the days slipped by in a haze—soft around the edges, yet pressing at Shadow’s chest like too much weight in too little space.

5. Physical contact. (As if unintentional).

Shadow stared at those words, inked neatly and coldly onto paper. The next move. The next test. The next line to cross for Thursday.

He leaned back in his chair, staring blankly at the ceiling of his bedroom, dimly lit by the dusky glow spilling through the window. The evening sun filtered in muted gold.

This part of the plan—it felt different.

It felt too close.

But he wasn’t someone who backed down. Not when he had something to prove. And definitely not when it came to Sonic.

Everything about Sonic demanded attention. The way he walked into a room. The way he laughed like it came from somewhere real. The way he made the world feel a little louder, a little messier.

Shadow hated how effortlessly Sonic pulled people in.

Which was exactly why this had to work.

He would follow through. Because he had to.
Because he chose to.

Shadow closed his eyes. The room quieted around him. Everything was too still, too aware.

March 13 W1D5

I made contact more than once today—light brushes, a nudge in the hallway, hand grazing his when we sat. He didn’t flinch. Worse—he smiled. It was ugly and stupid. It’s infuriating.

That night, the silence in Shadow’s room wasn’t just quiet—it was dense. It pressed in around the corners of the walls, crept beneath the doorframe, settled against his chest like an old weight he thought he’d already learned how to carry.

He sat still, unmoving, the desk lamp casting a narrow beam across his notebook. The rest of the room remained dipped in shadows, outlines blurred, indistinct. His tracker lay open in front of him, the pages lined in ink and precision—each check mark neat, emotionless, deliberate.

Tomorrow was Friday.
The end of week one.
The last move.

His eyes scanned the page, slow and deliberate, before landing on the final line:

6. Give him a gift.

Shadow exhaled. Not sharply. Not defeated. Just… tired. The kind of tired that sinks beneath the surface and lingers in the bones.

He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely, eyes still on the page like it might shift and reveal something new if he stared hard enough.

He hadn’t planned this far—not truly. Not deeply. He thought the week would play out like the rest of his life: structured, calculated, predictable. But something about Sonic made things feel… less contained.

The idea of a gift felt ridiculous now. Artificial. He scoffed under his breath, lips curling faintly.

What would he even give to someone like him?

Something irritating? Useless? A gag gift that screamed “I don’t actually care”? Something so absurd that Sonic would be forced to laugh and brush it off, not knowing it was just another line on a list?

Shadow blinked slowly. The lamplight glinted faintly against his lashes.

“It’s the thought that counts,” he muttered, voice quiet and thick with irony.

The words hung in the air.

He tapped a pen against the edge of the desk, rhythm soft and arrhythmic, more of a habit than a thought. His gaze drifted from the paper to the shadows lining the wall. Then toward the far side of the room—scanning for anything, any object, any spark that might pass as inspiration.

Nothing.

Until—

His eyes caught the edge of something small, half-tucked behind a stack of supplies on his desk. Something red. Round. Soft.

He leaned forward, fingers reaching out and pulling it free.

A ball of red yarn.

He held it in his hand like it was fragile, turning it once, twice, letting the thread stretch lightly against his palm. The color burned against the dimness—rich, striking, vibrant. It reminded him, annoyingly, of Sonic. Loud and warm in a world that Shadow kept gray.

It was stupid. Entirely.

But this? This could work.

Friday.

The hours of school had dragged on, drawn tight like thread on a spindle—endless in sensation, yet somehow fleeting in truth. Time folded and unfolded in the same sterile hallways, crowded classrooms, and passing footsteps.

But now, the sun was dipping low behind the buildings, bleeding a golden hue over the pavement like the day itself had softened.

And in that late afternoon haze, Shadow and Sonic stepped through the school gates side by side. Neither spoke at first. The air was cool, the breeze light, threading through their silence without permission. The crowd had thinned long ago—most students were already gone. They were alone, yet not entirely.

They stopped at the edge of the front path.

Sonic made a subtle motion toward the bike rack, hand half-raised as if to suggest movement—but Shadow’s voice stopped him.

“Sonic.”

Sonic turned slowly, eyes meeting his with a mix of confusion and—was that anticipation? His heart stuttered, barely noticeable, except for the way his breath seemed to catch on its way out.

“I have something to give you,” Shadow said. His voice was low, carried only between them, like he didn’t intend for anyone else in the world to hear it.

Sonic blinked once. Twice. His brows lifted ever so slightly.

Shadow slid his hand into his shoulder bag. No rush, no drama. Just movement—measured and certain. He pulled out something small, the color stark against his gloves.

Red.

His fingers opened slowly. There it was, curled in his palm: a bracelet. Thin. Braided yarn. The red thread caught the sunlight just enough to make it look alive.

Sonic stared, lips parted slightly, as though unsure whether to speak or simply feel. His eyes darted from Shadow’s hand to his face, searching.

Then Shadow asked, “May I have your wrist?”

It was nearly a whisper.

Sonic didn’t move at first. Only stared. His throat bobbed with a quiet swallow, the rhythm of his pulse echoing somewhere behind his ribs like a drum losing tempo.

And then, without a word, he extended his right hand.

Shadow took it. Gently.

He tied the yarn around Sonic’s wrist with slow, careful hands. Not too tight. Not too loose. Just precise. Just enough. His fingers moved with care, the way one threads something fragile—though he reminded himself, firmly, that there was nothing delicate about this.

It wasn’t real.

The bracelet. The gesture. The vulnerability.

It was all part of the plan.

The wind stirred between them, sweeping dry leaves past their feet.

Sonic lifted his wrist to examine it, turning it this way and that, as if it were something rare. His smile grew with each second, his tail giving him away—wagging, bright, unfiltered. Giddy in a way that made Shadow’s stomach churn.

The idiot looked like he was about to float.

Shadow didn’t respond to the joy. He simply observed it—detached. Cold. Or at least, that’s what he told himself. His eyes fell to the way Sonic’s shoulders relaxed, the way his laugh curled softly under his breath.

Then, with no inflection, as if stating a fact that barely mattered, Shadow murmured,
“Red looks good on you.”

He shifted his gaze to the pavement after, expression unreadable. The words didn’t belong to his chest. They were borrowed. Hollow. Practiced.

And Sonic… Sonic paused. His grin stumbled, lips parting slightly, the compliment hitting somewhere unexpected. But he recovered quickly, bouncing it back with practiced confidence.

“Yeah, everyone says that,” he said with a chuckle, “you don’t have to tell me twice.”

But his voice was warmer now, and his hand lingered at his chest. His thumb brushed over the bracelet again. Still smiling. Still glowing. Still unaware.

The silence between them stretched—not awkward, but heavy. Weighted. Sonic stood there, soaking in the gift like it meant something far more than it did.

Then he looked up again, really looked at Shadow—like seeing him through new glass.

“Thanks a lot, Shadow.” he stated softly.

That tone. That genuine gratitude. It twisted something sharp in Shadow’s chest. He blinked once, then nodded, as if brushing it all away like dust. He turned on his heel without another word, his footsteps echoing against the empty path as he made his way toward the café—probably to fill Rouge in on whatever had just happened between them. He’d already braced himself for the teasing she’d throw his way. It was stupid, Shadow thought, but for some reason, it always seemed to amuse her.

The sky was deeper now, the light bleeding into navy. The trees whispered in the wind behind him, but he didn’t stop. Didn’t glance back.

He exhaled sharply, almost bitterly. Rolled his eyes at himself.

Ridiculous.

He couldn’t believe he had gone this far. For him. For that loud-mouthed hedgehog with too much sunshine under his quills.

All of it—every part of this—was fake. A setup. A strategy.

That bracelet? It wasn’t affection. It was a move. A check on the list. A piece of bait.

Week one was finally over.

March 14 W1D6

I can’t believe I didn’t stop myself from saying things I wasn’t supposed to. It felt completely off-script. No—I didn’t mean he looked good in red. He looked ugly in any color. I walked away after that. I feel sick.

Loathe Tracker
Week One: Fake Vulnerability.
March 14 8:01 P.M.

One week down. Unfortunately, nine more to go before I finally get that $300 and never have to deal with that insufferable blue hedgehog again. Spending this much time with him is starting to get to me—and not in a good way. If anything, it’s making me want to hate him more. I thought he was all shine and charm, but he’s just as annoyingly reckless and pathetic.

Sonic is the embodiment of chaos. Of noise. Of a headache in motion. He runs his mouth like it’s a sport, throws those idiotic winks around, and flirts just to hear himself talk. He has always tried to compete with me—probably for attention or approval. And I’ve always put him in his place. Always shoved him off, always insulted him, always rolled my eyes and left him in the dust. I’ve made it very clear that I don’t like him.

So why does it feel like he’s forgotten all of that?

This week, he’s been different. And it’s making me fume.

Why isn’t he being a cocky, vain bastard like he always is? Why is he suddenly asking me if I’m okay—with that stupid softness in his voice, like he means it? Why doesn’t he flinch when I glare at him, or step back when I get too close? Why does he let it happen—every supposedly accidental brush of fingers, every second of too-long eye contact—as if it’s normal?

Day One worked. I did what I planned. I pulled him in, made him second-guess me, made him wonder if I was cracking open something real. I weaponized silence, closeness, vulnerability. I played the part well. And of course, the fool believed it.

Although, I fought with Rouge. She warned me about the strategy, reminded me that it could all backfire. But I told her I could handle it. That this was all just an act. The only way. Because breaking golden hearts takes time. You don’t shatter someone like Sonic with a single blow—you make him feel it. Slowly.

Then I saw him in that bookstore I've always wanted to pass by. What bad timing.

I never expected him to read, much less a classic novel. He told me things. Personal things. Not flirty or shallow or performative. Just—quiet pieces of himself. Something he probably had shared to his followers. But suddenly, the air felt too heavy. The silences too loud. I felt like I was being watched even when I wasn’t.

Day Five came. Subtle touches. He let it happen. No shift, no stiffness, no reaction. As if he was already used to it. Already comfortable with me.

It’s disgusting.

And then the following day, the gift. I gave him something small, meaningless. And he lit up like I’d handed him the world. His smile was too bright. It hurt my eyes. It made my chest twist. He giggled. It was high-pitched, stupid, fond and it made my stomach twist and churn.

Why is he like this now? Why does he smile every time he sees me? Why does he look at me like I’m someone? Why does he sound different now—like he has dropped the act whenever he talks to me?

What the hell is going on? What is all this?

I hate him. I do.

This week was just the beginning. The next one is another step forward—another push closer to the fall.

Chapter Text

It had been a week. A week full of calculated restraint—of dragging himself through every interaction with a tight jaw and a clenched fist hidden in his pocket.

Shadow had survived it.

He reminded himself, often and with deliberate force, that this was all for something greater. Every moment spent beside Sonic was just another necessary step toward his goal—temporary discomfort for long-term satisfaction. He wasn’t the type to give in easily. Especially not when there was a bet to win. Not when he’d decided from the beginning that Sonic deserved to be brought down a notch.

That hedgehog needed to be humbled. And Shadow? He was more than willing to be the one to do it.

Still, despite all his careful planning and mental fortitude, there was something about this week that lingered under his skin.

It wasn’t new—Sonic had always been there. Always around. Loud, flashy, impossible to ignore. He wasn’t someone you could tune out or walk past without noticing. He filled space. Too much space. But Shadow had always kept a comfortable distance. He saw no reason to do otherwise.

Sonic was nothing more than a self-obsessed showoff. A heartthrob for people who didn’t know any better. A living, breathing ego parade. That was the image Shadow had kept, always. And he’d never seen a reason to challenge it. He never needed to know more.

He never wanted to.

But this week had changed something.

Not by choice. Shadow didn’t ask for these small moments—the in-between glances, the offhand comments, the quiet things Sonic would say when he thought no one was really listening. Things that weren’t charming or smug. Things that sounded… real.

And that’s what made it worse. Because Shadow had never intended to see more of Sonic than what was convenient to hate.

Yet now, the illusion was cracking.

He told himself that none of it mattered. That it was all just information—fodder for the game he was playing. But the more time he spent with Sonic, the more cracks began to show in that theory. Because behind the arrogance and confidence, Sonic had unknowingly offered him glimpses of something else. Something tender. Something Shadow hadn’t accounted for.

And it pissed him off.

Because Shadow didn’t care. He refused to. He didn’t want to see Sonic as anything other than the annoyance he’d always been. He didn’t want to find complexity in someone he loathed. And yet—there it was. This thing, like a slow-turning key in the back of his chest. A feeling he couldn’t place. A tension he couldn’t loosen.

It was unfamiliar. And it made him uneasy.

Shadow had always preferred silence. Solitude. A clean world without noise or clutter, where he could hear his own thoughts. He liked his life simple—his circle small. Just Maria, and Rouge, and that was it. He’d never needed more. Never wanted more.

Except the silence—the one he had always clung to like a shield—had shifted. It no longer brought him peace. Instead, it pressed down on him, heavy and intrusive, like a room slowly closing in even when no sound filled the air. The quiet felt louder than any noise, more unsettling than any chaos.

Maybe it was because he had grown accustomed to the noise that came with Sonic’s presence—unexpected and unpredictable. That constant whirl of Sonic’s energy, his laughter, the clatter of his footsteps, the brightness he carried wherever he went.

And now, worse still, there was this strange weight—the sense that Sonic was tethered to him, that the other hedgehog was no longer just a passing storm but something close, something… attached.

Shadow hated it. Hated seeing this side of Sonic that he couldn’t quite place. It was like the blue blur had peeled back layers, revealing a version of himself that didn’t fit the flashy, cocky image Shadow thought he knew. This wasn’t the same reckless hedgehog who tossed around quips and grins like it was a daily routine. It was someone quieter, more vulnerable, more real—someone who, in spite of everything, seemed to be inviting Shadow inside. Not just into his world, but into the core of who he was beneath the surface.

And that made Shadow even more restless.

Because despite all this, he still hated him.

Sonic was still that insufferable, snarky bastard who thought the world revolved around him. The bravado hadn’t vanished. It was still there—loud and irritating.

But those rare moments—the fleeting signs of something else—those flashes of acceptance, of trust, of softness—those were what unnerved Shadow most. They were unfamiliar, and yet they lingered in his mind like a stubborn echo. Strange, uncomfortable, and deeply annoying.

Because that’s what they are—rivals. Nothing more. That was the label everyone had slapped on them ever since. Two sides constantly pushing against each other, locked in a silent war of one-upmanship. Rivals who shoved each other without hesitation, who moved through the same hallways with unspoken tension. Rivals who had no interest in sharing space, let alone anything resembling friendship.

That was the story Shadow told himself every time Sonic flashed that arrogant grin or tossed out some snarky comeback during their endless competitions—whether it was grades, sports, or just who could outshine the other. Sonic was supposed to be all pride and swagger, a relentless competitor who thrived on challenge and showmanship.

So when Shadow, playing a part that felt more like a mask than a reflection of himself, watched Sonic react differently—when he saw a side of Sonic that opposed to what he usually shows—it threw everything off balance.

Because deep down, Shadow knew Sonic wanted more than just rivalry. Ever since the day they crossed paths, it was clear that Sonic wanted to break past the walls, to reach out beyond the endless competition and snark. But Shadow had never really taken it seriously. He figured it was just curiosity, a fleeting interest from someone who didn’t bother with anything too heavy—someone who lived in the moment and shrugged off consequences.

What Shadow hated most—what grated against him every time without fail—was how Sonic’s presence forced him to notice the little things. The things nobody else saw or cared to see. Shadow hated that he observed it all so closely.

He hated that he noticed the way Sonic’s eyes softened when he giggles, or how his voice dipped just slightly when he spoke about things that mattered to him.

Now, the first week was finally behind him. A small milestone, but one that demanded a moment’s pause. It is currently Sunday, a rare quiet day that should have felt like a relief after the relentless back-and-forth of the past days. Rouge had invited him out both yesterday and again today—an attempt to pull him out of his somewhat depressing state. Normally, he would have gone, if only to smooth things over after their last argument. But this time, he didn’t feel like moving. Didn’t feel like facing the world or anyone in it.

Not that he was sick—at least, not in the usual sense. There was no fever, no ache, no obvious sign of illness. But an invisible weight sat heavy in his chest, and with it came a creeping uncertainty that even he couldn’t shake. When he’d spoken to Rouge on the phone, she’d heard it clearly—the hesitation, the exhaustion beneath his words. So she let it go, simply asking for a promise to hit the mall next weekend. Shadow agreed, barely. Maybe by then, he thought, he’d feel more himself.

