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The scissors made a sound Goob didn’t recognize right away—snip, snip—quick and sharp, like a joke without a punchline.
He blinked. “Huh? What’re you doing?” Shrimpo didn’t answer. Shrimpo’s eyes were cold, angry maybe, like Goob’s softness had been an inconvenience he finally cleaned up.
Then: one final snip.
Goob felt it before he saw it—the sudden breeze curling against his skin, the strange lightness where his warmth used to be.
A piece of his fur floated to the floor like a wilted petal.
Then another.
And another.
He turned his head. More tufts littered the floor in uneven clumps. The air smelled like metal and fabric, like something gone wrong.
His hand flew to his head. Then his arms. His chest. Uneven. Shorn. Wrong.
The softness was gone. Almost all of it.
Shrimpo stepped back, dropping the scissors like trash.
“There. No fluff, no hugs, no problem.”
And just like that, he left. No glance back. No laugh. Just silence—and Goob’s quiet breathing, starting to shake.
-
The door was shut. Locked, maybe. Or maybe it just felt that way.
Goob curled into the corner of his bed, clutching the clumps of fur Shrimpo had cut like it was a stuffed animal. His eyes were puffy. He hadn’t looked in a mirror—he didn’t need to.
His breath hiccupped between sobs, slow and hot against his arms. He’d tried hugging his pillow earlier. It didn’t feel the same.
“No one’s gonna want to hug something like this…”
“People used to say I gave the best hugs. Said it felt like napping in a cloud.”
“I’m just a mess now. Not soft. Not Safe. Not… not anything.”
He pulled his knees tighter to his chest and tried again—just one little self-hug. His fingers pressed into the patch. It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t him.
“What’s the point of being fluffy if it makes people hate you?”
His voice cracked. No one answered.
A soft knock. Three taps. Not too loud. Not too pushy.
“Goob?” Scraps.
Goob’s face was still damp with tears, but he wiped it off quickly as if the mess didn’t matter. He didn’t want anyone to see. He didn’t want anyone to know.
He sat up straighter. Scrambled to cover the cut patch with his hand. Maybe if he sat like this long enough, the world would stop feeling so heavy. Maybe it would just go away.
The door creaked open anyway.
Scraps stood in the doorway, paint on her sleeves, worry in her eyes. She scanned the room, found him tucked into the corner like laundry someone forgot to fold.
She stepped in slowly. Didn’t say a word.
She didn’t ask what happened. She didn’t gasp at the uneven fur. She just sat at the edge of the bed, not close enough to touch. Not yet.
Goob turned his face away.
And still, Scraps stayed—quiet, present, waiting.
Goob sniffled once. Twice. Then pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, making sure it covered the uneven patch. His voice came out small and scratchy. “M’fine. Just tired.”
Scraps didn’t call him on it.
She looked around the room—at the tiny pile of cut fur on the floor, at the limp friendship bracelets draped on his desk, at the turned-away face of her brother pretending not to fall apart.
“Okay,” she said. Soft. Gentle. “I’ll stay a little, then.”
She didn’t ask again.
She just stayed.
Time passed in silence, warm and aching. Goob didn’t cry anymore, but he didn’t move either.
Scraps was still sitting there when Goob’s voice finally cracked open again. “...he really meant it, y’know.”
She looked up.
Goob continued. “Shrimpo. He said I’m not worth hugging anymore. That… without the fluff, I’m just annoying.”
His fingers clutched the edge of the blanket tighter. He didn’t look at her. His voice got smaller.
“I think he’s right.”
Scraps’ expression didn’t shift. But her fingers curled into fists in her lap, quiet and restrained. After a long beat, she said:
“I don’t hug fluff, Goob.”
He finally turned to look at her.
“I hug you.”
Silence.
Tears welled again—but this time, Goob didn’t bury his face. He let them fall.
And after a few long seconds, he whispered:
“Do you… still want a hug?”
A long pause. He looked at her knees. His chest aches—tight, embarrassed, afraid—until he felt her arms again.
Slow and careful, like she was rebuilding something delicate, her arms circled his shoulders with the warmth he thought he’d lost.
She tucked her chin lightly against the top of his head, uneven fur and all, and pulled him close like nothing had changed.
“Always. You’re still the most huggable thing in this room,” Scraps said.
Goob sniffled, mumbling into her shoulder. “Even with the patches?”
“Especially with the patches.”