Words Unspoken

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You never told her you loved her.

Amazing, since you're the last person in the world anyone would have thought was so willing to tarry like that. You've always lived on time not your own; time bought with medicine, treatments that melted the flesh off your already slight frame, and time bought with sheer dumb luck that none of your comrades could claim to have. You knew the value of the years, that life was short (How could you not? By dint of genetics yours was to be much shorter than that of your comrades).

But common sense always flew out the window when you were with her. Cold hard facts never factored into your interactions with her.

You were both so young, with death hanging over both of you. She was in ANBU; even a rookie in ANBU didn't count the viewing of a comrade's corpse as anything strange. You were semi-retired from ANBU because of your illness, operating purely in an administrative and mentoring capacity.

She so rarely smiled, and you always had to fight down your emotions to keep from getting giddy when she did. Her pale, cold features would warm and melt and the cold air suddenly seemed much warmer. She was winter finally yielding to spring, and you were utterly dazzled.

You knew her for two years before you finally got her to laugh. Horrifying, because it was of something you said in your hospital bed, after the first time you started coughing up blood. Genma was in the background, shaken, trying to be calm, and absolutely miffed that you didn't tell him sooner how sick you were. Her laugh was high-pitched and strained, and Genma glowered at you both for even trying to be lighthearted, but it was a laugh in her voice and a smile on your face and for a moment everything seemed like it would be alright.

You never saw her cry. She was capable of locking away emotions and impulses, and sometimes did so unconsciously, and you always wondered if that made her strong or just empty.

She was cold, like ice water, like fresh snowfall. She was remote like the furthest mountain peak. She seemed almost ridiculously fragile, tall and spindly, with long slender arms, long glossy hair, with pale, flawless, porcelain skin and huge liquid eyes, to where holding her was like trying to hold a china doll. You were always afraid of breaking her.

You're not sure at what point you started to love her. It may have been that mission when she saved your skin and you returned the favor five seconds later. It might have been when she tried to cook for the first time in her life (she was raised by the ANBU and cooking skills isn't something an ANBU generally imparts onto another) and it blew up in both your faces, or maybe it was just when she finally acknowledged your presence and said "Hello", but you never really cared about dates.

God knows you wanted to tell her you loved her. But your throat always caught on the words.

You weren't given to romantics (and neither was she), but you were just so stupid about some things.

You were shy.

You thought it wasn't fair to permanently attach someone with everything going for her to someone who was hacking up a whole lot more than a lung, someone who was literally watching their life trickle away from them. You should have gotten her opinion at this point; she could have given you a whole dissertation on how stupid you were.

You couldn't even get the proposal business right. You didn't march down to her apartment in the ANBU complex and ask her; you didn't try to track down next of kin, knowing there were none, to get permission.

Instead, you left the engagement ring sitting on her coffee table, knowing she couldn't miss it, hoping beyond hope that she'd be intelligent enough to know it for what it was.

The next time you saw her, it was across a crowded room in the office building in the ANBU compound. You couldn't be sure, but you thought you caught a gleam of silver and emerald from across the room and you smiled.

You never told her you loved her.

And as the Sand nin's blade of Wind slashes across every inch of your body, rendering you unable even to scream, you now know you never will.