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In front of Sasuke Uchiha, there sits a paper. It’s on top of a table in his living room, and he happens to be sitting in a chair there. Sasuke grimaces at how empty the paper is. There is a pen in his hand, an idea in his head, and yet nothing comes out—it’s all sub-par, woefully unmoving. And really, what kind of husband is he if he can’t even write a note to his wife proclaiming how much he loves her?
Sasuke remembers being seven and winning a creative writing competition with such excruciating detail. He can remember the pride he felt. He remembers when he even, ever so briefly, entertained the thought of maybe not becoming a Shinobi and becoming a writer instead. And then his life had shattered in front of his eyes, and his love of words was a shard that had been left behind.
Surely Sasuke hasn’t completely forgotten? Surely he can channel just a bit of his genius, even if it’s the last of it, for his dear Sakura? He shouldn’t be as disappointed as he is when he realizes that he can’t. After all, hasn’t he long since learned that, while he’s an extraordinary Shinobi, he’s barely passable in every other way? Despondent, he stands, about to throw the paper away—how stupid of him for even trying to do something like this—but then words ring through his head.
His brother’s voice is young in his head, which makes sense because what Sasuke hears is a memory of Itachi Uchiha carefully instructing him. “Creativity is a discipline just as much as an art,” the voice says. “Sometimes ideas won’t just magically come to you. You have to work towards them. You have to plan. You have to be meticulous. Do you understand, Sasuke?” And Sasuke, despite being seven-years-old, had. He listened to his brother talking so deeply to him for the first time in forever (and it would be the last time that Itachi had such a calm, harmless conversation with him). He had used his advice and won a writing competition.
Why can’t Sasuke do that now? He can. He can brainstorm ideas. He can plan a letter. He can do this.
So Sasuke sits back down and writes five words at the top of the paper: “Things I love about Sakura.” And so it begins.
These come to him easily. “She’s brave.” So brave. She stood up against Genin who she knew she probably couldn’t beat all alone. She fought tooth and nail to get him back. She had done so much and Sasuke is ashamed to say that he wasn’t there to see it all.
Sasuke continues. “She’s kind.” She forgave him for leaving her, for rejecting her, for using her. She never let him completely leave, and she was always by his side, even when he couldn’t see her.
“She’s talented.” The apprentice of Tsunade Senju. The top medic in Konohagakure—possibly the world at this point. The woman who can destroy her house with little effort, completely on accident.
“She’s smart.” Graduated near the top of the class. She knew the answer to every exam question on the Chunin Exams when it was intentionally designed to be unbearably hard. She knew more than both her teammates combined.
“She’s beautiful.” How can he forget? He almost doesn’t write it down because it’s such a given. Not that everything else isn’t—it’s just that, when Sasuke sees Sakura every day, he sees her ruby lips and emerald and sunset hair. He sees it all. And, while he’s on house arrest, Sakura continues to go about her business as the head of the hospital, and when she comes home, they stay quiet together. He knows she’s smart, he hears it, but when she’s home, they just stay together, sometimes not saying a word.
This brings him to his next one: “She’s dependable.” Sometimes, he feels like he’s still a terrible person. A husband who can’t help provide for his family. A lover who broke his beloved’s heart. A friend who has forsaken all those close to him. But Sakura is always there, and she never wavers, never hesitates, to tell him that he’s not terrible. That he is a decent human being. That he deserves love and compassion. (And, these days, it’s getting easier and easier to believe her. Sometimes he even does so without any conscious effort. It makes him feel so happy that Sakura can feel it, because she always smiles back at him like he’s the sun who has finally decided to come out after an eternal night.)
The list goes on and on. Sakura is wonderful in every way of the word, and her flaws (does she have any? Surely she does—no human can be flawless. Well, maybe she’s just a goddess) never seem to make themselves known. Sasuke feels exhilarated as he writes. He goes on and on and has to use the back of the page, and then another. He writes adjectives and anecdotes and words filled with such reverence that they make him giddy. He loves every second of it.
In the end, though, his smile melts off of his place. Because all he has in front of him are five sheets of paper filled with complete and utter nonesense, chaos that he could never give to Sakura while expecting her to be grateful. He can barely read his own handwriting. He starts sentences that he never finishes, he makes predicates that have nothing to do with their subjects—he’s not even sure if half of these anecdotes that he’s written ever actually happened or if they’re just fever dreams from the foggy days of his life in Konoha’s prison cell. With a sinking feeling, Sasuke Uchiha confirms his suspicions: he has failed. Spectacularly, too.
