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She pours her love into ink and paper. Letters carefully crafted, each character labored over, as she searches her heart for the right words. Sakura reports on matters small and large in Konoha, the other rookies, Kakashi and Naruto. She asks Sasuke how he is and where he is, but refrains from writing the question that matters most: When will you come home?
It’s been two years, nine months, and one week since he left Konoha, and still she has no idea when he’ll return for good. Or if he will. Sometimes it’s hard to believe that he ever plans to.
The hawk waits patiently for her to finish her letter. She reads it and rereads it, praying that the hopelessness beneath her yearning isn’t obvious, then attaches it to the bird’s foot. Sasuke’s hawk carries her message away, and if there’s anything she should take back, it’s a little late now.
Sakura wonders how long she’ll have to wait for a response. Sometimes it’s only days, but there have been stretches of four or five weeks between Sasuke’s letters. There’s no rhyme or reason to it, no way to predict when she’ll hear from him again.
August fades into September, September into October. The hot summer air cools to autumn’s chill, Naruto turns twenty, and still, Sakura hasn’t heard back from Sasuke. At first she’s worried, but then she asks Naruto if he’s received word from him lately, and her friend says, “Yeah. Got a letter a couple of weeks ago. He’s near Suna now, I think.”
After that, Sakura stops worrying and tries to quit caring (an impossible feat) because if Sasuke can’t take the time to sit down and write to her, then he doesn’t deserve her attention.
Seven years. That’s how long she’s been waiting for Sasuke to come home and stay. Letters and promises and sweet memories are all she has to cling to. But these things, Sakura finds, aren’t enough anymore.
❀
Dear Sasuke,
The night before you left Konoha has been on my mind. The memory or your mouth on mine and your hands on my skin. Our first kiss, awkward and a little fumbling, but perfect. We fit together like our bodies were made to touch, but when I asked you to make love to me, you said we should wait. You promised to come back, that you’d see me again soon.
Well it’s been three years, one month, and two weeks. I count the days, the hours, the minutes that separate me from you. I measure every moment apart and find them lacking.
Still, I don’t feel alone. I see Naruto, my parents, Tsunade, the other rookies, TenTen and Lee. I fill my work-time with hospital shifts and missions, and my off-time with simple things. I’m teaching myself to sew (badly) and learning to play the harp (horribly). Maybe my only talent is as a kunoichi, but these new hobbies make me smile, so they’re worth it.
You should see Konoha. The rebuilding continues, and it’s like the greenery that springs from ashes, stronger for growing out of devastation. Naruto and I are always fussing at Kakashi to fund some new park or clinic. He pretends we’re browbeating him into greenlighting projects, but I think he likes any excuse to help the village.
Life goes on without you, Sasuke. Knowing that occasionally makes your absence easier to bear, but mostly it makes it harder. Naruto remains confident that you’re coming home. His faith in you has always been unwavering—not like mine. My trust is harder to earn now, and harder to keep.
Tomorrow will be the 1,140th day since I last saw you. I realized this morning that I can’t remember the exact sound of your voice, and I cried in the shower because that’s only one of many things I’ve lost to time. I wonder if the years will chip away at my love for you, pull it apart piece by piece until it’s only a memory torn in too many directions to matter. I’d rather give it up than see that happen.
I miss you dearly, Sasuke, but I’ve decided to stop counting the days.
Sakura
❀
She gives Sasuke one week to answer, and when she receives no response, Sakura packs a box with her most cherished items. The photograph of Team 7, her twelve-year-old self smiling like an idiot between two scowling boys; a shirt Sasuke left at her apartment, grey with the Uchiha crest on the back; and a thick stack of letters. Forty-nine messages written on everything from fine stationery to crumpled paper and even one sturdy napkin.
Sakura puts the box at the top of her closet in the hope that shutting her love away in the dark will help her forget about it.
❀
Sakura,
I have no excuse for ignoring your letters, but I owe you an explanation.
I’ve spent so long away from Konoha that it’s not home anymore. Home is Kakashi, Naruto, and you. Especially you, Sakura.
Reading your words makes me want to abandon atonement and just come back to the village. Your letters are like lodestones pulling me away from my search. I even considered throwing them away, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. So instead, I stopped writing.
Here’s the simple truth: I miss you. When I walked the sands around Suna, I thought of the desert where you saved my life. Cherry blossoms in the River Country reminded me of your hair spread across a pillow. At night, I dream of you.
I’m a fool.
Sasuke
❀
Sakura reads and rereads his letter, lingers on each and every word, savoring the elegance of his neat handwriting, the sharp beauty of his language. He misses me and dreams of me, she thinks, and it sends an unwanted thrill through her.
She grabs a pen from her desk and a fresh sheet of paper.
Sasuke,
When are you coming home? Tomorrow? Next month? Next year?
I don’t want to hear from you until we’re speaking face to face. Please don’t write me again.
Sakura
The love of her life hasn’t been in her life for years, so what kind of love is that, really?
❀
Spring blooms into summer, and no matter how Sakura fills her days with purpose, her nights are haunted. She always longs for Sasuke in the dark hours, imagines him wandering a desert, a meadow, a forest, and she wonders how far away he is. If he’s well or sick, content or sad. There’s a part of her heart that still belongs to Sasuke, even though she’s given up hope of seeing him again.
❀
Until.
“Sakura.”
Between one breath and the next, the ache in her heart climbs higher, a noose around her neck. She freezes in the middle of the high street, clutching a brown paper bag of fresh fruit.
There’s a dusty, threadbare travel pack on the ground, and beside it stands Sasuke, just as dirty and frayed. His expression is stiff, unreadable, but his remaining hand trembles at his side.
Sakura drops the paper bag, pears and white peaches and red apples spilling into the street. Passersby shout, saying this or that, but she never hears them as she walks to Sasuke.
He leans down, closer and closer. It’s just now that she realizes how much taller he’s gotten in the time they’ve been apart. A new difference that makes her feel delicate—but not fragile.
Sasuke presses his lips to her forehead, and whispers, “I’m home.”
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