At the moment, he lay buried beneath the heavy weight of his blanket, cocooned in a silence that wasn’t comforting this time. The fabric was pulled close around his body, leaving only his head exposed to the dim room. His eyes traced the ceiling’s plain, unmoving surface, but his thoughts churned like a storm.

That strange sickness—whatever it was—had started yesterday, right after he’d finished the red yarn bracelet. The one he’d made for Sonic.

It wasn’t complicated. An easy knot here, a loop there—something he’d learned from Maria during quiet afternoons filled with paintbrushes and colored thread. Maria was the one who found solace in crafts, the kind of person who could lose herself for hours in the details of creation (other than her desire for romantic movies). Shadow himself had rarely bothered with such things. He didn’t see the point in making things for other people; he was more habitual to keeping his distance, to guarding himself carefully.

But this bracelet was different. It had taken hardly any time at all, but the moment he wrapped it around Sonic’s wrist—feeling the smooth thread between his fingers—he felt a flicker of something unfamiliar.

That’s when the so-called-sickness started—the kind that didn’t come with a cough or chill, but with a restless ache, like the quiet echo of a truth he wasn’t prepared to face. And so here he was, staring at the ceiling, caught in the tangle of his own making.

Sonic held the bracelet in his hands like it was something precious—more than just a simple thread tied around his wrist. He looked at it with an almost reverent expression, as if it carried some unspoken meaning only he could understand. Shadow’s own intention behind it had been purely tactical, a calculated move in a game he was determined to win. Yet when Sonic smiled—affectionate, sincere, completely unguarded—and spoke with that rare gentleness, a sudden flush of heat rose into him. Accompanied with a twisting knot in his stomach that refused to settle. That’s when he concluded that he was sick. Hypothetically.

He groaned softly, tugging the blanket up until only darkness surrounded his face.

The day was still early, but it slipped by faster than he wanted. Time moved too quickly—too fast to keep up with when every moment felt like walking a tightrope. And before he could even catch his breath, the second week was looming, dragging with it all the complications he hadn’t figured out how to handle.

Frustrated, he forced himself to think—hard but careful—about his next move. Something far more serious.

Closing his eyes, he let the silence settle around him again, preparing to dive back into the cold calculations that had always been his refuge. Whatever it took, he would stay in control.

A few quiet seconds passed. Then, with a heavy sigh that seemed to rattle from somewhere deeper than his chest, Shadow pushed the blanket down and slowly sat up. The fabric slid off like a second skin he didn’t need anymore. He shifted toward the edge of the bed, hands on his knees, eyes cast downward. The wooden floor beneath his feet was cool, smooth, and still. It almost felt grounding.

But not enough.

He stood, the weight of his limbs feeling heavier than usual as he moved across the room. His fingers brushed against the edge of his cabinet before he opened it. The familiar creak of the door was the only sound in the stillness of his room. The air was stagnant, just like his thoughts.

He needed air. Not the kind that existed in this quiet, sterile space, but something sharper—something that stung the lungs and reminded him he was still here, still in control. Outside, the sky had dulled into a muted gray. Clouds stretched endlessly across the horizon, thick and low like they were pressing down on the town itself. A breeze occasionally brushed the glass of his window, stirring the curtains gently as if inviting him out.

He peeled off his comfortable house clothing and replaced them with something more fitting for the weather.

He didn’t have a destination in mind. That was never the point. He just needed to move, let his legs take him somewhere. Somewhere the air felt different, where maybe he could shake the tension twisting itself like a wire in his chest.

Maybe if he walked far enough—long enough—the quiet in his mind would start to make sense.

Or maybe it would just stop being so damn loud.

Ever since Shadow tied that red bracelet around his wrist, Sonic hadn’t dared to take it off. Not even once. The only exception was when he bathed—and even then, he made sure to place it carefully on the corner of his dresser, somewhere dry, somewhere safe. The yarn wasn’t waterproof, and he couldn’t risk it unraveling. Not that. Anything but that.

It was nothing special at first glance. Just a strand of red yarn, slightly frayed at the ends, clearly handmade and uneven in its loops. The kind of thing you’d expect to lose in a day, or forget where you even got it. But Sonic wore it like it was something precious. Like it meant something. And maybe… it did. Maybe that fragile piece of thread carried more than just color and fiber. Maybe it carried the memory of warm hands and unspoken words.

The moment it was tied, something shifted.

That Friday, he hadn’t stopped smiling. But it wasn’t the typical smirk he wore at school or the confident grin he threw around like second nature. This smile was smaller, softer—quiet, even. It would sneak onto his face when he wasn’t paying attention, like a flicker of something warm rising to the surface.

He remembered the way Shadow’s fingers brushed gently against the fur of his wrist, careful and steady as he secured the knot. The way his eyes barely met Sonic’s, and yet the simple sentence he whispered felt like it echoed through him.

“Red looks good on you.”

The way it landed, the way it lingered—Sonic hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it since. The words looped in his head like a favorite song stuck on repeat, each replay making his stomach twist and his chest feel a little too full.

He barely remembered the bike ride home that early evening. The streets blurred around him. The wind didn’t bite like it usually did. His thoughts were too loud—too focused on Shadow’s voice, the soft scratch of yarn against his fur, the way something so simple made him feel so… chosen.

By the time he reached the house, his breath came out in rushed bursts—not from exhaustion, but from excitement. Adrenaline. He’d practically thrown his bike aside and ran up the steps, already halfway through mentally rehearsing the story he wanted to tell his brothers. Every little detail felt important, like he had to preserve it all or it’d slip away.

Since then, he hadn’t been able to stop fiddling with it. His fingers always found their way back to the bracelet, rolling the yarn between his thumb and forefinger, like he was grounding himself with it. Reminding himself it was real.

Because something about it felt unreal. Like maybe that tiny knot on his wrist meant more than either of them had said out loud.

And maybe, if he kept holding on, he wouldn’t have to let go of what it all meant just yet.

After his brothers finally got tired of his rambling, Sonic lay sprawled out on his bed, staring up at the ceiling like it held answers. The soft hum of the night buzzed around him—crickets outside his window, the distant whir of traffic, the low creak of the old fan turning above.

He couldn’t sleep. Not even close.

His fingers found the red yarn around his wrist again. It felt like reflex. Like his body wanted proof that today had actually happened.

Shadow felt… different.

That thought alone made his stomach twist in a way he couldn’t explain. Not bad. Just new. Something had changed, and it wasn’t just about a bracelet. It went deeper than that.

He thought back, really let himself think. Let himself sit in it.

The whole week had felt different—off-kilter in the kind of way that made him feel like he was stepping into something unfamiliar. Shadow had started acting differently. Not drastically, not in ways that anyone else might notice. But Sonic did. Of course, it was no mistake that he grew confused—restlessness thrumming beneath him, a storm of questions on the tip of his tongue, desperate to demand what exactly Shadow was trying to prove… or do.

Because Sonic spent months—months—trying to get through to him. Tossing out sarcastic comments, teasing him between classes, cracking jokes just to catch a reaction. Anything. He’d circle around Shadow like it was a game, pushing buttons and keeping score, only to be met with the same unreadable stare or some of his usual remarks. Sometimes not even that. Just silence. Just the back of his head as he walked away, like Sonic wasn’t even worth the effort.

Shadow was almost.. untouchable. Like he’d built his walls years ago and fortified them with every quiet glare and clipped sentence. And no matter how hard Sonic pushed, he never got more than a brick or two to budge.

But then something changed. Slowly. Subtly. Shadow started letting him in.

Not all at once—Shadow wasn’t the type for grand gestures or declarations. But in quiet, careful ways, he’d begun lowering his walls, inch by inch. It was in the way he didn’t flinch away when Sonic teased him. The way he responded now, not with his usual biting retorts, but with actual conversation. Simple words, yes, but words he offered—words that weren’t dragged out of him.

And it was in his eyes too. That blank, unreadable, and sometimes even dark stare he always wore began to falter in moments. Just enough for Sonic to catch a flicker of something else—uncertainty, maybe. But it was something.

Sonic knew better than to take it for granted.

He knew that Shadow wasn’t naturally warm. He didn’t open up without reason, and he sure as hell didn’t invite people in easily. Every small shift—every softer look, every brush of contact, every time he stood just a little closer—none of it felt accidental. It felt deliberate. Careful. Like each moment had been weighed, considered, chosen. Well at least, for what Sonic thinks.

It was hard not to when Shadow, the same hedgehog who once walked past him like he wasn’t even there, now lingered after conversations. Now stood close enough for their arms to graze. Now looked at him and stayed looking, like he wasn’t afraid of being seen anymore.

Sonic found himself caught in it. All of it.

The warmth. The change. The idea that maybe, things between them were actually changing.

But even in that daze of hope, Sonic kept one foot grounded.

There was something beneath it. He could feel it. A tension under the surface, a pause that didn’t belong, a look that lingered too long before breaking. Shadow’s tone sometimes carried weight it didn’t need to.

He knew what it felt like when someone was hiding something.

Maybe it was just Shadow being Shadow. Maybe letting people in was messy and uneven and riddled with half-steps. But in his gut, Sonic felt it. This wasn’t just emotional hesitance—it was intentional.

A motive. A reason.

Something unspoken behind the way Shadow was finally opening up.

Sonic didn’t push. Not yet. He knew better. He knew trust didn’t come from force—it came from patience. So he waited. Observed. Let Shadow set the pace. Let him pull whatever direction he wanted, slowly unraveling himself while Sonic held the other end of the rope.

Because whatever it was—whatever secret he hadn’t shared yet—Sonic was going to figure it out.

And he wanted to be ready when he did.

It was Sunday, and the city had finally slowed down.

The early afternoon sun spilled gold through the tall glass windows of the town bookstore, casting soft beams across the polished wooden floors. Everything inside was tinted with warmth—sunlight pooling beneath the shelves, the faint scent of aging paper hanging in the air, and the low creak of floorboards as readers moved quietly from aisle to aisle.

Outside, life moved unhurried. Cars cruised by without urgency, their engines low and unbothered. The usual honking and chaos of the weekday rush had melted into something calmer—people strolled the sidewalks with no real direction, coffee cups in hand, talking softly. It felt like the whole town had taken one long exhale.

Inside the bookstore, Sonic had tucked himself away in the corner. The back section, where the shelves stood taller, and the ceiling lights didn’t hum so loud. He liked this part of the store. It felt a little forgotten, in a good way. Like it belonged to people who wanted to be left alone.

He’d been there for almost an hour.

A half-read copy of Persuasion rested in his hands, the spine worn in places from too much love. His fingers curled loosely around the edges of the pages as his eyes moved steadily across each line. There was something about Jane Austen’s writing he’d always been drawn to. It wasn’t just the romance. It was the way she understood silence, hesitation, the ache of saying nothing when everything needed to be said.

Timing, Sonic thought. That was the part that always stuck with him—the missed moments, the people who showed up too late, or realized too soon. Austen made it all feel so human.

He shifted slightly in his seat, legs stretching out beneath the table, one ankle crossed over the other. He looked completely at ease. No chaos, no noise. Just the soft rustle of a turning page and the muffled footsteps of strangers nearby.

To anyone else, this version of him might have looked unfamiliar.

Here, in this quiet corner with a book in hand and the world paused around him, Sonic wasn’t the usual blur of energy and noise people knew. He wasn’t the one cracking jokes in crowded halls or racing through life like it would disappear if he slowed down. He was still. Present. Breathing.

Only his brothers really knew this side of him—the one that could sit still long enough to fall in love with a sentence.

He didn’t need to speak here. Didn’t need to be seen. The silence wasn’t empty. It was full of something quieter. Something real. And Sonic liked that.

As Sonic flipped the page, his fingers brushing lightly against the corner of the paper, his eyes lifted—not with intention, just one of those idle glances you make when your mind briefly drifts.

And then he froze.

There, just past the top of his book, a figure moved slowly between the shelves. Calm. Composed. Something about the way they walked—their quiet confidence, the deliberate stillness in their posture—pulled at a thread in Sonic’s memory. Familiar.

He lowered the book an inch, his gaze sharpening as something in his chest gave a subtle lurch.

The sunlight pouring through the high windows caught faint streaks of red and black quills. The figure was half-turned, backlit slightly by the warm daylight as he reached toward a shelf. Sonic watched the motion—how the hand hovered, then retreated, then moved again.

Sonic blinked hard. Once. Then again.

He even went as far as rubbing his eyes—animatically, with the heel of his palms like a character out of a morning show—because it couldn’t be him. Couldn’t be Shadow. Not here, not again. Not in the same quiet bookstore where they’d had that… mildly awkward, subtly charged, weirdly memorable interaction last week.

He hadn’t expected to ever see him again in this spot. That day had ended with too many unsaid things and a strange tension Sonic still hadn’t fully unpacked. But now—Shadow was here. Brows slightly furrowed in focus, head tilted just enough to read the spine of a book, moving in that same slow, exacting rhythm Sonic remembered far too well.

The room felt heavier all of a sudden, though not in a bad way.

Sonic’s attention narrowed in on that one figure across the room. He wasn’t close. Still tucked into the far side of the store. But even at that distance, Sonic could see it—see him—clear as day.

A small, involuntary smile pulled at his lips. The kind that crept in slowly, half amusement and half disbelief. He leaned back slightly in his chair, not hiding the way he looked now. Watching, maybe even a little curious.

Shadow hadn’t noticed him yet. He was still browsing, his gloved hand drifting from one title to the next, the way someone did when they weren’t really looking for a book, but rather waiting for one to find them.

Sonic’s body remained still, save for the quiet rise and fall of his chest. The book he’d been reading now sat untouched on the table in front of him. A slim, worn bookmark poked out from the corner, but Sonic wasn’t even glancing at it anymore.

His eyes remained locked on Shadow.

There was a magnetic pull in the way the other hedgehog moved—measured, precise. Like every step he took was considered, not wasted. Sonic leaned back in his chair, arms crossed loosely over his chest, his posture relaxed but his mind anything but.

And then something shifted.

Shadow began walking. Not in Sonic’s direction—at least, not at first. But the angle of his steps, the way his eyes remained on the book in his hand, made it clear he hadn’t seen him yet. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Shadow was fully absorbed, flipping through the edges of what looked like a thick, dark-covered book, his fingers running lightly along its ornate spine.

Sonic tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly as curiosity crept in.

What kind of book catches Shadow’s attention like that? he thought, watching the subtle way Shadow’s brow furrowed ever so slightly in thought. He seemed… interested. Focused.

Now, Shadow was getting closer. His footsteps were light against the polished wooden floor. Though, the bookstore remained hushed.

Sonic’s table offered just enough coverage to go unnoticed if you weren’t looking for anyone. And clearly, Shadow wasn’t.

There was something kind of funny—kind of unbelievable—about all this. The way they kept running into each other without meaning to. The way the universe kept folding them into the same spaces.

Shadow’s steps slowed as he reached the edge of the table—right across from Sonic. He was mid-motion, fingers curled around the back of a chair, when his eyes finally lifted.

And then he saw him.

There was a flicker—just a split-second of recognition. A quiet jolt that registered in the way Shadow’s brows drew together, confused, almost disbelieving. His posture stilled, as though his mind needed a second longer than his body to catch up.

Sonic leaned forward in response, planting his forearms on the table and meeting that stare with ease. A grin broke across his face—lopsided, self-assured, like he had been expecting this moment all along.

“…Sonic?” Shadow’s voice was low, edged in surprise.

“Shadow,” Sonic echoed smoothly, but with more confidence than confusion. The name rolled off his tongue like a greeting he was always prepared to say.

A beat passed.

Sonic could hear the quiet, tired sigh that left Shadow’s lips. Not annoyed, not quite. Just… resigned. His gaze shifted to the side, away from Sonic, like maybe that would neutralize whatever was unfolding between them.

“What are you doing here?” Shadow asked, voice even but guarded.

Sonic’s smile dimmed slightly, softening as he turned his head toward the open book in front of him. The pages were still untouched since earlier, the bookmark resting near the edge like it had been waiting too.

“Reading?” he said with a touch of playful sarcasm, eyes drifting back to meet Shadow’s. The inflection in his voice made the simple answer sound like a joke between them. If it even was a joke.

Shadow blinked at him, not reacting right away. Then—quietly, almost reluctantly—he exhaled through his nose. A familiar sound. And without another word, he pulled the chair out and settled into the seat across from Sonic.

There was something oddly intimate about it. Just Shadow, in his usual muted way, choosing to stay. Choosing to sit.

And Sonic watched him do it. The grin didn’t return. Instead, something more thoughtful passed through his eyes—like he was taking in the weight of the moment, trying not to read too far into it but still feeling the shift.

