She's a passion-girl, full of words and fire, ready to fight and show them that they're wrong. Look at this heroine, ready to prove her spirit. Cheer for this spunk-electric-girl.

He's an outsider. He doesn't think in spaced-out lines and he frowns whenever he sees a poke ball.

She's standing, feet apart and chin held high, just like a champion. She tell the crowd that those men are wrong, wrong, wrong. She's got the words lined up and the steam to see them through. She believes so much, how can they not believe her?

He walks as if he hasn't found his feet yet, and his eyes shine as if he's seen the world. All he's ever done is care. Perhaps, he cares too much. He's just a book that anyone can open up and edit, so he cocks his head and listens when she speaks.

She scoffs and scorns and snorts because she knows they're bad.

(What's good?)

They're just cruel and tricky villains; their words are nothing but lies, lies, lies and she knows they're wrong.

(She thinks.)

He thinks that she should know the truth. If she loves her pokemon, won't she understand?

Of course she'll understand.

(What is he saying?)

The world is blurring in front of her eyes: lines and lines of what she thought and what is true. He can't, can't, can't be a bad guy, a villain, because he's an innocent and doesn't he love his Pokemon? He must be bad except that he so blatantly is not. He's strange and new, and she can't define him.

(She's always been a finished book, with nothing left to edit.)

Ever since that ride, that one world-flipping sentence, she sees him everywhere, always at the corner of her eye. She doesn't understand how he can act like nothing has changed between them. It makes her question if they're even enemies.

But she's just a girl on a stage and she'll speak her lines with vigor.

His father explained the world to him and he listened. She speaks to him now, and he listens too.

(Sometimes he thinks he's spent his whole life waiting for a time when he won't have to listen to know what to do.)

She makes her choice. She is good; he is bad. She is right; he is wrong. It's the simplest answer and somehow it feels – complicated.

N doesn't think he ever made a choice. It's simple for him, being the hero. Trainers hurt the Pokemon and it needs to stop. There's no place for ambiguity.

(Sometimes she doesn't know why she does the things she does. It's likes she's a record someone set to play.)

He wants to make things better.

She's a hypocrite.

(She spoke of shades of gray but treats the world like it's all black and white.)

His father's laughter strips the world away. The final match is over and he's lost. Everything he thought was true is gone and wrong. His life's a lie: he's just his father's puppet with the strings cut, and he thinks he hates himself.

So he leaves.

(Maybe somewhere in the wide world he'll be able to find himself.)

She watches him go. She shakes hands and accepts congratulations and tells her best friends it's all okay, all smiles and easy victory. Of course, she won, they tell her. She was the hero, after all.

(But weren't there two? She asks herself sometimes. Weren't there always meant to be two?)

He's gone, and she wonders what it means to have a world of only truth, with no ideals to guide it.

Somewhere, he finds an injured pokemon and realize he's not as wrong as he thought.

Her eyes are distant as she says the truth, the one she was never meant to realize.

"I'm not the real hero. And I've never been."

(But no one tells the history books they've got the roles reversed.)