Conviction. She still called it so. How long could one sustain a fiction, no matter how wonderful? Not a single thread out of place.
*
Sakura never realized when Naruto stopped touching her. No more affectionate arm squeezes, no taking her fingers and gently rubbing them with his calloused hands that always made things look a little less dark. His touch had been as consistent as his idiocy; it perplexed Sakura how she had failed to see it dwindle into nothing.
Perhaps because both had been busy building their fantasies bit by bit.
(They had always been loyal coconspirators).
*
Sakura looked at Sasuke's retreating back, slowly dissolving into a grey dot amidst the spring verdure of the forests. Her left shoulder tingled with the ghost of a feather soft touch, a silent thank you for the bento that had become a ritualistic parting gift.
As she started walking back to her apartment, she wondered why she didn't feel any lonelier at the prospect of his absence.
(Too cruel, too enamored with a vision to have seen the lurching, lingering ghosts faithfully shadowing his path. She was wedded to her ideas; he was wedded to his pain. No room to cram in a semblance of joy.)
*
She'd only wanted to submit her proposals for the new pediatric department.
Naruto's head rested on an angled fist, his eyes closed (mercifully? mercilessly? She didn't know). She found herself pulled towards him as if by gravity.
She knew he wasn't really asleep.
(They had finally come to this.)
Sakura gently traced the whiskers on his cheeks before tilting up his chin and kissing his slightly parted lips.
*
Assured she was gone, Naruto opened his eyes and let out a shaky breath.
The taste of promise still lingered on his mouth.