There’s an ugly, gnawing feeling seeping into his chest. He’s been feeling it less and less since Sakura’s been easing him off of the mandatory “medicine” he’s been taking, but now it’s coming back. In full force, too. He doesn’t like it when it happens—he feels like his chest is compressing him and he can’t do anything about it. So, Sasuke takes a sleeping pill, lays himself down on the couch, and forces himself to drift away; his task is incomplete but he can’t bring himself to do anything about it.
A failure as always.
Sakura Uchiha comes home with a smile on her face and flowers in her hand. Well, her right hand, that is—her left is holding a bouquet of flowers that she had gotten from Ino Yamanaka’s flower shop. At a discount, too—not only was it Valentine’s Day, but Ino had winked at her and said, “How could I give such a price to my beautiful friend trying to give flowers to her lovely husband?”
Sakura had thanked her, and now she is home. Carefully, she rings the doorbell, expecting the door to be opened as promptly as usual. This, however, does not happen. Instead, Sakura finds herself standing on her own front porch, getting increasingly agitated before she finally puts her stuff down and opens the door herself. Inside, she calls out, “Sasuke, dear, why didn’t you open the door?”
She gets no response, and she feels even more agitated. She then pauses. She takes a deep breath in, then out, then grabs her stuff and locks the door. “I’m home,” she says loudly, once again cheerful after calming herself down. Sasuke’s probably doing something important. In the living room, however, she finds him sprawled across the couch elbow thrown over his face and left leg dangling off. “Sasuke?”
He continues to sleep, and she can hear his quiet snores. On the counter, there is a small bottle of sleeping pills. Sakura frowns. “Had trouble sleeping again?” Sasuke, of course, does not respond. “I brought you chocolate and flowers. You better be grateful when you wake up,” she teases to the sleeping man as she goes to set her things down on the table. She suddenly pauses there when she sees a few sheets of paper.
She glances back at Sasuke, a mischevious smile on her face. “Sasuke, dear,” she purred, “did you write me a love letter?” Giddy, she picks it up, only to frown. At the top, the words “Things I love about Sakura” are big and bolded, and the first few things under that are easy enough to read, but the handwriting progressively gets sloppier and sloppier as the writing continues. As she actually reads the words, her heart flutters.
“She’s brave.” “She’s beautiful.” “She’s never let me down.” “She’s dependable.” “She’s kind.” On and on it goes, and Sakura finds herself reading of events that she was sure he had forgotten, or events she herself had forgotten. Then she comes to a spot that makes her freeze.
“I don’t know why I don’t say I love her more.” It was an inconspicuous sentence—very sweet and touching, actually—but as her eyes continue to scan down the page, she realizes that Sasuke has stopped writing about why she’s amazing. He’s stopped writing adorable little stories. Instead, he writes about how little he’s done for her. He writes about how he doesn’t understand why Sakura doesn’t hate him. And, before she realizes it, Sakura realizes she’s crying.
She’s shaking and heaving ugly sobs, snot coming out of her nose, and she doubts she looks anything close to as beautiful as Sasuke described her right now. His words are disjointed and all over the place, but the sentences that he did manage to make are so beautifully worded that they wound like poetry. And how dare he say such awful things about himself in such a manner? How dare he even think these things?
Sakura has to stumble over to the couch where Sasuke is sleeping, gasping to breathe between her sobs. She collapses on the floor next to him, clenching his hands in her own tightly, and slowly presses a kiss to them. “Sasuke, my love,” she manages to say, “how can you make me cry on Valentine’s Day?” Her tears get on both of their hands but she doesn’t care. “You silly man, why wouldn’t I love you? You deserve this and so much more.” Sasuke deserves so much better than his love in life, and she’s been trying to get him to understand that for a very long time.
Sasuke has yet to agree. So, Sakura cries on. “Sasuke,” she says, “I love you so much. Never forget that.”
Sasuke sleeps on. Eventually, Sakura succumbs to exhaustion next to him.
They’re hand-in-hand, and they stay that way for a good few hours. When Sasuke wakes up, the first thing he sees is Sakura lying next to him—and his heart soars. This, he realizes, is all he needs. This wonderful woman who he doesn’t deserve but will never again push away. This woman and her love.
“Happy Valentine’s Day, Sakura. I love you."
And in her sleep, Sakura smiles.