Forgiveness

Sakura's heel clicked softly on the spotless white tiles of the hospital hallway. The newly cleaned and polished tiles were an unfamiliar, but refreshing sight to her eyes, which had seen well over their fair share of dirty frantic footprints and blood. The air smelled strongly of a mixture of lemony cleaning agent and chloride—anything to wipe the scent of blood, she supposed. The war had ended a little over six days ago and she hadn't slept a full night since. Shizune had scolded her on multiple occasions on the dark bags beneath her eyes and the way she stumbled here and there, but she remained firm in holding her scalpels when it came time. But truth be told, she simply could not find sleep. Either she would wake up in a cold sweat after a few hours, the sight of blood and screaming still splattered across her retina, or sleep would evade her entirely. The rebuilding process was slowly picking up, starting with the rebuilding of bodies. The hospital had been filled to the brim with war survivors, civilian and shinobi both. Of course, the most intense of injuries had taken place during the first few days and the remainder of the week had been dedicated to less threatening wounds. Despite being a medic ninja, Sakura could have never prepared herself for the past few days. Celebration was a privilege not bestowed upon the various villages' medical units, as there was too much to heal and too little time. What was another ounce of sleep compared to a child whose mother depended on your operation alone? Celebration would come in time, after the mending and mourning. Tsunade herself, being tied up with the hospital operations too had declared a week-long period of official mourning before moving onto reparations.

Sakura glanced at a nearby clock. 3:04 am. She had just finished her last shift and had roughly 6 hours and 56 minutes until her next one. Maybe she would take a nap in the shared lounge, if there was a spot open. She passed by another hospital staff and the two nodded in acknowledgement. Audible greetings were reserved to those who had the time and energy.

But before she could rest, or at least attempt to, she had one more destination. The route was all too familiar with her now. Third floor, turn right, 47 tiles down, and there it was. Room 317. His room. She readied her breathing, already knowing that it would stop in a bit. It always did when she saw him. She opened the door quietly and slipped in, needing not to worry about intruding. He had few visitors. Naruto himself was still unconscious. Kakashi came and went in the afternoons, usually. He would sit for a bit, read his book, and give her the same knowing stare whenever she walked by, her emerald eyes piercing through the glass window just a millisecond too long. But it was the middle of the night, and nobody but hospital staff would be up. And nobody would question her entering the room, she was sure. She was probably an ordinary sight by now. Too many of her breaks had she been in this room. And even when she was off the clock, she would be here.

But for what purpose?

He, like Naruto, had been unconscious ever since the war's end. The damage on his body and mind too tremendous a burden for conscious awareness. And here she was, just like old times, by both their sides. She would of course visit Naruto, but as the war hero and soon-to-be-legend, he had an overwhelming amount of visitors. She made sure to slip in once in a while just to check in on him. But a trickle of guilt would seep into her being every minute more she spent in his room than Naruto's. After all, what right did she have to still care so deeply for a man that barely acknowledged her prowess throughout their time together? Whereas Naruto had been there thick and thin for her. Especially her, since she was his only remaining teammate for a while. But Naruto was like that with anyone. Always so supporting, always looking up. A complete opposite from the man in front of her.

He was lying on the hospital cot, in the same form as always. The only suggestions to his life were the steady up and down movement of his chest and the accompanying heart monitor's dim flashes. He looked as beautiful to her as ever. And for this she despised herself.

For what right did she have to still feel this way? She was no longer one to blindly obsess over him. That was years ago and she was now years wiser and years stronger. Without him there, she had found strength within herself. She had built herself up on her own accord, pushed her limits and built herself up higher than she would have ever thought possible. She remembered the sleepless nights in which she spent the hours reviving a near dead fish just to master the art of healing. She remembered the ripping of her muscles as she indulged in traditional strength training. All of this she accomplished herself to prove to herself that she was strong and that she was worthy. But of course, she wanted to prove to him of her worth as well. She would be lying to herself had she told herself that his return and acknowledgement wasn't something she still sought after.

As one of the brightest kunoichis of her generation, she knows that logic fails in answering her resolve. There is no reason for her to need to prove anything to anyone, especially him. There is no reason for her to still care about her former teammate who was obsessed over beating Naruto to even look her way. But she still feels the fluttering of her heart whenever he is mentioned. And she still catches her breath every time she sees him. And the rapid beating of her heart as she approached his bedside was testament to something that perhaps even logic cannot explain. And with that, she accepts the self-loathing if it means to bask in his presence for just a bit longer. Perhaps it was because she was a medic. Perhaps she had so ingrained in her system the refusal to give up until the dying breath.

She sits on the cold metal chair beside him and presses her hand against his forehead. He was stable, as usual, and it would probably be only a matter of days before he would wake. His face was calm, something she is still getting accustomed to. His dark hair had grown out since she last saw him before the war, and he had more scars—recent, according to the dark coloration. But he was still beautiful, and Sakura knew that to her, he would remain the pinnacle of perfection until her very last breath.

She held his hand in hers and lay her head atop his chest. And finding the steady of her heart, she allowed the newfound solace to lull her into sleep—just for a while at least.

A warm and steady stroking of her hair brought her back into the dim room. She let her eyes adjust to the lighting and remained in her position, not wanting the comforting gesture to stop. Was she still dreaming?

"Sakura…"

His voice was a bullet that shattered her glass countenance. Grabbing a hold of the erratic rhythm of her frantic heart, she remembered her situation and position, but she couldn't tear herself away for fear of breaking the impossible dream.

"I'm sorry."

It was almost a whisper but it nearly deafened her. Because in that whisper were the thoughts and emotions she had yearned to know existed for so long. And it was real.

And with that, she slowly lifted her head up to meet the eyes that had plagued her for years. And in them she finally found the grain of hope she had been searching so long for.

And so, to forgive him, she began to forgive herself.