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Sarada hated to cry. But she also loved it. It was a contradiction that she couldn’t help but have and one that she was positive that no one else would understand. Crying was simple, she found that the wetness of tears flooded her eyes far too easily for a ninja. Watching depressing movies with her mother always lead to the two kunoichi into each others arms, sobbing like children. And Sarada loved it. The rush of relief which flooded her when she was finally able to lift the latch on her emotions and just let them overwhelm her tiny body.
But perhaps, the best part about crying, were the rare moments when her papa was home and would scoop her up high into the crook of his single arm and cloak her in the warmth of his dark cape. Sarada loved being cocooned by the robe which made him appear so tall and mysterious, it smelled of the woods and fresh water; it smelled just like her papa.
Burying her face in the man’s vast chest that seemed to expand for miles, Sarada would sniffle sadly over whatever atrocity she had faced that day, wither it be Bolt’s insensitive teasing or a scene of disaster that had stayed on her mind after a mission. And her papa would just rock her softly like she was an infant again. He hardly spoke a word while Sarada’s tears still flowed. This was easy to misunderstand, many people simply thought Sasuke snobbish or arrogant when in reality he was a master of stringing words. The syllables always reminded Sarada of rich syrup when they rolled of his tongue, smooth and deliberately. He always knew when to interject and what to say. He never participated in smalltalk and he always spoke with purpose. Sarada often wondered how people could misunderstand her father so much. Hearing them talk, hearing them whisper about him, they were all so wrong and so very ignorant.
Those people, they didn’t feel his strength, they didn’t see his kindness, they didn’t know her papa the way she did. They could never understand the comfort of being held like a precious gem while crying softly into his shirt or the gentle pressure of his hand stroking her back while Sarada heaved with sobs. They would never see that side of him or understand that even the Uchiha heiress sometimes just needed to have a good cry on her papa’s shoulder.
The weight of endless expectation was always pressing down on her, always seeming to grow heavier and heavier with each passing day. Sometimes Sarada just wanted to run away and travel the world with her papa. He always seemed serene and content. Sarada wanted that too. She wanted to be able cry on his soft cotton shirts more than just once every few months when he came for a visit.
But she couldn’t. Sarada had responsibilities, she understood that. And so she would wait for her papa to return on those boggy summer evenings when the moon shined the brightest. She would hold it all in until she saw his dark figure approaching, bouncing lightly down the paved roads of Konoha. When he finally arrived at their door, shadowed by the weight of his journeys and heavy exhaustion, she would let all the emotions that she had kept tightly bottled surface and run straight into his chest.
Sometimes a girl just needed to cry. And Sarada hated it but she also loved it.