It all started with an argument on some forgotten forum. A casual debate about principles, about speed, about the meaning of power. Shadow, cool and logical, scribbled detailed tirades. His opponent, under the nickname "BlueBlur," countered with bold, short phrases that exasperated him with their impenetrable confidence.

Then the dispute moved to private messages. The sharp hairpins softened. There were "Hi, how are you?" at three o'clock in the morning, when both could not sleep. Music exchange ("Are you listening to this? You have terrible taste, hedgehog"). Photo: Sonic sent captured sunsets over the sea on the run, and Shadow responded with clear, rigorous images of stars through a telescope. Their worlds were polar, but the line of contact was surprisingly long.

Then the first call. Sonic's voice turned out to be a little higher than imagined, and infinitely alive. He was laughing, and Shadow, to his horror, found himself quietly grinning back at the dark window of his empty apartment. First there was the voice, then the video calls, confused and awkward at first. "Damn, are your spikes really that sharp?"—"And your red stripes are just paint?"

And one day, on one of those nights, there was silence. Not awkward, but full, ringing. And Shadow, looking at the pixelated, slightly blurred image of a smiling blue hedgehog on the screen, understood. He's realized that this craving, this desire to constantly check my phone, this feeling of emptiness when it's not online, is not just attachment. It's more than that. And judging by the unusually soft, almost timid look from behind the screen, he was not alone.

"See you in the summer” — Sonic said, and it sounded like a vow.

And here it is, summer.

It's not perfect, it's drizzling fine, nasty rain in the morning. Shadow stands under the canopy of a bus stop on the outskirts of the Central City, where even tourists rarely visit. The place was his idea—a neutral, deserted area. He is in his usual pose: crossed arms, straight posture, impassive face. But inside there is a quiet hell.

He remembers every word, every laugh, every pixel. And now the bus with the flight "From Station Square" is about to arrive. He will be in it. Not a picture. Not a voice. And Sonic is whole, alive, breathing, smelling of rain and speed. Shadow squeezes her hand in her pocket, feeling her fingertips tremble slightly with excitement. He hates this weakness. And at the same time, he's waiting for this moment in a way he hasn't waited for anything since Mary. Yellow headlights appeared in the distance, behind a curtain of rain. Bus. Everything. The finale of digital foreplay. The beginning of something real.