Shadow’s eyes dropped to the book in his hands, his attention seemingly absorbed by the text—but Sonic knew better. He recognized the calculated silence, the way Shadow’s thumb traced the edge of the cover, as if to stall, to ground himself.

Sonic leaned forward slightly—not enough to intrude, just enough to narrow the space between them. There was something lingering in the air between them, something neither of them seemed in a rush to address. It was quiet, yet taut, like the pause between a question and its answer.

To break it—to ease whatever was coiling in his chest—Sonic decided to speak first.

“What are you reading?”

His voice cut through the stillness, casual but tentative, like he was testing how far he could go.

He didn’t expect an immediate reply. And he didn’t get one.

Instead, Shadow spared him a glance—brief, unreadable—before returning his attention to the book. He turned it slowly in his hands until the cover faced up again, like he was familiarizing himself with it before answering.

“Frankenstein. Mary Shelley.” He read it out loud in that even tone of his, low and unbothered.

Sonic hummed thoughtfully. He’d definitely heard of that book before—but he’d never actually picked it up to read. Or maybe he just never planned to. It didn’t really fall within the kind of stories that caught his attention. From what he knew, it leaned heavily into darker themes, the kind that felt too heavy or intense for his usual taste.

Sonic gave a slow nod, gaze drifting for a second toward the golden light spilling through the tall windows beside them. The bookstore remained hushed, filled with the soft shuffle of pages turning and the faint scrape of a distant chair.

Then, cautiously, he spoke.

“Have you… tried my recommendation yet?”

His voice was quieter this time. Less teasing, more careful. Like he was speaking into a delicate moment and didn’t want to disrupt it.

Across the table, Shadow’s fingers paused their absent movement along the book’s spine. He finally set it down—deliberately—and lifted his eyes to meet Sonic’s. His expression remained unreadable, though his posture shifted just slightly, signaling attention.

“What is it?” he asked,

Sonic blinked, lips twitching as he suddenly remembered. “Uh… Jane Austen. Romance and all that.”

A second passed. Shadow’s brow furrowed ever so slightly, not out of confusion but something more like mild judgment.

“No,” he replied plainly. “I fail to see what’s exciting about romance.”

Sonic scoffed—not loudly, more like a soft burst of disbelief. His hand lifted to gesture, finger vaguely aimed at Shadow and then toward the open book resting on the table.

“Hey, hey,” he said, smiling as he leaned forward just a bit. “Romance is actually good—when you’ve got the right book, I mean.”

There was a glint in Sonic’s eyes now. A mix of pride and playful defiance. He wasn’t going to let Shadow just write it off that easily.

“Take Austen, for example. Pride and Prejudice? You’ve seen the copy, right?”

He kept his voice low, but it carried a quiet energy. The kind of enthusiasm that slipped out when he really liked something—even if he tried to mask it. His fingers tapped lightly on the wood grain of the table as he spoke.

Shadow didn’t say anything at first. Just held his stare across the table, unreadable—but something in his gaze looked faintly unimpressed. Like the conversation had wandered into territory he’d already dismissed long ago.

Then, with a quiet exhale, he muttered, “All romance books are boring.”

The words hit Sonic like a slap wrapped in velvet. His eyes widened, his posture subtly shifting as he leaned back in his seat. His right hand rose instinctively to rest against his chest, as though the insult had landed there. For a moment, he just blinked—mouth slightly open, stunned that Shadow had said that so plainly, so confidently. Like it was law.

“You did not just say that,” Sonic said under his breath, eyes narrowing.

There was no playful grin now. He looked genuinely offended.

Shadow didn’t flinch. One brow arched slowly, daring him to argue.

Sonic clicked his tongue, shaking his head in disbelief. “Austen’s works are the best. Excuse me?”

Shadow’s silence was almost smug.

“And let me prove that to you,” Sonic added, tone flat but edged with determination. He reached for the Persuasion book once again and flipped it open, thumbing through the pages like he was searching for ammunition.

The air between them had shifted. Gone was the lazy comfort of a Sunday afternoon. Now, it buzzed with quiet challenge, a charged sort of tension that felt heavier than before.

Sonic flipped through the book with a focused expression, pausing now and then as if mentally weighing a line before deciding to keep going. After a moment, he gently set it down again.

His gaze met Shadow’s, all the teasing stripped away.

“If I read you a few lines from this,” Sonic began, his voice calmer now, almost measured, “and you actually like them—will you give it a chance?”

There was no mockery in his tone. No smugness. Just a quiet, deliberate sincerity.

He wasn’t just trying to win a debate anymore. He wanted a reaction. Not just to prove Shadow wrong—but to crack something open. To see if he could tug at something deeper in that closed-off exterior, even if just a little.

Sonic sat still, waiting. Eyes trained on Shadow, expression steady and serious.

Shadow tilted his head slightly, the movement slow and deliberate. “Romance is too predictable,” he said flatly. “It’s almost always the same.”

The comment didn’t surprise Sonic, but it still struck a nerve. He exhaled, puffing his chest a bit as he leaned forward, a confident smirk tugging at the edge of his lips.

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he said, voice light but firm.

Shadow responded with a quiet sigh—one that sounded more resigned than annoyed. Then, with a soft thud, he shut the Frankenstein book and slid it slightly to the side. His arms dropped forward, folding over one another on the table as he leaned in—not just close, but closer than Sonic expected.

Too close.

Sonic blinked, startled by the sudden lack of space between them. The edges of his ears heated up. There had been no hesitation in Shadow’s movement, no sarcastic retort or teasing smirk—just a quiet willingness. And somehow, that made it worse.

Or better.

He couldn’t tell.

Swallowing the lump of nervous energy building in his throat, Sonic quickly raised the copy of Persuasion to his face—using it more like a shield than a book for a moment. He flipped through the pages at random, eyes scanning paragraphs too quickly to read, pretending like he was deep in literary focus. In truth, his pulse was louder than the rustling of the pages.

Was it embarrassment? Maybe. Or maybe it was something closer to flustered disbelief. That Shadow was actually listening.

A few seconds passed. Then another.

Sonic forced himself to exhale. Slowly. He lowered the book, finally meeting Shadow’s gaze across the table.

Shadow hadn’t moved. His expression remained unreadable, save for the slightest flicker of curiosity behind his eyes. He was still watching—still waiting. And it felt like he wasn’t mocking him for this. He was really listening.

Sonic set the book down with gentle hands, letting it rest open across the wood grain of the table.

Clearing his throat, he let his index finger trace a line of text.

“I have been thinking of you,” Sonic read, his voice quieter now, like he didn’t want to disturb the world within the pages—or the one forming slowly between them. “It is the privilege of friendship to talk nonsense, and to have her nonsense respected.”

The line lingered in the air, unhurried. Everything felt suspended, like time had momentarily stepped back to listen with them.

Sonic’s lips curled into a small smile—barely noticeable, but it was there. He tilted his head to glance at Shadow, hoping for the flicker of a reaction.

Shadow’s expression was unreadable at first. But then Sonic noticed the subtle furrow of his brow, just enough to make Sonic pause. The smile faltered, if only for a second. He blinked, took a breath, and looked back at the open page. Then returned his eyes to Shadow.

“Which means,” Sonic began again, his voice a little more grounded now, “the male lead—Wentworth—is saying that he missed talking to the female lead. Anne.” He paused for a second, giving space for the weight of it. “Even if it was silly stuff. The nonsense. The dumb little moments that don’t seem like they matter… they do. They mattered to him.”

There was no smugness in his voice. No teasing or playful arrogance. Just quiet sincerity.

Something about putting it into words—his own words—made Sonic sit back slightly, his hands resting gently on the edge of the book. His expression softened, and—unexpectedly—so did Shadow’s. The tension in his brows loosened. His shoulders dropped slightly. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to.

He hadn’t cut in. He hadn’t rolled his eyes. And in Shadow’s silence, Sonic found the permission to keep going.

So he did.

Without wasting the quiet momentum, Sonic flipped to another page, eyes moving quickly across the lines, fingers trailing gently over the paper as if sifting for meaning—something deeper to offer. His pulse picked up again, but this time it wasn’t nerves. It was the thrill of being heard. Of possibly reaching him.

“I am not yet so much changed… but what I might yet hope to be allowed to think she is not utterly indifferent to me.”

Sonic’s voice trailed into the quiet air like the ending of a song that didn’t quite want to finish. His breath slipped out on a soft exhale as he carefully glanced over Shadow.

“That one’s from Wentworth again,” Sonic said after a moment, his voice lowered but steady. “He’s trying to play it cool—like he’s accepted things, like he’s moved on.”

He glanced down at the page, then back up.

“But really,” Sonic went on, softer now, “he’s clinging to the tiniest bit of hope. He’s praying that Anne still cares. That he isn’t just… nothing to her now.”

Shadow didn’t move. He hadn’t spoken since Sonic began reading, and something about his stillness felt deliberate. His eyes didn’t wander; they stayed on Sonic, unfaltering, as though each word reached him somewhere deeper than he let on.

Sonic kept talking, not to fill the silence, but because he didn’t want to lose the connection while it was there. “That part about hoping she’s ‘not utterly indifferent’?” He gave a quick glance toward Shadow, a faint, knowing smile playing at his lips. “That’s him saying—Please, tell me you still feel something.”

He raised his fingers in casual air quotes as he said it, but his tone softened after, reverent. “It’s this fragile mix of nervous hope and vulnerability. The kind you carry when you’re trying not to show how much you care… even though you do. So much.”

His voice dipped near the end, not dramatic, just honest. He looked down at the book again, fingers grazing across the paper with something close to affection. There was a pause as he flipped through a few more pages, the gentle flutter of turning paper the only sound between them for a beat.

The table felt smaller now. Or maybe it was just how close they were leaning in—how the rest of the room blurred into the background.

Sonic’s lips curled again, a grin more to himself than anything. “It’s kind of like when you act all cool around someone you like, pretending you don’t care,” he said, flipping another page with one hand, the other tapping lightly on the table. “But inside? You’re just… waiting. For anything. A look, a word, a sign they like you back.”

He gave a small shrug, almost sheepish.

The bookstore, once full of quiet distractions, now felt like it was holding its breath. Just long enough for Sonic to keep going.

He paused before reading the last line—the one he believed might finally crack something open in Shadow. The line he’d bookmarked not just on the page, but in his mind, certain it carried the weight needed to get through. But just before he let the words fall, he looked up.

Shadow’s expression hadn’t shifted much, but Sonic could still read something beneath the surface—quiet, almost curious stillness. His eyes hadn’t drifted once. He was listening. That alone made Sonic’s chest tighten with something he couldn’t name.

“So,” Sonic began, voice lighter than he meant it to be, a note of hope threading through the edges, “did any of that convince you? Even just a little?”

His fingers tapped against the edge of the book absentmindedly as he waited. He watched Shadow’s gaze linger, that unreadable stare stuck somewhere between guarded and thoughtful. For a second, Sonic thought maybe—just maybe—he’d struck something real.

But then Shadow blinked. Face unreadable. Voice flat. “No.”

The disappointment hit quicker than Sonic expected. His brows drew together in disbelief as he blinked once, then again.

It felt like a lie. There had been something there. He was sure of it.

“Did you even understand what I was trying to read to you?” Sonic huffed, slumping a little in his seat, exasperated. His voice dropped into something between a groan and a whine, like a tutor repeating the alphabet to a particularly stubborn student.

Shadow let out a sigh of his own, like he was the one being burdened. “Of course I do.”

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms slowly. It made his posture more closed off, but also more relaxed—as if now that Sonic was done reading, he could return to pretending none of it had touched him at all.

Then came the explanation. “Those are just lines you can find in a thousand romance stories,” he said, tone neutral. “They’re dressed up differently, but it’s always the same thing underneath.”

Sonic stared at him, lids lowering, mouth slightly open in disbelief. He looked down at the book, then back at Shadow.

Unbelievable.

“Wow,” he muttered, shaking his head as if Shadow had just declared war on the entire literary canon. “You really have zero interest in romance, huh?”

Sonic nearly gave up. He was about to close the book and call it a lost cause. But there was one last passage saved for the very end—the one he believed might actually crack something in Shadow, or at least stir the smallest flicker. If it didn’t, well, at least Sonic had tried. Let Shadow stay buried in his depressing books, missing out on the unexpected thrill that came with stories of hope and heart.

It was hard to reconcile the indifferent, almost cold guy sitting across from him with the same one who, just last Friday, handcrafted a red yarn bracelet and gently wrapped it around Sonic’s wrist. The same guy who—against all odds—had given him a compliment, soft and almost awkward. Sonic shook off the memory with a heavy sigh, trying to push it down like an unwanted but persistent thought.

His eyes flicked back to his wrist. The red yarn stood out bright against his fur, vibrant and real. Shadow hadn’t said a word about it. Sonic hadn’t caught him sneaking a glance either. It was as if none of it had happened, like it was just another invisible moment between them. But he knew better. Last Friday had been real, and this—this small, stubborn thread wrapped around his wrist—was proof.

Seriously, is this guy trying to kin Lucy Whitmore?

Sonic exhaled, setting aside the tangled feelings as he turned his attention back to the book in his hands. This next line—he told himself—was the one that held everything: the passion, the longing, the quiet ache of a heart laid bare on a page.

He took a slow, deliberate breath, letting the calm of the bookstore settle around him.

Then, almost to himself, Sonic began to read. His voice was low, careful, but there was something raw in it—as if the words were no longer just lines printed on a page, but an intimate confession. He let himself be pulled into the story, folding the moment around him like a secret shared in the hush of the afternoon.

“I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death.”

Sonic’s voice softened, a hint of hesitation threading through the words as if he were weighing them carefully before continuing. He kept his gaze fixed on the worn page, not daring to meet Shadow’s eyes just yet.

“I have loved none but you.”

It was only part of Wentworth’s confession to Anne, but it carried everything—the weight of years, the raw ache of longing, the steady pulse of a love that refused to fade. Those words cut deeper than Sonic expected, stirring something quiet and unexpected beneath the surface.

He lingered over the passage, letting the silence stretch between them.

Finally, Sonic glanced up, eyes searching Shadow’s face for any flicker of reaction. The expression was carefully guarded, unreadable—but Sonic caught the subtle shift: the way Shadow’s arms, once tightly crossed, relaxed just a fraction, and how his posture softened, leaning slightly forward as if drawn in despite himself.

Sonic swallowed hard, suddenly at a loss for words. For a moment, he forgot they weren’t alone.

He gently set the book down on the table, hands slipping beneath it, disappearing from sight. His fingers curled around the thin red thread tied around his wrist—the delicate reminder Shadow had woven into something tangible, grounding him in a way nothing else could.

Shadow’s gaze hadn’t wavered once, those dark eyes quietly watching, as if waiting for something Sonic couldn’t quite name himself. That look had a way of unraveling him, a pull he still didn’t fully understand.

“So?” Sonic finally blurted, voice a little rough, a little desperate.

Shadow blinked—once, twice—before letting out a slow, casual shrug.

The gesture sent a tightening through Sonic’s chest. His eyebrows knitted together, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. “Oh, come on,” he muttered, voice louder than intended but still controlled, biting back the urge to push harder.

He shook his head softly, lips pressed into a thin line, lost in thought.

As if an idea suddenly struck him, Sonic shifted in his chair, the worn wooden legs creaking softly under his movement.

Sonic slipped his hand into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out his phone. From the other pocket, he produced a small, matte-red case. His fingers moved with practiced ease, flipping open the lid to reveal the earbuds inside. The faint click echoed in the calm space.

He connected the buds to his phone and slid one gently into his right ear. Then, with a tentative smile, he extended the other toward Shadow.

But Shadow’s expression didn’t soften. His eyes narrowed, and his arms crossed tighter against his chest, the tension in his posture unmistakable.

Sonic’s smile faltered, the hope in his chest shrinking with a quiet sigh. “Just take it. It’s not going to bite you,” he said, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice.

Shadow raised a single brow, voice calm and unbothered. “What now?”

“If the words didn’t get through, maybe the music will,” Sonic replied, trying to sound casual but feeling the weight of how hard this was for him.

Shadow glanced at the earbud with clear skepticism and let out a short, dismissive huff. “I don’t listen to music.”

Sonic shook his head slowly, disbelief creeping in. He hadn’t expected Shadow to be this difficult to reach—not this time. “Seriously? Not even a little?”

He held out the earbud again, this time with less hope and more tired insistence. “Come on, just take it. My arm’s getting tired.”

