There is only the whispered hush of his words, drifting through the night air. This time Sakura doesn't fall gracefully at all, and he isn't there to catch her. For Sasuke, only the clenched feeling in his chest is the same, like his is trapped in the grasp of some invisible fist, cracking him open until the contents of his heart spill out.
There are the same leaden footsteps echoing on the cobblestones, the same empty face and clouded eyes. When he clears the crest of the hill over looking Konoha, true to form he looks back at the village his family has shattered three times now.
The rasping breath is different, and Sasuke wonders if it is because he'll never return here again or because he feels like there is part of him lying on a street next to an old park bench. He thinks of those last whispered words-would you die with me? - And of broken promises, of cherry blossoms and painted fans.
The rough feel of scars crisscrossing his palms does not comfort him as usual. He has always taken a sick pleasure in running his fingers over the bands of stiffened flesh, testing how far he can take himself. Pain has always been a tool of his own shaping, one he has never hesitated to use. But tonight there are questions to be answered, questions Sasuke has asked himself for over a year. He's answered the first one-he just wishes he didn't feel broken already.
Just like before, Sasuke wonders why he wants to cry as the sun crawls over Konoha's sprawled buildings and glints softly against his perfect and not perfect headband. And just like before he ignores the burning in his eyes to turn and walk away.