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It’s the little things that get to him the most.
Syaoran understands, intellectually, that this Sakura is not the one he knows. She just doesn’t have enough memories to be. He is also painstakingly coming to terms with the fact that the memories that contain him are gone for good. And even if he wasn’t, the solid block of lukewarm pleasantries and politeness that veils in between them is always there if he dares to forget.
He wouldn’t go far enough to call himself a part of her. He’s, at best, just a tiny star in the shinning constellation that is the princess: If she were extracted from his life there would be little else left, but his removal from Sakura’s memories wouldn’t really interfere with what makes Sakura, well, Sakura .
That is exactly what is missing at the moment. Syaoran can deal with the distant “ syaoran-kun ”s and the questions she once knew the answer to with grace, but sometimes it becomes so painstakingly obvious that it’s not her .
Syaoran is guilty of slipping, he will admit that. He brings these situations onto himself, really, but it’s just difficult to remember to be careful when it’s just the two of them having fun like they always did.
Sakura is slowly recovering her competitive streak, and their quiet afternoon somehow devolved into an impromptu race of four with the princess, Fai-san and Mokona. Her laughter was as contagious as ever and, drunk on its spark, Syaoran fumbled:
He won the race by a short amount, the princess a close second by virtue of pouring her all into it. She took deep breaths behind him, mumbling about the race not being fair. The moment is familiar enough to blind his senses, and the gentle teasing is out of his mouth before he can think of anything other than the way her flushed cheeks make her eyes shine brighter. Fai snorts, adding some gentle teasing of its own about Sakura’s palpable excitement for the friendly competition.
Sakura regarded them oddly for a split second before smiling, telling him that it was a good race and he’s a great athlete. The politeness of it hit him like a stab in the gut. No punch on his arm, no comeback, no complaint about his longer legs. Just taking the defeat in a slightly affronted stride.
Syaoran feels ice crawling around his heart. Sakura has never been slight .
He chances a look at her. Emerald eyes that don't quite shine as they should meet his, and they look at him but don't see him, not really, not ever again—
Syaoran averts his eyes, burned by bitter truths.
His sudden mood shift does not go unnoticed. "Syaoran-kun?" She asks, worry coating her tone.
Even from the spot of grass his eyes are locked into, he can catch the aborted motion of her hand, wanting to reach but not sure if it would be welcome.
Sakura wouldn't hesitate.
And suddenly it's too much . Tears burn against his eyelids as he mutters quick apologies and practically runs away from the field. Fai-san is already smoothing things over as he gets out of their reach.
He collapses against a tree, the battle against tears long since lost. He's angry and he knows he has no right to be, he chose this, he would do it again, anything to save Sakura—
( But it's not her , a voice whispers, cruel and bitter. Not the one you sacrificed for. )
That's unfair too. It is her. ( Not all of her) . She will be Sakura, once more of her feathers get to her. But right now she's a tangible ghost he can't seem to escape.