There was a flicker of something—uncertainty?—in Shadow’s eyes, but his face remained guarded. After a slow, deliberate pause, his hand moved forward, fingers brushing against Sonic’s as he took the earbud. The small gesture caught Sonic off guard.

Shadow slipped the earbud into his ear with practiced, quiet movements. Sonic let out a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and dropped his hand to the table.

“Finally,” he muttered, rubbing his wrist as if releasing a knot of tension.

Sonic’s fingers hovered over his phone, scrolling through playlists. The bookstore felt smaller somehow—closer, more intimate. His heartbeat seemed louder, an expectant rhythm echoing in his ears.

He hesitated over a song—his favorite, one that carried meaning beyond the melody.

Before pressing play, Shadow broke the silence again, voice low and dry. “You’re really trying to romance-trap me?”

Sonic looked up, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Or maybe I just want to share something that matters to me.”

Shadow muttered something under his breath, barely audible, but Sonic caught the slight shift in his posture. Then, he pressed play.

The bright, peppy intro of the song began to play, its upbeat strums and lively rhythm cutting through the soft ambient noise around them.

Love Grows (Where My Rosemary Goes) by Edison Lighthouse

Sonic glanced at Shadow, watching for any flicker of reaction, while the song’s lyrics promised something just out of reach—like the kind of love Sonic was quietly trying to unlock.

As the notes drifted through the earbuds, Sonic’s attention flickered back to the book resting on the table. He forced himself to focus on the printed words, trying to distract himself from the strange flutter stirring inside him. From across, he caught the steady weight of Shadow’s gaze—unwavering, intense.

Sonic—unable to resist the urge, began to tap his foot softly beneath the table, and his head swayed in time with the rhythm, almost as if the music was pulling him out of his own thoughts. He was close to lip-syncing the chorus before catching himself.

Curiosity nudged him to steal a glance at Shadow. No surprise—those crimson eyes hadn’t moved. They were locked on him, watching like a secret observer. Sonic drew in a slow breath, then let it out quietly, a spark of mischief rising in his chest.

The song carried on, filling the small space between them. Sonic folded his arms on the table, lifting his right arm with the red yarn bracelet wrapped gently around his wrist. Resting his chin on his palm, he met Shadow’s gaze head-on.

There was something unreadable there—an impassive calm that made it impossible to tell what thoughts lay beneath. The usual sharpness in Shadow’s eyes softened, but the mystery remained.

Sonic held the look, his own expression a mix of quiet amusement and teasing reverence.

The chorus swelled once more, filling the quiet space between them with its catchy, almost playful melody. Sonic, thinking it was the perfect moment to throw in some teasing, lifted an eyebrow and prepared to poke fun at Shadow’s seriousness. But then something caught him—something he hadn’t expected.

Shadow’s eyes. The deep, crimson shade glimmered in the soft light filtering through the bookstore window, catching the tiniest flecks of gold around the edges.

For a moment, Sonic’s teasing smirk faded. His features softened into something quieter, more genuine. There was an unexpected warmth there, a beauty he hadn’t allowed himself to see before—raw and unguarded.

He swallowed hard, blinking rapidly as if trying to reset his focus, but the image stayed.

♫ She’s really got a magical spell,
And it’s working so well,
That I can’t get away. ♫

The lyrics echoed through his mind, strangely fitting the weight of the moment.

Then the music cut off abruptly. The sudden silence cracked the fragile tension like glass breaking. Sonic cleared his throat, his cheeks warming as he quickly looked away, pretending to be interested in the worn edges of the book’s pages.

He peeled off his earbud and carefully placed it back in its case. Shadow mirrored the gesture, handing his earbud over without a word.

Sonic let out a slow breath, steadying the rush of heat that crept up his neck. He slid the case into his jacket pocket and finally dared to look up—his gaze meeting Shadow’s again. The unspoken between them hung thick, but Sonic didn’t look away this time.

“Uhm… so?” Sonic forced a chuckle, awkward and a little self-conscious, the words hanging in the quiet between them.

Shadow sighed, his gaze drifting off to some indistinct point beyond the bookstore window.

“I don’t get how you can be so… invested in romance,” he said, voice low and distant.

Sonic shot him a look, eyes bright with stubborn hope. “Because love is beautiful,” he said simply, the words carrying more weight than he expected. “It happens in so many different ways.” His hand lifted slightly, a gentle, almost reverent gesture—as if he was trying to explain something precious.

Shadow glanced back at him, then away again with a sharp huff, a breath that spoke of impatience—and maybe something softer beneath it. “You sound like my sister,” he muttered, loud enough to catch Sonic’s attention.

A smirk tugged at Sonic’s lips. “Oh yeah? Bet I’m just as cool as her.”

Shadow rolled his eyes, a rare flicker of amusement softening his features as he looked back at Sonic. “No. She’s better than you.”

Sonic laughed quietly, a warm sound in the calm bookstore air. “Alright, fine. But your sister seems like someone who really gets romance—like I do.”

Shadow said nothing, his eyes fixed firmly on the blue blur’s quick movements flipping through the pages. The silence between them settled, thick but not uncomfortable.

After a pause, Sonic’s voice dropped softer. “I just wish you saw what I see.”

He didn’t look up. He didn’t grin. He let the words hang there, quiet and sincere.

It wasn’t long before Shadow stood up, the worn spine of Frankenstein pressing lightly against his side as he clutched the book firmly in his hand.

“Leaving already?” Sonic’s voice came out low, almost softer than he intended, betraying the flicker of disbelief and something like a quiet plea beneath his calm tone.

Shadow’s eyes didn’t meet his. Instead, he gave a slow, deliberate nod—no words followed. His posture was rigid, contained, as if any extra movement or speech might unravel whatever fragile calm he’d managed to hold onto.

“You haven’t even started reading your book,” Sonic said, the hope in his voice a subtle tremor. He leaned slightly forward, the corners of his mouth twitching as if trying to coax Shadow into staying a little longer, even if just for a few more minutes.

But Shadow only pushed his chair back with a muted scrape against the floor, his motion deliberate but restrained. The faint creak of the wood was swallowed quickly by the quiet that returned like a tide pulling away. He started walking away in almost hurried and purposeful steps.

Sonic didn’t say anything else. There was no use. Every time Shadow decided to leave, it was always the same—firm, unwavering, final. That was just how he moved through the world. Unapologetic. Unflinching. And Sonic had long since learned not to chase after that kind of certainty.

So he stayed seated, unmoving, watching as Shadow’s figure retreated with quiet defiance. His strides were confident—the same way he always carried himself, like he belonged to another rhythm entirely—one Sonic still couldn’t keep up with, even after all their moments together.

Despite everything—their long silences that said more than words, the shared earbuds, the subtle looks, the accidental brushes of hands, and the slow, almost imperceptible peeling back of Shadow’s guarded exterior—Sonic still found himself stuck behind a fog of unanswered questions. Shadow remained just out of reach. Always.

That mystery, though… it was what made him so fascinating.

Once Shadow was out of sight, Sonic let the breath he was holding ease out of him in a quiet sigh. The air felt different without Shadow in it—cooler, heavier, still.

He glanced down at the book resting on top of the table, fingers gently grazing the edge of the page. With careful movements, he closed it, placing it to the side of the table with the kind of reverence reserved for something precious.

Sonic leaned back in his chair, eyes trailing along the ceiling as he drifted into thought. He realized, with a twinge of frustration, that he really didn’t know much about Shadow. Not really. He knew his full name, he knew that Shadow probably did crafts. And lastly, he knew Shadow didn’t care for romance—or at least pretended not to.

But those weren’t answers. They were pieces. Vague, floating fragments of a hedgehog Sonic couldn’t quite put together.

And yet, something about that made him want to try harder. Want to press in closer, to ask better questions, to pay more attention. There had to be more. There was more.

Shadow was a locked room Sonic had only just stepped into—and he was nowhere near ready to walk out.

He didn’t know when it happened, but somewhere between the conversations and the music and the sidelong glances, Sonic had decided: he wanted to understand Shadow. Not because he was a puzzle. Not because he was difficult.

But because, somehow, he mattered. More than Sonic had thought.

Shadow exited the library without looking back. Not a glance over his shoulder, not a second thought. His footsteps were sharp, deliberate—like he was putting distance between himself and something dangerous. Something that had crept too close without him realizing.

The cool breeze outside met his quills the moment he stepped through the doors, but it didn’t help. His chest still felt tight. He sucked in a breath anyway, as if fresh air alone could chase the tension out of his body.

It had all gone sideways. Too fast, too unexpectedly. And worse—it felt intimate.

He didn’t like that. Not one bit.

The moment he had entered the bookstore earlier, he hadn’t planned to stay. He hadn’t even really planned to come. His feet had just taken him there, unthinking, as if pulled by some subconscious thread. Maybe it was because he remembered Sonic saying something about how he liked quiet spaces. About how he spent his time buried in books and sunlight, reading stories about people falling in love.

He hadn’t planned on staying long.

He had come to the bookstore with no particular goal in mind—just a vague idea of needing to clear his head. Something light to read, maybe. Something quiet. The kind of silence that didn’t feel like it was clawing into his thoughts the way the silence of his room had started to. The past few days had been too loud in his mind, even if the world outside was calm.

But instead of peace, he found Sonic. And with Sonic came chatter.

It started as nothing more than a casual interaction—another run-in, another exchange. But somehow it unraveled into a full-on ramble, one of those typical Sonic moments where the conversation spun wildly out of control. Except this time, it was about romance. Of all things.

Of course it was.

Sonic, ever the hopeless romantic, had gone off about the beauty of love, the excitement of stories, the meaning in every look or touch. Shadow didn’t know why he even let it go that far. Maybe he thought he could tune it out. Maybe some part of him was curious. Or maybe he just wanted to be stubborn and get a reaction out of Sonic.

But even after he walked out of the bookstore, it stayed with him. The words. The music. The look Sonic had given him during that song. Like Shadow was something he genuinely wanted to understand.

Shadow didn’t know what to do with that.

He walked the rest of the way home in silence, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. The world looked muted—but Shadow’s thoughts weren’t.

He didn’t have time for this.

He wasn’t built for this kind of drama. The feelings. The emotional weight. He never had been.

Maria had been the dreamer. The romantic. She used to tell him that love was supposed to be selfless, terrifying, and beautiful all at once. Shadow never fully understood it, but he tried—for her. Even now, he tried. He kept the idea tucked away, somewhere deep in his chest like an old photo. Faded, but not quite forgotten.

Still, teenage melodrama was the last thing he needed.

He had more important things to worry about. Even with everything happening—even with the bet—he hadn’t let his priorities slip. Not really. He still stayed up late with his textbooks, still recited formulas like prayers in the dark. Still made sure his name was at the top of every score sheet. He had goals. Discipline. Focus.

And after what happened last exam—when Sonic beat him for the top spot—Shadow had sworn that would never happen again. Not because of pride, but because he had to stay ahead. The structure he clung to when everything else felt uncertain.

But now?

Now Sonic’s laugh kept replaying in his head like a stuck chorus. The music from earlier—bright, lighthearted, annoyingly infectious—lingered like static in his brain. But worse than that was the memory of green eyes. The way they looked back at him.

And now, every time he saw the color green—even in passing—he thought of Sonic.

Chaos.

Shadow exhaled through his nose, sharp and impatient. His fists curled inside his pockets before he even realized.

This was temporary. It had to be. Week One had just ended, and Week Two was beginning.

Shadow lifted his gaze to the skyline ahead, let the wind pull lightly at the edges of his coat, and tried to steel himself for whatever came next.

He wasn’t sure if he was ready. But he’d pretend he was, like always.

The house was quiet when he returned. Still. Too still. The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful—just suffocating.

Shadow stepped into his room and shut the door behind him, but the silence didn’t go away. If anything, it seemed to press in harder, loud in the way only total quiet could be.

He changed back into his comfortable house clothing from earlier. Then, walked over and sat down at his desk, the edge of the seat cold against his legs, and stared down at the sheet in front of him.

The Loathe Tracker.

He’d made it last week, half out of strategy, half out of spite. A tool to help him stay organized in the middle of this ridiculous bet. Scribbled across it were already a dozen notes—comments, bullet points, ideas. And now, with a black pen in hand and his jaw slightly tense, Shadow hovered over the next section, trying to plan out his next move.

He’d jotted down several ideas already, but none of them stuck. None of them felt like the right next step. It wasn’t just about being clever anymore—it had to be clean. Precise. Strategic. One misstep and Sonic could take over. And Shadow couldn’t let that happen.

This had to be calculated. Executed with intent. Like everything else in his life.

He stared at the paper a little longer, pen tapping lightly against the edge. His thoughts kept drifting.

Week One was supposed to be harmless. Just the start. The plan was simple: act approachable. Lure Sonic in. Get him comfortable.

And it worked.

Almost too well.

Shadow had spent most of Week One showing a version of himself he didn’t even recognize. Softer, open, interested. He let Sonic talk about things that meant nothing to him.

But none of it had been real.

Not a single moment.

He told himself that again.

Every smile. Every word. Every second spent listening instead of rolling his eyes—it had all been a performance. A carefully curated act. A version of himself crafted just for this bet.

Because it had to be.

Anything else would be dangerous.

He had already tested the limits of Sonic’s curiosity and gotten a glimpse of what was behind that confident, easygoing exterior. That small crack—barely noticeable to anyone else—had been enough for Shadow to know he’d hit something real. Something honest. Something Sonic probably didn’t even know he was showing.

And that was exactly what Shadow needed.

He kept his expression unreadable as his eyes trailed back over the notes he’d written, as if dissecting a puzzle he already knew the answer to. Sonic had always hovered, always clung too close with that impossible charm and infectious energy. But this time, Shadow had used it to his advantage. This time, it had a purpose. Not just emotional noise. Strategy.

Because Sonic, for all his golden-boy bravado, was easy to read.

He was simple. Persuadable. The kind of guy who’d chase a feeling without knowing where it came from. He was selfless, sure—but that selflessness came with a streak of ego, a need to be wanted, to be seen as the good guy. Shadow had been counting on that.

And so far, Sonic had walked straight into the palm of his hand.

It hadn’t taken much, really—just a little vulnerability, a few carefully chosen silences, and the illusion of depth. Enough to stir something. To make Sonic lean in.

Now, Sonic was closer than ever, whether he realized it or not. And that meant the next move had to cut deeper.

He pressed the ballpoint firmly down, dragging words with precision onto the tracker in front of him.

He paused once he reached the bottom of the page, gaze narrowing as he reread the lines he’d just laid out for the week ahead. At the very top, highlighted and underlined with stark finality, was the new week’s header:

Emotional Attachment.

A smirk tugged at the corner of Shadow’s mouth, slow and deliberate, as he leaned back slightly in his chair. The pen was placed back in the cup full of multi-colored pens, and his gloved fingers tapped once along the desk’s edge in thought. Every bullet point that followed the title was cleanly numbered—each detail laid out like dominoes waiting to fall. The strategy was sharp. Brutal, maybe. But effective.

Because it hits harder. Physical closeness could be chalked up to chemistry, to mistake, to momentary weakness. But emotional connection—that was the one thing people didn’t walk away from easily. Not without damage. Not without a scar.

And that was what made it useful.

Sonic was easy to read, but unpredictable in action. He was reckless with emotion, careless with vulnerability, and Shadow was starting to understand exactly how to use that against him. The more Sonic leaned in—shared, smiled, trusted—the more it would hurt when the floor gave out underneath him.

Because this wasn’t a soft unraveling. It was a setup. A countdown.

Shadow’s eyes lingered on the words for a moment longer. He wasn’t deluding himself. He knew what this was. The game was a game. He hadn’t come this far to flinch now.

At the top of the page, written in sharp, deliberate handwriting beneath the freshly written header was the first point on Shadow’s list:

1. Ask how he is.

So simple. So mundane. But for Sonic, it would be everything.

Shadow stared at the line a little longer than he meant to. The words weren’t special, but the intent behind them carried weight. Sonic was always bursting at the seams with answers—always ready to talk, especially about himself. And he lit up the moment anyone gave him that opening. Shadow had seen it more than once.

The first move was minimal. A nudge, nothing more. But the days that followed—those would dig deeper.

By Monday, his objective was to give Sonic the illusion that someone genuinely cared. That Shadow, of all people, wanted to listen to the chaos in his head, the nonsense stories, the thoughts that never stopped spilling from his mouth.

He flipped back a few pages, eyes scanning his previous notes—the clean margins, numbered tactics, scribbled side remarks that mapped out every manipulation with mechanical precision. Each step built off the last. Week One had been about openness. And now, Week Two would bleed into something trickier.

