She's beautiful—reminds himself it's only been a few days since last seeing her, overtaken by her intensity all over again—has to will his heart to stop jumping. "Didn't expect to see you so soon." The words slip out, and even if meant, he didn't mean them to be the first spoken. Sakura's the last person he'd imagine to come knocking, to go through the effort of following him. She glares his way, awards him the full intensity of her anger, reminiscent of all he's come to admire about her.

"She says she's here for you," Temari interjects, veiled question unmistakable; 'what have you done?'

Offering a curt nod, he narrows his eyes in warning—would like to tell her 'nothing', isn't enough a fool to truly believe it—so instead smoothes his features, hoping she'll mind her own business. Stepping aside to make room for Sakura to pass, he remains stoic as he says: "Thank you, Temari, you can leave us." As if the thought of being alone with her isn't a nerve-racking one.

"Okay, but..."

"It's fine," he insists, unable to keep the annoyed frown off his brow, relieved Sakura passes without noticing.

Temari raises her chin, returns his glare with one of her own, questioning gaze darting between the two of them.

Normally he possesses more restraint, feels immature when he rolls his eyes before closing the door—doesn't think he wants to examine exactly why. Though he loves his sister, something more compelling has taken hold of him the moment those green eyes punished him with their ire. 'Stressed' doesn't even begin to describe the turmoil caused—acutely feels the effect of Sakura's presence, forces in a deep, unsatisfying breath before looking her way. She's scowling still, cheeks reddened by both sunburn and emotion—mind races to make sense of her anger, guiltily remembers his hand on her skin, feels right now the same skip of his pulse at recalling the deep sound of-

"You left without a goodbye, only a note!" Arms crossed, her expression spits venom.

The air leaves him, doesn't know wether to feel relieved or not—it's certainly not what he expected her to say. Confusion has him dissecting every word, as if he'll magically understand that way, knows already he won't. "You needed the rest." It's hardly an excuse; knows it well enough but figures it's better than the full truth. Better than admitting how-

"I needed more than a fucking note!"

Nearly shrinks at her outburst, a mixture of guilt and cold indignation fighting for control—tries in vain to justify the intensity of her scorn. Surely he's much deserving, just expected their reasons to at least overlap. To follow him for three days straight, travel all the way from Konoha to Suna that is, over the lack of a note seems… It's a lot of effort—borders on extreme. It's the first personal visit she brings, the first time she's come here outside of a mission… Only to berate him; remind him no matter how much he pretends, he's not a good person. He knows it to be true, deep down, still hurts for reasons he doesn't need reminding of. At least thought she'd- Well. Shouldn't have thought any of it in the first place. Feels the click of his jaw, bitter grind of teeth. "You came here, just to say that?" How did they regress right back to nowhere? Never expected to still feel surprised at anyone's hatred, thinks it's too similar to the sting of betrayal.

"I'm sick of being left behind!" she bites out, seemingly more at herself than him.

A dull ache settles behind his eyes, partly brought on by a lack of sleep; rest proven endlessly more difficult by the renewed rigidity of his being. Logically speaking, neither of them could leave the other behind. They're from two different villages, bound to separate one way or another. Nails dig into palms, attempt to soothe the oncoming itch. "That's no-"

"You did! Without a goodbye, without a word. You left me! You left. And I-I… I don't want to feel like this anymore!"

With every word she feels further away—unreachable. Inevitable. He's Kazekage yet appears more a child in his inability to piece her together. He'd gotten used to this by now; the unbridgeable gap separating him from her, everyone. Now feels the wear and tear of it all as nails dig deeper and breath scratches. It doesn't sit right with him, feels the inconsistency of her conduct despite his own assurances of her being vindicated. It's the way she speaks as if he's wronged her many a time before, which isn't exactly possible. Purposely avoided any and all close associations, never revealing too much of himself to anyone. Remembers still, Sakura all alone at Naruto's wedding. It checks out in his mind, makes perfect sense considering. Him being a substitute hadn't been an issue, rather he'd willingly accepted the role in hopes of helping. Sees now his helping never could have sufficed. He won't insult her by feeling anything close to pity, it's not something she would want. Instead he partly swallows his pride and indignation—as he's so often been forced to. This was never about him; he who's no more than dirt at her feet. No more than… He approaches, cautiously, watches her mortification unfold before his eyes.

