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In the days that have recently passed, Sakura has learned to follow a routine. She wakes up to the sun in her eyes, casting reaching shadows on her walls through a meticulously washed window; a hand will come up to block the light, another to wipe the residue from her eyes, and soon the heat of the sun is on her back as she rises from a cocoon beneath the covers to shove her feet into droopy, ill-fitting bedroom slippers.
Her knees will creak as she rises. Many of her well-worn joints will crack and pop as she stretches her arms toward the ceiling and tenses her legs—sometimes, it gives her a Charlie horse, but she will just dispel the pain with practiced hands and shuffle off towards the bathroom. Door opened and closed just the same; she takes off her old t-shirt and underwear, and the slippers she put on only seconds ago are kicked to the corner. She leans around to turn the dials in the shower—hot dial 270 degrees to the left, cold dial 92. Maybe it will be 87 on Tuesdays; those had never been her best days, of course.
She shampoos every morning. Conditioning is less frequent, because she avoids giving herself greasy hair, but shampooing has become a consistency since age ten. A long time ago, she took care of her hair obsessively to keep it beautiful for a boy who wouldn't have noticed even if you'd held a kunai to his ever-loving carotid, and then she ended up cutting it for just the same boy. Now, she takes care of it again, only for herself—because it's not like cutting it was symbolic or anything.
She also has four towels she uses in circulation. One is a pale green, another deep burgundy, the third, white, and the last one has a floral pattern with no particular dominant color. She will wrap one around her body, and another for her hair, put back on the rack for the next day's use. Then it is back to her bedroom (nightclothes in the hamper, slippers at the foot of the bed), and she will put on a bra and underwear, her crimson Haruno shirt, black shorts, and her boots. Medic-apron skirt, weapon pouches, a brush through her hair, hiati-ate tied on, and then it is into the kitchen.
Breakfast usually has a little more variety, depending on whether or not she needs to go grocery shopping (that's for Wednesdays only—never Tuesdays, because then she is likely to dent all the soup cans and smoosh all the loaves of bread in her destructive mission towards the ice cream coolers. She's been down that road before)—if she does need to, she'll skip the cabinet rejects and grab a muffin at the shop down the street, and if not, toast and orange juice. She only spends about two minutes on that, because of the super-quick, high-tech toaster she bought with the pretty paycheck from her last A-rank. She pops her keys into her apron (don't think she keeps only her medical tools in there, you're only setting yourself up for shock), runs her hand through her semi-damp strands one last time, and leaves the empty apartment to sit until she comes home after her shift.
Once she is on the street, she will first head to the Hokage tower to pay a visit to her shishou and to check for any available missions. If there are none, then it is off to training at field nine.
She sort of hates training. Not a raging hate, boiling in a bottle and running hot through her veins; no, it's more of a gentle loathing. Because training always reminds her that she is only a member of Team Seven by name; it reminds her that for a long time, it has been Uzumaki Naruto (Kyuubi vessel, son of the Yondaime), Uchiha Sasuke (sole Uchiha survivor, former nukenin and left-hand man to Orochimaru), and Hatake Kakashi (son of the White fang, famous Copy-nin)—and oh yes, the pink-haired medic girl. Trained under Godaime-sama. Hear she's a nice girl.
They try to do one-on-one duels, but true to the routine, it always ends up Sasuke versus Naruto with Kakashi supervising and criticizing, and there is a target set apart from the others that seems to have her name written all over it. And she will hit the target hundreds of times and practice genjutsu and chakra preservation, but there will be no one there to teach her.
At three, she will leave for her afternoon shift at the hospital, never notifying the other three of her departure, which they only notice hours later—if at all. She'll clock in, dismiss Shizune, and make her rounds, arms piled with charts and cheeks hurting from the smile instinctively pasted on her face (except on Tuesdays). It is the part of the day she lives for, because it's always so unpredictable, and she never knows what will happen (though it can often be the same). One day, she will prescribe medication for four kids' flus, and the next, she'll save two ANBU teams on the brink of death. It's a boring, addictive kind of thrill.
At eleven-fifteen, she will finally drag herself home, deactivating the traps and collapsing on her bed, barely having enough energy to change, brush her teeth, and feed herself. The remotes are always piled up on the nightstand, and she'll watch soap operas or B-list romances until she can fall asleep.
Sometimes there are missions. They're usually with Team Seven, but it makes no difference, because she usually assigns herself a task or just settles into her spot as the useless tagalong there to balance out the numbers and try to stay out of the way as much as possible. Solo missions are more exciting, because then she has the job to herself, in the most important position—the only position.
Her life is boring for a ninja. Hell, her life can be boring compared to a civilian's, too. She wants the variety, wants the fun, wants the love, wants to act her age, but she has no time to fit the color within the gray. There is a life, the end unclear, straight as a pin, and there is nobody to help her deviate, to pull her off the path and onto the green grass. Not even Sasuke, or Kakashi even, and Naruto's path is clear as day, just like hers. Sakura's not quite built for romance, anyway.
In the days that have recently passed, Sakura has fallen into a routine. Most days are the same, the ones that aren't are not much different either, and everyday she wished for a disruption, an end to the path, or at least a turn onto uncharted territory. There isn't anything in sight.
(Even on Tuesdays.)
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