He reread the new entry one last time before closing the Loathe Tracker, the soft thud of the cover sealing the thoughts he wasn’t yet ready to name. He slid the notebook into the drawer beside his desk, pushing it into the very back, behind old papers and extra supplies. Out of sight, but never far from mind.

The chair creaked quietly beneath him as he leaned back and allowed himself to breathe—slow, measured, heavy. The room remained as it always was: dim, still, suffocating in its silence.

His eyes wandered, scanning the desk like it might offer him something new. And then, they stopped.

There it was. That damned ball of red yarn.

His gaze lingered. Unblinking. As if staring hard enough would make it vanish. But it didn’t. It sat where he left it, unassuming and quiet, mocking him with its presence.

His jaw clenched. His brows drew in, sharp and tense. The way it sat there—still, innocent—almost felt like an insult.

Because he remembered.

He remembered making a bracelet out of it, tying it around Sonic’s wrist as the final move for last week’s fake vulnerability plan. And yet, he saw it again earlier today—peeking out proudly from the same wrist while he lingered around with him at the bookstore. The same knot. The same string. Shadow was certain Sonic hadn’t taken it off since.

Shadow hadn’t thought much of it at the time. He’d looked away quickly. Pretended it didn’t matter. But now, with the day behind him and the walls of his room pressing in, the thought crept back in.

He hadn’t even noticed his hand moving. One moment he was glaring at the yarn, and the next, his fingers were curled around it—tugging at the edge, unraveling a bit before letting it snap back into shape.

He sat there, staring down at it like it might offer some kind of explanation. But it didn’t.

With a quiet scoff, he dropped his hands against his lap, the yarn still loosely tangled in his hand. His head tilted back, gaze meeting the ceiling that had never once answered any of the questions he hurled at it. The corners of his eyes ached with exhaustion. Of mind. Of heart. Of everything.

He inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled just as slow. The kind of breath you take when things begin pressing too hard from the inside and there’s nowhere left to run.

It was all too much. The pretending. The planning. The unintended weight of things that should have stayed light.

But Shadow wouldn’t admit that.

He wouldn’t admit how much space Sonic took up in his head. He wouldn’t admit that the red thread—which once felt like strategy—was starting to feel like something else. Something he couldn’t name without losing his grip on the whole plan.

No. He refused.

So instead, he let the thoughts drift, let the silence drag longer, and let the yarn fall loose in his hand like it didn’t mean a single thing.

Because if he could pretend long enough—maybe it would come to an end eventually.

Monday arrived in a rush, as it always did. The sky was still tinged with that pale gray-blue of early morning, the air cool, the school grounds bathed in soft, hazy light. Shadow stepped through the gates with his usual quiet purpose, thirty-five minutes before first bell. He didn’t do it just for punctuality—but for the silence. Those precious few minutes where the school was still waking up, where his footsteps echoed softly in empty halls, untouched by the chaos that inevitably followed.

But something was off today.

Even before he reached the main building, there was noise. Not the distant hum of maintenance staff or the occasional earlybird student. This was louder. Constant. He could hear it from across the quad—excited chatter, footsteps overlapping, voices rising and falling in waves. That wasn’t normal. Not this early.

And then it clicked.

Sonic.

That irritating blue blur usually strolled in about fifteen, maybe twenty minutes before class started. Close enough to greet his fanclub, far enough to avoid being reprimanded for tardiness. But even then, his arrival never caused this much of a stir. Shadow’s ears twitched slightly, picking up more fragments of conversation as he neared the entrance. Laughter, gasps, even a couple of squeals.

What the hell is going on? he thought, pushing through the crowd that thickened the closer he got to the front lobby.

It wasn’t just the usual crowd of admirers either. This was a mob. A wall of bodies, phones out, voices raised, students craning their necks or whispering eagerly to each other. Shadow could barely move through without bumping shoulders or stepping around backpacks strewn across the floor.

Brows furrowed, he let out a quiet sigh and narrowed his eyes. His gaze swept the crowd with growing confusion. Shadow moved closer, ignoring the stares and the sea of motion, trying to get a read on what—or who—was causing this disruption.

And then, standing near the center of it all, poised like she owned the entire hallway, he saw her.

Rouge.

Hand on her hip, back straight, a smirk pulling at the corner of her lips like she was in on some secret the rest of the world had to work twice as hard to figure out.

Shadow blinked, actually stopped in his tracks.

Rouge?

First of all, what was she doing here? She never showed up this early. Her version of punctual was strutting in as the bell rang, hair perfect, with her glimmering earrings, like time itself waited for her. And this wing of the building? She avoided it like a plague of underclassmen.

Shadow’s confusion deepened, something between suspicion and frustration curling in his chest.

Shadow continued moving forward, slow and deliberate, bracing himself for the elbows and backpacks that clipped his sides as he pushed through the chaos. The hallway was loud—feral, almost. It grated on him, made his jaw tighten. His ears twitched at the high-pitched bursts of laughter and excited squeals echoing off the lockers.

And seriously, where were the teachers?

Shadow’s eyes scanned for Rouge again as he walked over.

She turned almost the second he approached, as if she could sense him from behind. Her smirk was subtle, familiar. That signature glint of mischief never left her face.

Shadow’s arms crossed tightly against his chest. His brows lowered in deepening irritation. He leaned in slightly—the noise was too much to speak over.

“What’s going on?” he asked, voice low, but edged with frustration rather than curiosity.

Rouge gave a soft chuckle, clearly unbothered. “Check it out yourself,” she replied, smoothly taking a step back to give him space.

His glare lingered on her a beat longer than necessary, his patience fraying at the seams. Whatever this was, it better be worth the crowd, the noise, and the rising headache. He exhaled slowly and began pushing through the last cluster of students, his shoulder muscles tense each time someone bumped into him. A few brushed past too closely, and Shadow threw them cold glares they were too distracted to even notice.

Rouge followed behind him, almost amused.

Finally, when he reached the very front of the chaos, Shadow’s eyes landed on what was drawing everyone in.

A teacher stood off to the side, clearly trying—and failing—to maintain order. Beside them, another student.

She stood confidently, but not arrogantly. She had soft pink fur that caught the light like rose petals.

Her green eyes were wide, expressive, lit with a kind of warmth that almost made you forget where you were. Her eyelashes were long and curled, and there was something striking about her—gentle, but not fragile. A spark beneath the sugar.

She was smiling as she spoke to the crowd, her voice high-pitched and lilting, but not grating. In fact, it was the kind of voice that could probably summon a whole flock of birds if she tried hard enough—too sweet.

Shadow blinked slowly.

His mind tried to make sense of what he was looking at, what exactly was happening—but it was all coming at him too fast. The crowd. The noise. Rouge’s smirk. And now this girl—center stage, glowing like some kind of idol.

“Who is she?” Shadow asked quietly, voice low and unreadable, eyes still locked onto the girl in the middle of the hallway storm.

He didn’t blink. He didn’t move. He just watched.

Amy Rose. The Campus Sweetheart.

It was a name that lingered in the air like perfume—everyone knew her, even if he didn’t. She was part of both the photography club and the fashion club. The kind of girl who smiled at everyone, and everyone smiled back.

Everyone knew Amy Rose.

Everyone except him.

Shadow’s gaze drifted slightly, barely a shift of his head, just enough to take in the opposite end of the crowd. And that’s when he saw him.

Sonic.

The blur. The golden boy. The one who was always at the center of every hallway gathering, always surrounded by noise, attention, admiration—all of it. Except this time, Sonic wasn’t standing in the spotlight.

This time, he was watching it.

And that, somehow, was more jarring than anything else.

Sonic wasn’t just watching. He was still. There was no lazy lean against the lockers, no exaggerated gestures, no cocky grins. He stood upright, hands at his sides, his posture relaxed but… intentional. Focused.

Shadow studied him carefully.

That smile—he recognized it. It was the one Sonic wore whenever he talked to Shadow about the things that truly mattered to him. The things he loved. It was subtle, lacking all performative flair, soft in all the corners. Completely unguarded.

And his eyes.

They shimmered in the hallway light, vibrant and alive, brimming with something quiet and unspoken. Fixed. Devoted. His gaze didn’t flicker, didn’t stray, didn’t even shift—not even to where Shadow stood, just a few feet across from him.

Not even once.

Because Sonic was watching her.

Too pink. Too cheerful. Too radiant in the middle of the crowd, like she wasn’t just part of the spotlight—she was the spotlight.

And Sonic didn’t look away.

Shadow felt it then, like a static hum threading under his skin. His fingers curled into his palms before he even realized it. His jaw tightened as something unfamiliar coiled in his chest.

He let out a sharp exhale through his nose.

Then, he turned away, sudden and brisk, and began pushing through the crowd again. This time he didn’t bother weaving or softening his steps. He moved like a stormfront, ignoring the startled glances and muttered protests as he shouldered past people too slow to step aside.

This damn chaos. When will it end.

Rouge noticed him breaking from the crowd and didn’t hesitate to follow. Her heels clicked softly against the floor as she maneuvered through the gaps he left behind.

“Shadow, where are you going?” she called, voice raised just enough for him to hear—but still controlled, unbothered.

As she moved, she murmured a string of polite phrases under her breath, dodging elbows and backpacks. “Excuse me—coming through—thanks, sweetheart.”

Once they’d finally pushed past the worst of it, the hallway widened again. The tension in the air thinned. Shadow’s steps slowed.

His hand tightened around the strap of his shoulder bag, eyes still narrowed, lost in thought. Rouge came up beside him without a word at first, matching his pace. Her expression was curious, yes—but not prying. She knew better than to speak before he was ready.

Shadow glanced down briefly at his wristwatch. 6:34 A.M.

Still too early for all of this. Too early for noise. Too early for whatever that had been.

He said nothing, didn’t even look at her. His feet carried him automatically, like muscle memory pulling him toward the one place him and Rouge always lingered around. Away from everyone. The tucked away corner of the campus.

Rouge followed in silence, her heels softer now against the old tile.

They reached the bench—aged, scratched-up, the backrest leaning ever so slightly to one side from years of being ignored.

Shadow dropped onto it with a quiet exhale. He leaned back immediately, legs stretched out. His eyes stared forward, locked on nothing.

Rouge settled beside him, sitting upright. Her legs crossed elegantly, arms resting on her lap. She said nothing yet, but her head tilted slightly as she waited.

Shadow stayed still, jaw tight, eyes unfocused. But his silence wasn’t calm. His thoughts were louder than the hallway crowd.

And she knew it.

“So, you gonna tell me what’s wrong, or what?” Rouge asked, her voice softer this time—careful not to stir the storm simmering just beneath Shadow’s calm exterior.

He didn’t respond at once. When he finally spoke, it was clipped and almost automatic. “There’s nothing wrong. Just a big crowd.”

His arms crossed tightly over his chest as he turned to look at her, eyes sharp and guarded.

Rouge let out a quiet huff, shaking her head with a small, knowing smile. “Yeah, I get that. But I also know there’s something else.”

Shadow’s brow twitched—just the faintest movement. “What?”

“You saw Blue, huh?” Rouge said, tilting her head, the hint of a tease in her tone.

Shadow said nothing right away. His lips pressed together, and he fought to hold her gaze, but somewhere beneath his steady stare, confusion and something else churned. For once, even he couldn’t quite explain why this feeling was gnawing at him.

“Jealous?” Rouge pressed, the word hanging lightly in the air.

“Of what?” Shadow shot back almost immediately, defensive, his crossed arms tightening even more—an involuntary shield.

Rouge caught it instantly. She always did.

A soft laugh slipped past her lips, warm and teasing.

Shadow rolled his eyes, the tension easing just a little. He looked away, back out toward the quiet view beyond the bench, and shifted his position, sinking back instead of sitting up straight.

“Just annoyed,” Shadow admitted, his voice low and a little tight. “I was supposed to handle today’s plan. But he’s too…” He shook his head lightly, shrugging. “…busy.”

“If you say so,” Rouge replied, a skeptical smirk tugging at her lips. She knew Shadow’s curiosity was always there beneath his cool, even if he’d never admit it aloud. And right now, it was obvious he needed answers—something was clearly gnawing at him.

A brief silence settled between them, the quiet folding into the space like a weight.

Then, as if on cue, Shadow’s voice cut through it—soft, almost hesitant but honest. “Who is she, anyway?” His gaze didn’t waver from the space in front of them.

“Why haven’t I heard of her?” he added, as if searching for something he’d missed.

Rouge cleared her throat, a quiet chuckle escaping her lips. “She’s Amy. My friend.”

Shadow’s attention sharpened. Confusion flickered over his features, and his brow furrowed deeper.

“You never talked to me about her?” he asked.

Rouge shrugged with a sly smile. “You never asked.”

Shadow lifted a brow, unamused.

“You always tell me gossip even when I don’t ask,” he pointed out, deadpan.

Rouge grinned widely, throwing her hands up in playful surrender. “Touché.”

A few beats passed as their quiet banter settled into something less sharp, more… easy. Rouge crossed her arms, tilting her head slightly. “You know I’m in the fashion club, right?”

Shadow’s gaze stayed fixed on her, waiting.

“We were clubmates,” she began, her voice softening. “Well, for less than a month before she had to leave campus.”

She paused for a moment, searching for the right words. “She’s also in the photography club, and—” Rouge hesitated briefly—“she got this internship program for photography. So she had to study off-campus at a university for a while. That’s why you never noticed her, maybe you did—and maybe you just didn’t care.”

Shadow’s eyes narrowed, followed by a scoff of disbelief.

“Just now, she came back, and she’s been sharing some of her projects with everyone,” Rouge explained, glancing at him before turning back to face forward.

“She’s really popular in our part of the building. People call her the Campus Sweetheart.” Rouge’s voice grew a little softer, sincere. “Everyone loves her. She’s kind and sweet—not just for show, either.”

Rouge smiled wryly, a knowing smirk teasing her lips. “Oh, and I heard she and Sonic know each other pretty well. I think they’re best friends.”

Shadow leaned forward slightly, his ear twitching, still listening intently.

“But honestly? I think there’s more to it.” Rouge’s smirk deepened, sharp and knowing. “I mean, come on—those two have chemistry.”

She said it like a tease, fully aware of the effect her words would have. She watched Shadow closely, enjoying the way her comment seemed to twist something inside him.

Shadow’s arms, which had been tightly crossed, slowly dropped. Rouge caught sight of his fingers—how they fidgeted, folding and unfolding like they couldn’t decide what to do with themselves. It was the kind of nervous energy he never showed, the small cracks beneath the surface when a thought gnawed relentlessly at the back of his mind.

Instead of pushing further, Rouge let him be. She watched as Shadow nodded slowly, his eyes drifting away, scanning the quiet hallway like searching for an escape.

He glanced down at his watch.

Fifteen minutes until class started.

For a moment, Shadow closed his eyes, breathing in and out deeply—just for a split second, enough to steady whatever was clawing at him.

Then he turned back to Rouge, voice low but steady.

“I need to head to class now. I’m just going to pass through the other side.”

He paused, waiting for her to argue, but she didn’t.

Rouge stood, slinging her bag over one shoulder and already stepping ahead.

“Alright, come on.”

Shadow let out a short, annoyed huff but fell in line behind her.

And as they walked, Rouge’s smile widened into something almost smug—quiet satisfaction curling at the edges of her lips.

I knew you couldn’t play this game your way, Shadow.

Rouge and Shadow had already gone their separate ways, splitting off into opposite wings of the building. The quiet between them had lingered even after parting, a silence that somehow weighed heavier than words.

Shadow stepped into the classroom, his pace calm but his eyes alert. The moment he entered, his gaze instinctively landed on Sonic.

And it was obvious—immediately—that something had shifted.

Sonic looked too bright.

He was always animated, sure. But today, it was more than that. He was buzzing. His eyes sparkled like someone had handed him the world, and he moved with a kind of energy that felt personal.

The way Sonic laughed with their classmates had changed, too. His giggles came quicker, softer, more… intimate. Even the tone of his voice carried a warmth Shadow wasn’t used to hearing from across the room.

“Those two have chemistry.”

Rouge’s words resurfaced like a wave slamming through his head. Clear. Unwelcome. Loud.

He hadn’t realized how long he’d been staring until Sonic’s eyes drifted up and met his. That damn grin stretched across his face—wide, toothy, genuine.

Shadow’s breath hitched. He looked away immediately.

No reaction. He couldn’t afford one.

He smoothed the furrow from his brow, forced a breath in through his nose, and made his way to the back of the room. His bag hit the desk a little too firmly. The legs of his chair scraped across the floor, loud and grating, and a few heads turned briefly before looking away again.