"Don't," she snaps at him like a frightened animal—all too fitting, he thinks, tasting the distant shadow of metal on his tongue—wraps her arms around herself, "don't come closer."

"Do I remind you of him?" He doesn't continue his approach, watches her tremble beneath his gaze, feels his nails dig further into his palms—never deep enough to draw blood. Fragile heart lies in the cradle of his tongue, pulses painfully against his teeth, constricts his throat and reminds him he's him as he's always been and will be. There's no distancing great enough to wash the cake of meat from his plaster bones.

"Who?" she asks, brittle enough to almost stop him from saying it, from confronting the truth altogether. The irony is laughable, cannot believe he nearly deluded himself into thinking she'd followed him for anything other than...

"Sasuke."

"No. Not at all." She says it with confidence, almost has him convinced.

"Good," he bites out, feels the bitter sting of it. He doesn't know what angers him more; her misplaced accusations or Sasuke's continued betrayal. "He's a coward, Sakura," he adds out of sheer pettiness; hates the wastefulness of it all.

"What does he have to do with any of this?"

"Apparently everything, else you wouldn't be here." Else she wouldn't have spared him a second glance, wouldn't have entangled him into wanting her misplaced familiarity, nor fool him into believing her willing to follow his company. It shouldn't bother, not when he set out to avoid any form of attachment first. He's supposed to meet his unlucky betrothed and focus on the future of his village, vanquish what little dignity he still possesses.

"You don't know what he's been through," she says, avoiding the heart of the matter—protecting her own heart in lieu of his. And why shouldn't she?

"He's had plenty of people who cared and still it wasn't enough." To have the privilege of kindness and compassion, to be esteemed for your circumstance of birth rather than feared. It's hard to imagine.

Her eyes don't leave his, not even as they attempt to keep the tears from spilling. There's an undeniable ugliness inside of him, a darkness expressing vindication at her grief, her heartbreak. It turns his stomach in disgust, a pang of guilt piercing the brief flicker of satisfaction—nearly moves him to his knees, to repent. Remorse twitches in his fingers, yearns to wipe away her sorrows—his to bear or not makes no difference in light of the loathing he directs at himself and the unkindness he hides. "Is that what you think?"

"That's absolutely what I think." She averts her gaze, shame staining her cheeks. "He lost everyone, he-"

"He had you!" he snaps, feels the strain in his throat, rare to ever speak above a muted mumble. The emotion of it mortifies, shames further, knew he'd been off-kilter the moment she stepped in. The ugliest parts of him rejoice at the outburst, encourage more. He doesn't want it, doesn't desire feeling, being- doesn't want to be forced into some farce of a marriage to someone he knows will be repulsed by the very sight of him. "You could- should have been enough," he bites out, forever stuck searching for something never meant to be his and perpetually feeling the loss of it. "You and Naruto, both went to the ends of the world to take him home—your entire village." It's humiliating. Dehumanises him beyond salvation. Repeating the past never appealed to him, lessons long learned needing no reminders—there's enough sins for him to bear already. Dreads the disgust he knows he'll rightfully evoke, the daily drag of shackles snapped into place from birth.

"Of course, that's what friends do," she tries to justify.

"What has he ever done to merit such devotion, except throw it right back in your face?" Directing his resentment towards the Uchiha almost feels like a relief, lightens the heavy load of leading a village ready to build a future off his bones—and Sakura, equally lost and naïve, would as readily climb his remains to reach above and beyond for her own delusions. Perhaps it's that he's been conditioned to submit to the familiar command of it, raised and bent into the right shape for such consumptive whims. Either way, it's a dangerous pull he finds nearly impossible to resist. "He left you, over and over. Not I." He steps closer, hopes the movement conceals his trembling, hopes she doesn't recognise his own personal shade of suffering. "You nearly died trying to drag him back, everyone has." True as the words may be, watching her crumble before him—hand covering her mouth as tears spill—is exactly what he knew would happen. Is this what he wanted? Does it bring him satisfaction to see her fall? He expected the result and dealt the blow anyway. "And now, after everything, he's too much of a coward to properly face those he's hurt."

