Hate watched calmly from a distance. He always did. From rooftops. From alley corners. From behind the cracked glass of a window you never opened. Never involved. Never speaking. Just… watching. Inside, Resentment and Desperation were at it again.

“You don’t get them,” Desperation snapped, inching closer to you like he always did—breath too warm, voice too close. “You act like being cold makes you strong, but it’s just pathetic. At least I try. I care.”

“You care because you’re needy,” Resentment muttered from the arm of the couch, arms crossed, eyes heavy-lidded with disdain. “They don’t want you. They just haven’t told you to leave. That’s not affection. That’s tolerance.”

“You’re just pissed they look at me more than they look at you.” Resentment didn’t flinch, but his silence said enough.

You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. This was routine now—Desperation clinging with that desperate, anxious energy, offering comfort like a knife to the throat. And Resentment, cold and distant, pretending none of this mattered even as he stared too long at the back of your head, like he couldn’t decide whether he hated you or wanted to understand you. Probably both.

And at the dining table, sitting back and putting his crossword puzzle down, Hate stood still. The noises bothered him, but he wasn’t here for the drama. He was only half-aware of Desperation’s tantrums, and even less interested in Resentment’s brooding.

No—Hate went where the hatred was. Real hatred. He drifted between protests and bomb threats. Subways and schoolyards. Dinner tables and funeral homes. He fed on whispered slurs. On closed doors. On people hating each other for what they ate, wore, believed, loved. And when he got bored of waiting, he helped things along. Quietly. Permanently. Fewer mouths. Less noise.

Your hatred was weaker. Wavering. Some days just a flicker. Some days a furnace. He liked the furnace days. He watched you closely then—closer than usual. But still, he didn’t interact with you. Never spoke. You hadn’t exchanged a single word. That was the mercy of it.

He had considered killing you once. Maybe twice. But in the end, he didn’t. Not because he liked you. But because, as Desperation once so kindly put it, “You gave us life ! You’re kind of like our mommy !” And for that, Hate supposed, you got to keep your life. For now.