Shadow didn’t care.

He sat down, resting his chin on his hand, elbow pressed hard against the desk, and stared out the window like it could answer the things inside his head.

Focus. That was the word that kept pulsing in his mind like a drumbeat.

He had a plan.

He wasn’t here to get distracted—not by pink-quilled girls, not by bright-eyed hedgehogs, not by feelings he refused to name. He had a mission, a clear-cut strategy. Week One had gone exactly as intended.

And Week Two? He’d get through it, too.

Effortlessly. Just like before. Even if it didn’t feel that effortless anymore.

Break eventually rolled around, announced by the sound of chairs scraping and chatter rising. Shadow hadn’t even moved yet when he noticed Sonic shoot out of his seat the moment the teacher dismissed them—like he’d been waiting for it all class. Eager. Too eager. And it didn’t sit right with Shadow.

He rose carefully from his chair, letting the current of noisy students sweep out ahead of him. He stood still, waiting until the room was almost entirely empty, quiet enough to think. Only then did he head out, steps unhurried.

At first, he planned to return to the usual hidden corner he and Rouge shared. But halfway through the hallway, he remembered—he left his notebook in his locker, the one he’d need for the next period. So, he shifted direction, his pace slow, almost dragging as he descended the stairs and crossed the breezeway where the lockers were nestled.

But just as he was about to turn the corner—

A sound.

Soft. Airy. Familiar laughter.

It froze him mid-step.

He blinked, instinctively leaning back before edging in to peek, careful not to be seen.

There, just beyond the wall, he saw it.

Sonic. Leaning against the lockers with one foot casually propped behind him, arms folded, his whole face lit up with a grin that looked too natural. Too real. And across him, stood her.

Amy Rose.

Matching his energy. Giggling in return with that effortless sweetness like it belonged to her—along with gestures signifying comfort.

There was no crowd this time. No noise. Just them. Talking like they’d done it a hundred times before.

Shadow felt it—tight, right in his chest. A flicker of something he didn’t want to name.

He leaned back, stepping away from the corner, hand grasping the wall for just a second longer than necessary. His gaze dropped to the floor as he exhaled through his nose.

How am I supposed to pull this off if someone else is in the way?

The words rolled through his mind like a bitter whisper, almost resentful.

Without another glance, he turned and took the longer path—the one that led away from the lockers, away from them. His stride picked up, steps quieter now, until he disappeared down the side hallway, heading for the hidden corner that always promised quiet.

His footsteps were unusually heavy, each one dragging with a weight he couldn’t name. His thoughts swirled, too focused, too loud. He figured he’d pick up his notebook later—maybe once there were only a few minutes left before class. Just enough time to ensure they were nowhere in sight by then.

When he reached the tucked-away corner, Rouge was already there, phone up to her face, her usual air of poise wrapped around her like armor. She didn’t glance up as he approached, too used to his presence to flinch. Shadow sank into the bench beside her, slumping back like the exhaustion in his mind had seeped into his spine. One arm hooked lazily over the handle, and his fingers pressed against his temple as he muttered low gibberish under his breath.

“What now, Shadow?” Rouge asked, not looking up. Her tone wasn’t tired—it was familiar. The way you talk to someone who treats every new inconvenience like it’s the plot of a movie.

Shadow didn’t move. “I thought about this plan really hard for me to end up not doing it,” he muttered, voice dull, bitter.

Rouge arched a brow, eyes still on her screen. “Mhm.”

A pause.

“You’re right,” he said suddenly, quietly. “I think they’re together.”

That got her attention. She blinked, looked up, and let out a short laugh before shaking her head. “You think?” she repeated, thick with sarcasm.

But Shadow didn’t catch it. He nodded, serious.

Rouge stared at him for a beat longer. The nod—so still, so certain—caught her off guard.

She was certain that within Shadow, something else was building underneath.

Rouge let out a slow, deliberate sigh, the kind that barely concealed her amusement. She decided she’d have a little fun—just a touch—poking at the dark figure sitting beside her. It was almost absurd: someone so composed, so unshakably calm on the surface, yet beneath that armor, clearly a stranger to the tangled mess of emotions everyone else seemed to navigate with ease.

“So… how do you feel about them?” she asked softly, her voice light.

Shadow blinked and jerked back slightly, a rare crack in his calm. “What do my feelings have to do with their relationship?” His brow lifted, sharp and skeptical.

“Relax, it’s just a question.” Rouge’s lips curved into a small, teasing smile as she slid her phone shut and rested it on her lap, folding her arms casually across her chest before turning to face him squarely.

“For example, I feel happy for them.” She pressed a hand to her chest, fluttering her lashes like she was confessing a secret. “How about you?”

Shadow rolled his eyes, the movement sharp and dismissive. A scoff escaped him. “Doesn’t matter if I do, or if I don’t. I simply don’t care.” He spread his hands in a gesture of finality, clearly done with the conversation.

Shadow leaned back, crossing his arms as his gaze drifted away, lost in thought.

I need a new plan, he thought aloud—loud enough that he barely caught himself mumbling.

Rouge caught the words and considered pushing him further. But then she paused, sensing that maybe, just maybe, this was more serious than she thought. How much was this stoic hedgehog really willing to endure? Barely two weeks in, and he was already rattled by a presence most would barely notice.

She shook her head, chuckling quietly to herself, her eyes following Shadow as he sat lost in thought. There was more beneath that calm exterior than he let on, and Rouge was more curious than ever to see just how far this would go.

The day had finally wound down, the sky now painted in soft hues of dusky orange and fading blue—like the world itself was slowly exhaling. Although, the warmth did little to ease the heaviness simmering inside him. For the first time since he’d committed to the plan, Shadow couldn’t bring himself to mark the day as a success. Not even close.

He leaned back in his chair, fingers pressing into his temple like he could physically push the frustration out of his skull. The light overhead buzzed faintly above, the room dim save for the orange hue of his desk lamp. His other hand gripped a black pen loosely, like even holding onto that felt tiring now.

Today was supposed to be a clean step forward—like Week One. But it had been anything but that. Every time he got close to Sonic, just as he was about to start a move or make his presence linger a little too long, she showed up. Amy Rose. Always with a laugh, a comment, some convenient coincidence that landed her right between them.

It shouldn’t have bothered him. That was the logical part. But it did. More than he was willing to admit. And now the plan—the meticulous, ridiculous, painstaking plan—felt like it was stretching too far out of reach. Like he’d built the first few stairs only to find out the ladder was rotting from the top.

Even the drive home with Rouge had been off. She talked, he didn’t. She teased, he gave her nothing. And dinner with Maria? Usually his grounding point—now it had him feeling vaguely out of place. She noticed, of course. She always did. But she didn’t press, thankfully.

Now here he was. Back in his room. Alone at his desk, elbows resting on the polished surface while his thoughts sat too loudly in the silence. He let out a slow breath, eyes falling to the notebook in front of him—his Loathe Tracker.

His gaze slowly drifted to the small stack of sticky notes off to the side. He reached for the green pad, peeling one off with deliberate slowness. With a flip of his wrist, he thumbed through the earlier pages—Week One’s neat, smug victories—and finally found a blank space for today.

He slapped the fresh green square on the left side of the notebook. Stared at it. Then adjusted his grip on the pen and hovered it over the pad.

He hated writing about failure. He just hoped tomorrow wouldn’t unravel the same way.

He just needed one clean step forward. One move without interruption. Just one chance alone with Sonic.

Is that really so hard?

Apparently, it was.

March 17 W2 D1

Every time I try to talk to Sonic, I somehow always catch him with Amy. From the moment I stepped through the school gates this morning, to break time, lunch, our free periods, even as we were heading home they were always together, practically glued at the hip. Carrying out this week’s plan is going to be difficult now that she’s around.

The rest of the week passed in a strange contradiction—blurred, yet agonizingly slow. For Shadow, every hour scraped against his nerves like the dull edge of a blade, each second tightening the thread of his patience.

By the time Tuesday arrived, he already had a new move ready. Day two of week two. His strategy: ask something simple, casual, intimate enough to pass as innocent. A question that would spark familiarity.

“What’s your favorite food?”
“Favorite color?”
“Ice cream flavor?”

He had rehearsed it the night before, pacing across his bedroom with his Loathe Tracker in hand and frustration heavy on his breath. He’d even practiced how he’d ask it—low tone, soft expression, the kind that makes people lean in closer. Convincing, close. The kind of thing that builds trust. The kind of thing that, eventually, would make the crash hurt.

The words were right there, coiled on his tongue as he stepped into the hallway, spotting Sonic just a few strides away. He took a breath, just enough to—

“Sonic!”

And there she was. Amy. Pink and pretty and perfectly timed. Walking straight through the hallway like the world had waited just for her to arrive. Her voice echoed like bells and her laughter came too easy, like it belonged here. Sonic, of course, lit up the moment he saw her—shoulders perked, posture brightening, eyes crinkling like the sight of her fixed everything broken in his day.

Shadow didn’t move. Not immediately. He stood there longer than he should’ve, frozen, a flicker of irritation flashing in his eyes. The question he’d held so carefully—gone. Lost in the noise.

With a sharp exhale, he turned on his heel and walked away in silence, as if he’d never been there to begin with.

Then came Wednesday.

He’d planned again. And this time, he was certain it would work. The move: listening. Not just hearing—listening.

Attentively, thoughtfully. Shadow had even practiced in front of his mirror, nodding slowly, hands in his lap, eyebrows drawn together just enough to make him look interested. He wanted to seem present, like someone safe to talk to. Someone Sonic could trust.

But somehow, impossibly, Amy was there again.

Smiling, talking, standing too close. Always there—right before Shadow could move. Right before he could act. Every single time.

And Shadow—despite how cold he tried to be—felt something tight tug at his chest.

Thursday was supposed to be giving him validation.

Subtle compliments, spoken with enough ease and sincerity to draw Sonic closer. Nothing too obvious. Nothing too sentimental. Just enough praise to linger. A remark about his laugh, maybe. His energy. The color of his eyes when the light hit them at noon.

But it didn’t matter.

Because the only validation Sonic seemed to care for was Amy’s presence.

Even when Shadow tried to carve a sliver of space between them—slipping into a conversation before she arrived, catching Sonic’s eye with that infuriating grin aimed right at him—he couldn’t get the words out. His mouth went dry. His throat tightened. And by the time he found the courage to speak, Sonic was already turning his head toward her again, like she was the only person worth looking at in a hallway full of noise.

Every time Sonic looked at her with that softness—something between admiration and something deeper—Shadow’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

Then came Friday.

He couldn’t even remember what the plan had been.

Not that it mattered. His head was too full, thoughts swarming with static and heat and everything but logic. The Loathe Tracker was still being updated, the pages still filled—but there was no structure anymore. No calculation. Just jagged lines and bitter notes, a mess of ink that looked more like frustration than strategy.

That day, Sonic passed him in the hallway. Walked right past him without pause. His eyes were locked on Amy again, like Shadow had never existed.

The red thread on Sonic’s wrist swayed gently with his movement—thin, bright, and stubbornly knotted. The same thread Shadow had tied a week ago, when this had felt like a slow victory. A step forward.

But Sonic didn’t look back.

Not once.

For a moment, Shadow stood completely still. That stupid thread was still visible, still wrapped around Sonic’s wrist.

Because when Shadow thought Sonic had started to see him—when he thought he had made it through, just a little—he was wrong.

He was just filling space. Filling in the gaps Amy had left behind.

And now that she was back?

There was nothing left in Sonic’s eyes but her.

The final bell rang, but Shadow was already halfway down the hallway, ignoring the hum of student chatter behind him. He had no interest in lingering—especially not today. He was relieved to see Rouge’s car idling at the curb, her fingers lazily drumming against the steering wheel as if she’d known exactly how fast he’d want to leave.

He crossed the street without a word, his expression unreadable, jaw tight with frustration. The passenger door creaked open, and he slipped inside with a practiced motion—then leaned back sharply, letting the back of his head hit the headrest harder than necessary. A low groan escaped him, muffled and rough, like he’d been holding it in all day.

Rouge raised a brow at the sound, but said nothing instead. Her keys clicked softly in the ignition, and the car hummed to life. She eased them into the road with one hand on the wheel.

She stole a glance at him, careful and fleeting, but her eyes stayed mostly on the road.

“Let me guess,” she started, voice lighter than the weight hanging in the air. “Another fail?”

Shadow didn’t answer right away. His hands dragged down his face slowly, fingers pressing into his skin like they could undo the tightness behind his eyes. He exhaled, sharp and tired.

“This is stupid,” he muttered, the words dropping like dead weight in the space between them.

Rouge chuckled softly—an amused, knowing sound, layered with just enough I-told-you-so to make it sting. “I warned you from the very beginning,” she said, her voice all too pleased.

Shadow turned his head to glare at her, a scowl tugging at his features. She didn’t meet his gaze, but she smirked, eyes still on the road.

He thought of snapping back, of unraveling all the built-up irritation crawling in his chest. But week two of this stupid checklist had already drained whatever energy he had left. Arguing with Rouge would only remind him of the mess he’d made.

So instead, he crossed his arms, pressed his temple against the window, and stared outside—silent, brooding. The blur of the city moved past him like water, streetlights and storefronts bleeding into one another, unfocused.

He exhaled again, quieter this time, as his vision began to blur from exhaustion.

The drive home was a quiet one, marked only by the occasional hum of passing cars and the rhythmic flick of the turn signal. Familiar streets rolled by—shadowed trees casting long lines across the pavement, storefronts he’d passed a hundred times blurring in his periphery. The silence inside the car wasn’t awkward, just heavy. Tired.

Eventually, the vehicle slowed to a stop in front of Shadow’s house. The soft rumble of the engine settled into stillness. Rouge kept her hands on the wheel, fingers loosely wrapped around the leather, but her head turned to him with a smirk already forming.

“Don’t forget—you owe me a mall day tomorrow,” she said in a teasing, sing-song lilt.

It was a reminder, playful but pointed. She hadn’t let go of the promise he’d made last weekend.

This time, he couldn’t back out. And maybe… maybe being around her in a place that wasn’t crawling with Sonic’s presence would help him breathe again.

Maybe.

He gave her a small nod—silent but certain—then reached for the strap of his bag resting on his lap, sliding it over his shoulder. The car door clicked open, cold air brushing against his quills as he stepped out onto the pavement.

With one last glance, he gave Rouge a brief, curt nod. She nodded back with a mock salute before he shut the door. The sound echoed softly into the dusk air.

Shadow lingered by the curb just long enough to hear the soft whir of her tires as she pulled away, the tail lights fading into the distance. Then he turned, jaw set, and approached the front steps of his home.

His fingers dug into his pocket, fishing out his keys with the ease of habit. The lock clicked, the door creaked open—and as he stepped inside, the silence swallowed him whole.

Rouge’s car was gone. The city was behind him. No Amy. No Sonic. No plans.

Just him, and the echo of his own breath as he shut the door and exhaled like the day had bruised him.

Shadow noticed that Maria wasn’t in the living room, but the soft clatter of movement from the connected kitchen told him where she was.

He slipped off his shoes with practiced ease, placing them neatly beside the rack by the door. The cool tile floor met the bottoms of his socks as he walked further in, the faint echo of his steps barely registering under the low sounds coming from the kitchen.

The scent hit him before the doorway did—warm, savory, with notes of caramelizing shallots and garlic carried on the gentle steam drifting from the stove. Shadow turned the corner and saw her: Maria, standing calmly by the stovetop. Her hair was tucked behind her ears, and she stirred a wooden spoon across the pan with care, as if every movement counted.

Shadow lingered a second in the doorway, watching. There was something grounding about her presence, something soft.

He stepped closer, silently inhaling the aroma. Maria looked up the moment he entered, her face brightening as she set the spoon down and opened her arms. She welcomed him into a hug—gentle, warm, familiar. The kind of hug that didn’t demand anything but gave everything. Shadow melted into it without hesitation, allowing himself that brief, fragile comfort.

A faint smile formed on his lips. Just enough to ease the tension that had been sitting heavy on his face since school ended.

“What’re you cooking, Maria?” His voice was quiet, low and smooth as he tilted his head toward the stove.

“Curry shrimp,” she replied, not missing a beat as she returned to her task. “Saw it on my feed earlier and it looked too good not to try. Smells good, right?”

He nodded, watching as she expertly added new ingredients to the pan—the rhythm of her cooking almost therapeutic.

“I’ll go wash up,” he murmured. “Then I’ll prep the table.”

She gave a small laugh, glancing over her shoulder. “Alright, sounds like a plan.”