"He's righting his wrongs."

Still there is plenty he wishes he'd allow himself to say, to acknowledge—feels himself stretch under the pull of distemper. In truth he loathes the way he pigeonholes himself into speaking in impartial rationale, fearful of any other expression—fears straying too close to whoever he once was. "He's avoiding you. There's no need to travel the furthest ends of the world to atone, I know all about that. It's not about helping the unknown, it's about rebuilding what you've destroyed." It's about sacrifice, day in, day out. Never getting to be equal to others, never feeling like quite enough. Never being able to say all you wish out of fear of being perceived as anything other than a neutral party, a non-threat.

Her teary eyes meet his, contain a renewed focus as if only now aware of it all. His heart flutters in spite of himself, dances like a flame beneath the scrutiny of her gaze—he doesn't deserve the contemplation granted.

"I'm sorry," she then chokes, the remorseful twist of her lips enough to weaken him, "I'm so, so sorry, I-"

He doesn't want her to see the disgust at his own thoughts, wraps her in his arms to hide the grimace twisting his features. "Don't be," he quickly placates, holds onto her fearing to be reminded of her inflicted mourning otherwise. The painful throb of his heart hammers in his ears, frightens him of the power she holds. She grasps at his jacket, pulls herself closer, breath warming his throat. It's an assault to the senses, doesn't help the sickening churn of guilt.

"I-I've made such a fool of myself," she croaks, "I feel like an idiot."

"You're not." He is. Wishes he could tell her just how sorry he is for his burdening her.

"I just- I... I'm lost inside myself-"

Another pang, cold and sharp. "I know you are." She unhinges him, erodes his carefully cultured control; her presence presents a danger he cannot possibly indulge. Cannot. But wants to. Wants endlessly.

"-and I'm so sorry for blaming you. I don't want to ruin our friendship," she continues fearfully, as if losing their friendship frightens her more than potentially driving a wedge between their respective villages, upsetting years of careful politics and tentative treaties.

He truly doesn't deserve her apologies, just as he doesn't deserve her plea for friendship—yet denying her now seems an even greater cruelty. In spite of it all—the guilt and shame following his actions—he forces a deep breath, makes a final attempt at compartmentalisation. He'll placate her for now, at least until she's properly rested and healed. Then they'll go their separate ways, their friendship bound to be forgotten past the vacuum of village gates, ending this insatiable itch for once and for all. After all, what could he realistically want from her? "You haven't."

"She'll be staying with us," he announces, hoping his bluntness dissuades his sister from asking too many questions.

"If that means you'll leave your office," Temari quips nonchalantly, falling into step with Sakura and he. It's a turn-around from her earlier prying. For Sakura's sake, him remaining in his office would only be for the best, keep their interactions to a minimum.

He doesn't reply, though he does frown.

"I already told him I don't mean to impose," Sakura quickly adds, eyes shooting between the siblings.

"Impose all you like—anything to get my little brother to socialise," Temari chuckles, clearly picking up on something.

"Temari, you hardly go out yourself," he retorts, the whiplash of his own emotions having soured his mood.

"That's because someone has to take care of you!"

"I'm not a child," he deadpans, containing most his annoyance through the hidden clench of his teeth.

"No, you're a spoilt brat." She sticks out her tongue, then winks in Sakura's direction. "So how long will you be staying?"

"Actually..."

"You can stay as long as you like," he blathers impulsively—foolishly thinking he'd trump Temari—immediately wishes he'd crammed the cork of his gourd into his mouth.

Of course his sister rolls with it, already treats her a like a close friend. "Oh, I can take you to our spa, have some girl-time!" She places a hand on Sakura's shoulder, grinning excitedly, leaving him to wonder if there's more merit to her words than he might initially expect.

"That sounds lovely, I'd like that," Sakura smiles, seeming genuinely interested.

"We can talk about hair, and boys, and periods—I've always wanted to do that."

