Sasori can never claim to like Hatsue the way he claims—
delicately and without violence.
He remembers hating blue skies, and waiting, and his grandmother, hand-carving a puppet.
He was raised in the midst of war and battles, a string of generational blunders —
He is made of Chiyo's bitterness and Ebizo's denial.
So he will like her with insanity and forgiveness,
with staunched wounds,
thoughts better kept to himself,
with all he has learned and yet to learn,
and with everything that makes him vulnerable.