With that, Shadow turned and made his way out of the kitchen, his steps slower this time, more at ease. He ascended the stairs, each one creaking faintly under his weight. The moment he reached the sanctuary of his room, the invisible wall he’d been holding up all day finally cracked.

He dropped his bag by the edge of the bed with a soft thud and stood there a moment, just breathing. The walls around him, dim and unchanged, felt like a quiet witness to everything he’d bottled up. No judgment. Just space.

Letting out a long exhale, he stripped off the remnants of the day, pulled on fresh clothes, and padded toward the bathroom to wash up—readying himself for dinner, for Maria, for the one moment of peace he could cling to tonight.

After changing, Shadow descended the stairs with a calmer pace, the scent of curry now rich and fully bloomed in the air. The kitchen light cast a warm glow against the countertops as Maria hovered over the stove, carefully adding the shrimp into the simmering sauce, her movements graceful and focused.

Without a word, Shadow walked to the drawer and retrieved two sets of plates and utensils, the soft clink of ceramic and silverware filling the space. He moved toward the dining table, setting each item down precisely on the placemats, aligning everything the way Maria liked it. It was a quiet routine between them—one he didn’t mind.

By the time he finished, Maria was already serving the food into two ceramic bowls, steam rising from the vibrant dish. Shadow stepped over to the rice cooker, scooping perfect portions into small bowls with practiced ease. Together, they carried the dishes to the table, placing them down in synchrony without needing to speak.

They sat across from each other, the quiet hum of the evening surrounding them.

Maria looked at him with a smile—soft, proud, comforting.

Shadow gave her one back. Just a small one. But it was real.

She picked up her spoon and fork, scooping a bit of rice with the curry, and took a bite. A pleased hum escaped her lips as she chewed.

“Mmm. That’s not bad at all,” she murmured.

Shadow followed suit, tasting the meal. The warmth of the spices settled in his mouth, followed by the slight sweetness of the shrimp and the savoriness of the garlic and shallots. He nodded, impressed.

Dinner continued in peace. No words, just the soft sounds of spoons scraping bowls, and the comfort of familiar company. The silence between them wasn’t empty—it was understood, filled with years of care and mutual rhythm.

And for the first time that day, Shadow felt a small piece of quiet settle in his chest.

But of course, the peace didn’t last long.

Shadow’s thoughts started circling again—looping around everything that had unfolded this week. The fatigue reached deeper than his muscles; it gnawed at his chest, his mind, his patience. Without realizing it, his chewing slowed, his gaze drifting somewhere distant. He didn’t notice the change—but Maria did.

She always noticed.

Still, she said nothing. Maria had long since learned the rhythm of Shadow’s silences. She knew when to ask, and more importantly, when not to. So she offered him the only thing she could in this moment—presence, and comfort.

“Shadow?” Maria’s voice was soft, low, almost whisper-like. “I want to show you something important after dinner.”

Shadow blinked, her words grounding him. He lifted his head, blinking away the daze, and met her eyes. Then he offered a gentle smile—tired, but sincere. “Okay,” he said simply, before returning to his plate, taking another spoonful and trying to refocus.

Dinner ended quickly after that. Shadow helped her clear the table and wash the dishes, moving automatically, the familiar routine grounding him in something still.

Later, they settled into the living room. Maria perched on the couch, a guitar resting in her lap, already fitting a capo onto the neck and tuning the strings with ease. Shadow joined her, sitting close, pulling his legs up and wrapping his arms around them. Chin resting on his knees, he leaned in slightly, cocooned in the quiet.

“I’ve been writing a short song the past few days,” Maria said, glancing at him with a soft, sheepish grin. “It’s still unfinished, and not perfect at all, but I love it. And it made me happy while I wrote it.”

A small smile tugged at Shadow’s lips in return. He shifted a little closer, adjusting his posture to give her his full attention.

Shadow loved it every time Maria played the guitar for him.

There was something about it—something tender, something quiet—that soothed him in a way nothing else could. The way her fingers danced over the strings, the soft rhythm, the warmth in her voice. It made him feel whole. Made him feel comfort in a world so full of noise and wreckage.

Everything about Maria was special. Important. And Shadow wouldn’t trade that smile for anything—not even the world. Seeing his sister full of light, full of joy, full of love… it made everything a little more bearable. It made him feel lighter.

Maria began strumming a high-pitched tune—soft, almost whimsical, but catchy in a way that lingers. She started to hum along, her smile still resting on her lips, gaze focused on the chords, her fingers flowing with ease.

Shadow sat still, watching in quiet awe.

His ears, usually alert and stiff, slowly drooped without him noticing—relaxed, softened. His expression softened too, and without thinking, a small smile bloomed on his face.

He loved her voice. Light as a feather. And just for a moment, the world quieted for him.

♪ He walks like the world’s too heavy to hold,
Shoulders sharp and silence bold.
But l've seen him pause, l've seen him stay,
When kindness called and begged him to stay.

He acts like hearts are things to fear,
Like softness cracks, like love's not clear.
But I've watched his gaze when no one knows,
And that's when his gentleness shows.

He won't say much, he never does,
But every step he takes says “just because.”
There's more in him than walls and storms,
A quiet place, a heart still warm.

He thinks he's only made to fight,
But even shadows long for light.
And love, I think, already grew—
He just doesn't know it's true. ♪

When the final chords faded and the lyrics drifted into silence, Maria smiled tenderly at Shadow—and he returned it just the same. The song had been oddly comforting, personal in a way that felt like it had been written just for him. It made the heaviness in his chest a little easier to carry.

Maria shifted gently and placed the guitar beside her, letting it rest against the couch, the neck slanted carefully against the back cushion. Then she raised her arm towards Shadow, her gaze soft but laced with worry.

Shadow’s eyes dropped.

He blinked slowly, unsure—hesitant—but after a few quiet seconds, he inched closer and leaned into her. Maria welcomed him wordlessly, lowering her head to rest against his and wrapping her arm around him in a quiet embrace. Her fingers threaded through his quills in a slow, soothing motion.

Shadow melted into it.

Grounded. Comforted. Safe.

“Now, Shadow,” Maria said, her voice low, barely a whisper. “What’s wrong?”

Shadow drew his legs up once more, curling in on himself like he had earlier. Chin on his knees. Heart heavier than he could explain.

He didn’t speak. Not yet.

He was still weighing the words. Picking through the mess in his head. Trying to figure out where to even begin.

He didn’t notice how his fingers had started to twitch—fidgeting, restless.

Maria did. But she didn’t rush him.

She just kept holding him, patiently.

“…Maria… why… why are you too kind?”

Shadow’s voice was low—quiet enough to disappear if the room wasn’t silent. Each word dropped like a stone, pulled from something far deeper than he wanted to admit.

Maria hummed softly in acknowledgment, a sound that told him she was listening.

“I’m not too kind,” she replied gently. “I just… don’t believe in holding it back.” Her fingers never stopped moving, threading slowly through his quills like they were smoothing out the ache in his thoughts.

“Kindness isn’t something I give because people earn it,” she continued. “I give it because people need it.”

“…But isn’t that… reckless?” Shadow’s voice was careful, almost afraid to interrupt her peace. He shifted slightly where he sat, his body curling in just a little tighter. Maria moved with him—soft, unresisting, like she understood the language of his weight.

“People could use that,” he whispered. “Take advantage of it. Doesn’t it hurt?”

Maria hummed again, quieter this time. A sound of knowing.

“It does,” she admitted. “Sometimes a lot.”

Shadow didn’t respond. His throat tightened with silence.

“But I’d still rather feel everything,” Maria said after a moment, her voice softer now, “than feel nothing at all.”

She paused—then, with the gentlest certainty, added, “And I’m sure you feel the same way too.”

Her gaze drifted for a moment, lost somewhere in the quiet warmth of the room. Then she sighed softly, lifting her head to look at him again with a small, glowing smile—one that didn’t need to be loud to be full of love.

“You know,” Maria began gently, her fingers still moving slowly through his quills, “you don’t tell me about it… but I know something’s been bothering you.”

Shadow didn’t speak. His eyes stayed unfocused, staring somewhere far beyond the living room. Then, without meeting her gaze, he turned his head away.

“It’s about someone…”

Maria nodded, slow and patient. She didn’t need him to explain. She only needed him to say what he could.

“And I hate that someone,” he murmured. The words were low, thin, but steady—like he had practiced them too many times in his head.

“But…” he swallowed, his voice breaking a little, “that someone… can’t get out of my head. And I hate it.”

His brows creased in quiet frustration, jaw tight, as if every word was a wound reopened. Maria’s heart ached, but her smile softened, just a little. She knew who he was talking about. She had always known.

“Do you really hate that someone?” she asked—gently, like she wasn’t challenging him but offering a place to land.

“I do,” he said quickly—too quickly—as he looked at her. But the moment their eyes met, he faltered. His gaze shifted again, quieter this time, as if something inside him cracked. Like it was a lie. Like it was doubt. Like he was afraid of what it really meant if he didn’t hate that someone at all.

Maria didn’t push. She didn’t need to.

“I know your words don’t define your actions, Shadow,” she said, soft and certain, her thumb now rubbing soothing circles against his shoulder.

Her voice held no judgment. Just truth. Just love.

And she said it like it was a fact of who he was.

Because it was.

“You know,” Maria said again, her voice barely above a whisper, “I think a hedgehog like you… is scared of love.”

Shadow blinked, once, twice—his eyes wide with something between surprise and disbelief. He looked at her, confused, as if her words cracked something open he’d tried to keep shut.

“Not because you don’t want it…” she continued, her tone warm, unwavering. “But because it means losing control. It means showing parts of yourself you don’t know how to explain. Letting someone see you—even the parts you try to bury.”

She shifted closer, her arms wrapping tighter around him in the kind of embrace that didn’t ask for permission but offered safety, grounding.

“But love isn’t weakness, Shadow. It’s bravery.” Her voice trembled with conviction. “It’s choosing to feel, even when it’s terrifying. Even when you’re not sure it’ll be returned.”

Shadow’s gaze dropped, his breath hitched. His throat ached with the weight of something unnamed. Like a feeling he’d swallowed so often it started to make a home in him.

Then, Maria’s words fell like silk-wrapped truth, gentle and irrefutable. “Love is worth risking for.”

She wasn’t lecturing. She wasn’t hoping. She was knowing. And her words landed in Shadow’s chest like an anchor and a lifeline at the same time.

Shadow inhaled, shaky but full, before lifting his eyes to hers again. “…Even if it doesn’t last?”

Maria smiled. Soft. Brave. Certain.

“Especially then,” she whispered. “Because the point isn’t how long it lasts. It’s what it teaches you while it’s there.”

Without missing a beat, she tugged him into her again, this time placing a playful, warm peck on the top of his head. Her grin stretched wide with affection.

“You’ve always had so much love inside you…” she said with finality. “You just never knew where to put it. I’m sure of it.”

Shadow let out a breath through his nose, the air trembling just slightly—but it wasn’t heavy anymore. He tilted his head to look at her, the smallest smile forming on his lips, his eyes softer than before.

And for once, he didn’t feel the need to argue.

Maria’s arms tightened around him, this time with both, and Shadow leaned in fully. The hug wasn’t long—but it was deep. It was the kind of silence that says everything. That kind of silence you only share with someone who’s held your pain without asking for it to be explained. It felt like exhale after days of holding breath. It felt like home, in a world that often didn’t.

When they finally pulled apart, Maria didn’t say anything at first. She looked at him with that grin of hers—mischievous but gentle, like the storm had passed and she still had more softness to offer.

“By the way,” she said suddenly, almost too casually, “I went out earlier and bought a large carton of strawberry milk.”

Her hands gestured to emphasize the size, her voice playful, proud.

And Shadow—he blinked.

Just for a moment, something shifted in his expression. Something lighter, small, but real.

“I’ll serve them,” Shadow said, voice carrying the faintest note of excitement he didn’t bother to hide.

There was something childlike about the way he said it. Simple, eager.

His love for strawberry milk was a little ridiculous, honestly. Almost embarrassing—if it weren’t so deeply sincere.

She nodded gently, a small giggle escaping her lips as she watched him walk off.

Shadow made his way to the kitchen in quiet, easy steps. The kind of walk that didn’t feel like he had to think too hard. Like his body was finally softening after a long day that had worn him down in more ways than one.

The fridge light spilled out as he opened it. And there it was—tall, cold, exactly what she’d promised.

A full carton of strawberry milk.

He stared at it for a second longer than necessary. Just looking. Just… taking it in.

Then he reached out, fingers brushing the cold surface as he pulled it out and set it down gently on the counter. He moved with care—reaching for two glasses from the cabinet, setting them down side by side.

His hands worked on autopilot as he peeled the seal open. The milk made that little gurgling sound as it filled each cup, and somehow it felt… warm.

Like home.

Like her.

He paused then, hand resting on the counter as he stared at the second glass.

She had gone out earlier. She said it so casually—so brightly—but he knew what that meant. How much effort it must’ve taken. Just to go to the store. Just to pick up something she knew would make him smile.

Maria didn’t go out often. Not because she didn’t want to.

She just couldn’t.

Some days her body refused to cooperate. Some days it was hard for her to breathe right, to stand too long, to keep her strength up. He had never heard her complain—not once. Never told him what the name of it was, never sat him down to explain, and maybe she didn’t have to. He saw it. He knew. In the way she’d get tired just a little too quickly. In the way she never stayed out too long. In the careful medication she thought he didn’t notice.

Maria didn’t deserve a life like that.

She deserved skies. Roads. Mountains and fireworks and running into the ocean barefoot, laughing. She deserved long summers and foreign cities and the kind of freedom that doesn’t ask for permission. But instead, life gave her these four walls. The low hum of a ceiling fan.

The hours where her body wouldn’t listen to her no matter how much she wanted it to.

And still… she played her guitar like it was a doorway.

She still stayed up late doing arts and crafts, her fingers covered in glue and glitter. She still filled their kitchen with the smell of cupcakes or curry or freshly baked bread. She still rewound her favorite romance films and whispered the lines before the actors said them.

She even made shrimp curry tonight, just because she knew he would like it.

And earlier, without fanfare, without making it a big deal, she went out to buy him strawberry milk.

She still chose joy.

That was what always got to him. That was what broke him open every time.

Shadow exhaled and gently twisted the cap back onto the carton, sealing it with deliberate care. He slid it back into the fridge like he was handling something delicate. Something important.

Then he picked up the two glasses—one in each hand. He stood still for a moment, just outside the threshold of the kitchen. His eyes flickered down to the soft pink liquid that swayed slightly in the cup.

The color reminded him of her. Warm. Familiar. Unapologetically soft in a world that tried to be hard.

He loved her so deeply it hurts. But he didn’t say it. He didn’t need to.

He simply returned to the living room and sat down beside her, quiet, steady. He handed her the glass with the extra splash—the one with the little more. Maria grinned like he had just handed her something priceless, and maybe in her eyes, he had.

She took the first sip and let out a tiny hum of delight. “Perfect,” she whispered, and he could see it—how she meant it. How this, all of it, meant something to her.

And for the first time in a long time, Shadow understood. Not just in his head. Not just with logic.

But with his heart.

Why love mattered so much to her. Why kindness was never weakness.

Why choosing joy—even when you had every reason not to—was the bravest thing of all.

Shadow lay on his bed in silence, the ceiling above him nothing more than a blur—just another blank thing in a world full of noise. But the quiet didn’t bring peace. It only made the thoughts louder.

They echoed. Distant and close all at once.

He was more aware now. Of everything. Of every breath he took. Of the stillness in his limbs. Of the way his heart felt just a little too tight in his chest. But most of all, he was aware of himself. Sharper, somehow. Clearer.

Maria’s words still clung to the edges of his mind. Like they’d been folded and tucked away carefully, refusing to fade. Her warmth. Her smile. Her voice when she said that love was bravery.

But just because she said it—just because she believed it—didn’t mean Shadow did.

Because thinking about Sonic only brought back the same picture in his mind: that smirk, that voice, that unbearable confidence. The kind of person who thought the world was his stage and everyone else was just there to applaud.

And people like that didn’t deserve kindness.

They didn’t deserve patience or softness or the time it took to understand them.

Not from him. Especially not from him.

So no—he wouldn’t stop. Not now. Not after all of this.

He needed to finish what he started.

Without hesitation, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold under his feet as he padded toward his desk. He moved like someone who was running out of something. Time, maybe. Or patience. Or the strength to keep pretending he didn’t care.

He dropped onto the chair with a quiet breath, leaning forward like the weight in his chest had finally grown too much to carry standing up. His hand reached to the drawer—low and deep—where he kept the one thing he never let anyone else see. Except for the day when he finally hands this to Rouge.

His Loathe Tracker.

He pulled it out carefully, almost like it could break.

There was something sacred about it now. Not because it was precious, but because it held everything. Every thought he couldn’t say. Every feeling he couldn’t name.

He placed it gently on the desk. Reached for the black pen in the cup beside him. Then opened the pages.

The scent of paper, ink, and time hit him all at once.

He flipped through slowly, eyes brushing over previous entries. His own handwriting stared back at him—sometimes clean and pointed, sometimes messy and furious. It was all there. The irritation. The overthinking. The little moments that shouldn’t have mattered but did.

Moments he thought he had let go of, but hadn’t.

He turned the page to a fresh sheet.

Paused.

The pen hovered over the paper for a second too long.

Then, finally, he started writing.

The words came slower than usual. He had to think harder now. Not because there was less to say—but because it felt different. This week hadn’t gone the way it was supposed to. It had started with intention. With fire. But somewhere along the way, everything had blurred.

This week had been nothing but missteps. Complications. Confusion. The edges between plan and feelings had started to fold in on themselves. And that made him angry.

He hated that he couldn’t make sense of it.

Hated that Sonic still lived in his head like an echo that wouldn’t stop repeating.

But through it all—through every moment of frustration, through every time he’d caught himself thinking too long, too deep—the only thing that had felt safe… was Maria.

She was the only good thing about this week.

She always had been. Always would be.

And somehow, that made this all the more unbearable.

Because he was beginning to realize that not everything in him was hate. And not everything he felt toward Sonic was as simple as he wanted it to be.

But that was a problem for another night. For now, he kept writing.

Because writing it down made it feel like he still had control.

Even if, deep down, he knew he was already starting to lose it.

Loathe Tracker
Week Two: Emotional Attachment.
March 21 9:44 P.M.

Week Two was supposed to be just as perfect as the previous one. I was certain it wouldn’t be hard—not when I pulled Week One so effortlessly.

But the past five days were nothing short of a disaster. Every plan I laid down, every scenario I replayed in my head, all of them fell apart the moment Amy Rose showed up. I’ve never heard of her before. Not even a whisper of her name in the halls, not even in Rouge’s endless trail of gossip. But now I know she and Rouge are close—genuinely close.

It’s strange, seeing Rouge smile so easily around someone who isn’t playing pretend. Maybe that’s why people liked Amy so much. She wasn’t trying. She wasn’t aiming for attention or praise. She didn’t care for titles or popularity. Her kindness wasn’t curated or performative. It was just there.

She’s the kind of person that draws people in without even trying. And it just so happens she’s always around Sonic.

It’s not jealousy. I know it isn’t. It’s more like irritation. No, agitation. I couldn’t even get a clear moment alone with him to keep the bet going. She’d always be there, intercepting his attention, pulling him into laughter or casual conversation. I told myself it was just the inconvenience of her presence.

But something about the way Sonic looks at her started bothering me more than I expected. He’s always smiling around people, always cocky and loud and utterly annoying. But around her, it was different. Softer. Focused. Like he was really seeing her.

And what made it worse, more frustrating than I could explain, was how he never looked at anyone like that but her. The longer it went on, the more it crept in. I kept noticing the way his eyes crinkled when she said something funny, the way his voice dropped when he was listening. And I hated that I even noticed.

I felt like I was fading in the background. I’ve never needed to be seen. Not by anyone, especially not by him. But suddenly, I started noticing just how easily he overlooked me. How quickly he brushed past me in the halls just to talk to Amy. It was as if nothing from the past week had happened.

And then there’s the stupid yarn. That red string he still hasn’t taken off. I tied that on him myself. I remember the moment perfectly. How his wrist sat still as I tie it around, how the moment was supposed to be forgettable but somehow wasn’t. And now every time I see it—dangling against his wrist—I feel something catch in my throat. Something that wasn’t there last week.

It’s only been two weeks. Just two. And I already feel like I’ve been following a path that no longer leads where I wanted it to. Now, my schedule’s a mess. Everything’s been consumed by this bet, this mess of feelings I can’t unravel.

Sonic used to just be noise in the background. Always inserting himself in my space, loud and arrogant and blinding. I used to ignore it. I used to ignore him. But now, when he doesn’t show up, I notice. When he looks away too quickly, it bothers me. When he doesn’t speak, it feels too quiet. I don’t know why. I don’t want to know why. And yet here I am, scribbling my confusion into paper, trying to make sense of feelings I swore I’d never let touch me.

Earlier, Maria sang that song like it was written for me. Like she understood things I hadn’t even said. It was too on point. Too close. Her lines had been stuck in my head ever since. She knows I’m trying to push people away. That I don’t let things sink in too deeply. That I don’t like feeling anything that might change me.

But she still smiles. Even with her condition, even with her staying home every day, rarely going out, pretending it’s by choice.

I see it now. The way she hides her tremors behind laughs. The way she still plays the guitar even when her fingers twitch too much to press the strings right. She’s still sunshine. Still full of light. And I hate that she’s hurting. She doesn’t deserve this world, not the way it’s been so cruel to her. But she keeps singing. She keeps writing. She keeps doing things she loves. And I find myself wanting to be there, to sit beside her, to just exist where she’s existing, because it makes me feel lighter too.

I don’t know what Week Three is going to be. Maybe it’ll be worse. Maybe I’ll fall deeper into this spiral. But something in me is still holding on to the original plan. I still want to win. I still want him to think I want him in my life. So I can break him the way I thought I wanted. I’ve already come too far to back away now. Even if the lines are starting to blur. Even if I don’t recognize myself when I look in the mirror.

Just a few more steps. Just a little closer. Until I can finally do what I came here to do.

Until hatred starts to feel real again.

For Shadow, the night ended in spirals.

His thoughts tangled and tripped over one another, looping back to the same aching questions. His chest felt tight. His throat, sore with the words he refused to say. Sleep didn’t come easily—his body restless, his mind louder than anything outside.

But the strawberry milk helped. Warm and familiar, it calmed something inside him. Not enough to fix anything. But enough to soften the edges. Eventually, he drifted off, exhaustion winning only because it always did.

The next day brought Saturday sun and mall noise.

Shadow found himself beside Rouge, weaving through shoppers, already full from lunch and moving toward their usual weekend routine. The promise he made to her the week before fulfilled.

He wanted peace today. Needed it, even. A simple afternoon without Sonic’s voice in his head. Without Amy’s persistence ruining every corner of his plans. Without the weight of every conflicting emotion clawing at his chest.

But even with the crowd, even with the music overhead, the loudest sound was still inside him.

Too many thoughts. Too many feelings. None of them with direction. All of them heavy.

Rouge glanced at him—subtle, but knowing. She always knew. Shadow was quieter than usual. Not in his usual brooding way, but distant. With every step, he felt more frayed at the edges.

She sighed in her head. This wasn’t what the bet was supposed to do. It was meant to shake him, sure—but not break him. Not wear him thin like this.

Not leave him looking like a drenched kitten, miserable and disoriented, dragging his feet through his own mess.

She hoped—deeply, silently—that he wouldn’t stay like this for long.

They walked on. Rouge’s arms swung with the weight of her newest finds—one bag crinkled slightly with the signature logo of a perfume series she’d been slowly collecting, and the other held a muted lilac bottle of nail polish.

Shadow walked with practiced indifference, keeping his pace even, his eyes forward, his hands unmoved. He didn’t speak, didn’t sigh, didn’t give anything away.

But Rouge wasn’t fooled.

She tilted her head toward him, just slightly. “You okay?”

He didn’t stop walking, just turned his head enough to meet her eyes. He answered with a small nod and a noncommittal hum, gaze flickering away a second later.

She narrowed her eyes for a beat, but didn’t push. That never worked with him. If Shadow wanted to talk, he would. If he didn’t, nothing short of an earthquake could move his lips.

They passed more glass storefronts—shiny displays reflecting people back at themselves. The mall was loud. Bright. Busy.

And then Rouge stopped.

Shadow’s steps faltered without question. Like instinct. Like second nature. He turned toward her, eyebrows slightly raised, gaze questioning.

Rouge didn’t look at him. She was already facing ahead, arms light with shopping bags, that glint in her eyes sharpening.

“Well,” she murmured, lips curving into something sly. “Isn’t this interesting?”

Shadow’s expression shifted with slow suspicion, his gaze following hers, trailing across the polished floors and store lights—until it landed on two figures stepping out from the entrance of a clothing shop.

Amy.

And Sonic.

Sonic’s arms were weighed down by pastel shopping bags, likely Amy’s. They were close. Talking, laughing—like nothing existed beyond their shared orbit. Amy’s eyes lit up with something warm and familiar. Sonic’s grin—bright, relaxed, effortless.

Something in Shadow twitched. His jaw locked. His hands curled slowly in the pockets of his jacket.

Rouge, without looking at him, tilted her head with a teasing smile—one that barely masked how much she was watching him from the corner of her eye.

And they walked. Closer.

Shadow’s gaze didn’t move from Sonic. Not once.

And Sonic—suddenly caught him.

Their eyes met like a pulled thread between two distant ends.

Sonic’s steps slowed. Amy’s voice faltered mid-sentence as she looked up, following his line of sight. The four of them now stood not too far apart. And when Amy saw who it was, her face instantly bloomed with recognition.

“Rouge!” she beamed, bright and open and too familiar. Her voice carried over the chatter of the mall like sunlight cutting through fog.

Rouge smiled smoothly. “Hey there, pinkie pie.”

Shadow didn’t move. His eyes still locked on Sonic. And Sonic—he gave a crooked little grin. One that tried to be warm, tried to be casual, but Shadow could tell. It didn’t quite reach his eyes. It felt… off. Like there was something Sonic wasn’t saying.

Amy shifted her gaze then, landing gently on Shadow. “Hey, Shadow!” she said, her voice soft, like she meant it. “Rouge and Sonic have told me a lot about you.”

That caught him.

Shadow blinked—first at Amy, then at Sonic, and finally, slowly, at Rouge.

Rouge met his unimpressed stare with one of those looks. Knowing. Innocent, but never really innocent.

Shadow exhaled through his nose, annoyed already by whatever picture they had painted of him. He could only imagine.

His gaze returned to Amy, his voice flat but not unkind. “Amy,” he said, offering a single nod in acknowledgment.

“So,” Rouge started casually, her tone sweet like honey but laced with mischief, “what are you guys doing here?”

Neither of them had time to answer.

“You two on a date?” she added, smiling like she hadn’t just dropped a bomb in the middle of a minefield.

The reactions came immediately.

Sonic flinched back, sputtering out a string of awkward, stumbling no’s. Amy just laughed, the kind of easy laugh that bounced off the polished mall tiles like wind chimes. Shadow didn’t say a word.

But Rouge noticed.

She always noticed.

The slight stiffening of his shoulders. The way his jaw clenched just slightly tighter. The silence that said more than a thousand words ever could.

“Rouge,” Amy said with a breathy laugh, waving a hand dismissively. “You know we’re not dating.”

Then, with a grin tugging on her lips, she leaned in toward Rouge and brought a hand up like she was sharing some great secret. “He likes someone else anyway,” she whispered, nodding toward Sonic with a playful thumb. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Rouge chuckled knowingly, and Amy followed. The sound was soft, light, harmless.

But it made something in Sonic shift. He furrowed his brows. “What does that even mean, Amy?”

But the latter only giggled again.

And with them—quiet, still, trying not to feel too much—Shadow’s fists slowly, unconsciously, began to unclench inside his jacket pockets.

He blinked.

Something loosened. Something that had been wound far too tight. Like a rope tugged too hard finally giving slack. He didn’t understand the weight that had suddenly lifted—but he felt it. The tension in his chest eased just enough to make him breathe deeper.

He cleared his throat quietly and dropped his gaze to the floor.

Rouge and Amy had already drifted into a different conversation—something about a new boutique on the third floor, all limited-edition and overpriced pink nonsense. Their voices blended into the mall noise: distant chatter, distant laughter, far from where Shadow’s mind was.

Because he hadn’t moved on from that stupid, offhand comment Amy made.

He likes someone else anyway.

It rang in his ears like an echo he couldn’t shut off.

If Sonic didn’t like Amy at all, then why did it feel like he had forgotten all about Shadow? Like their shared moments last week—those quiet exchanges, that false closeness Shadow crafted so carefully—meant absolutely nothing now.

If Sonic didn’t like Amy at all, why did he keep looking at her like that? Soft. Gentle. Like his eyes were stuck on her and didn’t want to look anywhere else.

If it wasn’t Amy… then who?

Shadow didn’t even realize he was holding his breath until Rouge’s voice cut sharply through his spiraling.

“We’ll be back in a while,” she said over her shoulder, casual and light.

Before he could respond, she was already walking away—Amy beside her, their arms linked.

He didn’t even get a word in. Just watched them make their way toward the escalator, the crowd parting for them like they belonged in it more than he ever would.

And then, right before she vanished up the escalator, Rouge glanced back at him and winked.

It wasn’t friendly. It was scheming.

Shadow exhaled sharply through his nose, unable to make sense of whatever she was planning now.

He shook his head, then remembered—Sonic.

He was still standing there.

Shadow turned, gaze heavy as it settled on him, finally breaking from the shadows of his own thoughts.

Then, without a word, Sonic moved toward a nearby bench and dropped into the seat with a tired sigh, the shopping bags he’d been carrying settling onto the floor beside his feet.

Shadow lingered for a moment, watching.

“You gonna sit, or just stand there like a mannequin?” Sonic said without looking up, a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth. His arms relaxed, hands draped loosely over his lap.

With a quiet exhale, Shadow walked over and took the spot beside him. Not close. Not far. Just enough space for silence to sit between them.

The quiet that followed wasn’t exactly awkward—but it wasn’t easy either.

Shadow kept his gaze straight ahead, fingers faintly twitching inside his pockets. Sonic’s fingers tapped absently against the bench between them—offbeat, like nerves trying to pretend they weren’t nerves.

Then, for some reason, Shadow turned.

And Sonic was already looking at him.

Their eyes met.

And everything stilled.

The noise of the mall faded. The distant sounds of a cashier laughing, of a child whining, of heels clacking against tiles—gone. It was just them. Just that stare.

Shadow forgot how to breathe.

Sonic wasn’t smiling. Not yet. His expression was unreadable, like even he didn’t know why he was staring so long. His eyes didn’t flinch away. They just stayed. Searching. Soft. Too soft.

“…What?” Shadow asked, voice low, unsure.

Sonic blinked, like waking up, and immediately smirked. “Nothing,” he said, too fast. “Just… there’s a chili dog stand behind you.”

Shadow didn’t move.

Sonic pointed vaguely behind him.

Shadow turned slowly, like he had to remember how to move again. And there it was. A lonely chili dog stand tucked behind a corner. Real. Tangible.

He rolled his eyes. “Right.”

He shifted in his seat like he needed to shake something off—his shoulders, his thoughts, something. But it clung.

Sonic let out a small laugh. Nervous. He looked down at the floor. His leg bounced a little.

And still, the silence pressed in again.

The mall noise returned like static—voices rising, footsteps echoing, distant music looping overhead—but none of it reached Shadow.

All Shadow could hear was the steady tap of Sonic’s fingers against the bench. That rhythm, soft and thoughtless, was all he could focus on.

And yet, it wasn’t what unsettled him.

It was the way Sonic looked at him when he thought Shadow wasn’t paying attention. Like there was something unspoken behind his eyes. Like he wasn’t just looking—he was searching.

Shadow shifted in his seat, jaw tightening.

He didn’t like this feeling. The confusion, the warmth, the relief that had clawed its way into his chest when Amy had said they weren’t together. He didn’t understand why it mattered so much—why the knot in his stomach had started to loosen after that.

This wasn’t supposed to matter.

Sonic had always been loud, persistent, annoying. He’d always sat beside Shadow, always hovered too close, always smiled like they shared a secret Shadow wasn’t let in on. But none of it had ever mattered—not until now.

And he hated that it did.

This plan was meant to be easy. Just a game of control. But now, his footing felt unsteady. His chest felt too tight. And every time Sonic smiled, it tugged at something Shadow had tried so hard to keep untouched.

He refused to name it.

Because if he did—if he let himself truly acknowledge what he was feeling—then one day, it might actually be real.

And that terrified him more than anything.

Week Three needed to be executed without distractions. He had to pull himself together. He needed to reset, get back to the goal. Back to control. Back to what this was supposed to be.

Anything but this.