He gapes at his sister—the one who had quickly garnered notoriety for picking fist-fights at the academy, who'd taunt Kankuro over his obsession with dolls, and always seemed to possess a general disdain for most things girls her own age enjoyed—wonders just who this woman is when Sakura bursts out laughing, firmly grabbing his arm.

"Don't worry Gaara, we can talk boys and periods too if you want," she teases, clearly isn't aware of the heat he feels creeping up his neck, muscles stiff beneath her hands. Like that, she touches him again, out in the open for all to see—doesn't seem to care what the people of Suna might think of him.

Temari snorts, watches him curiously. Directing his attention back to her, he supposes her rejection of girlhood might have more complex reasons. He'd never paid it much attention before—never wondered how her upbringing affected her—but he's happy she appears comfortable enough now to befriend Sakura. He knows it hasn't been easy for her either—in large part because of him—still doesn't rise to the bait, blinks as he carefully smooths his expression. "Sure," he says, closing his eyes before delivering a final jab, "if that means I'll understand Temari's mood swings."

"Okay."

NO. Wait. Not okay! Feels his feet move before his mind catches up, body acting of its own accord. Her hand burns in his, casts a spell which makes it impossible to let go—at least that's what it must be to keep them glued together. The walk to his room is long, too long as the silence stretches on, mentally beats himself up over his undeniable stupidity. It's just the way she asked it, something about how she lowered her lids, pursed her lips and- Fuck. His fucking weak-willed brain-! No. Don't panic. It's fine, they'll be fine. How's he supposed to reject her advances when her every touch and request make him feel so welcomed? Told himself he'd let this go, that they'd go their separate ways and would allow this questionable friendship to disintegrate. Yet here he is, inviting her to stay as long as she wants, at his home, now headed towards his room where he's never taken anyone. His pulse skyrockets as they reach his door, feigns calm as he moves to open it, gesturing for her to enter first simply to allow himself another moment. Then she does the next worst possible thing.

"I love it," she declares, states it matter-of-factly, eyes lit up as they scan the room—his room.

And he just stands there, smiling like an idiot. She meets his gaze, reminds him he should say something- anything- "It gives me something to do," he offers lamely, quickly averts his eyes. Something about her being here, admiring his not so spectacular hobby is- feels- he's absolutely horrible at this; bringing a girl to his room that is. Wonders if it fills Kankuro with the same excited hum, swears he can feel himself vibrate in her presence.

"I didn't bring any extra clothes," she suddenly remarks, only now seems to realise her mistake.

He blinks, looks back at her, notes she actually didn't bring anything at all. Perhaps it's the deafening tension, blood dancing with a vivacity unfamiliar to him, but he finds himself actually chuckling at the silliness of the situation. "You must have been in a hurry," he returns, fully aware how true it rings. His movements feel foreign as he reaches for a nearby drawer, searching for something to borrow her. Finding a shirt and pants, he hands them over, unsure if they're acceptable for a girl. "I could also ask Temari, if you'd prefer."

"No!" She snatches the articles from his hands, presses them to her chest. "This is perfect, thank you."

He pauses, then nods. "Bathroom's over there."

She doesn't hesitate to make use of it, leaves him to his own thoughts for a bit—at least long enough to ponder just how he's going to get through this. His bed isn't all that big, still not any smaller than the one they'd already shared but… somehow it feels different now. Weightier—never mind their slight falling out—there's a sense of purposefulness, the choice to spend the night in each other's company suddenly much more intentional instead of simple convenience. Add in the distance she's travelled, the certainty of her proposal to sleep here… It's a lot. He's not necessarily shy, but he's not too dense to not acknowledge the way she affects him, bordering on something- a sense of? He fixates on it as he brushes his teeth, as he stares without seeing, only feeling the subtle tickle of anticipation caress his skin. How does she make him feel? Why did her absence—even if only for a few days—suddenly leave him emptier than ever? He isn't sure, almost dreads to find out, has a hunch when he emerges and sees her still in his room, propped on his bed, wearing his clothes. This time there's no noise to underscore the moment, only the absolute silence of the desert, revealing the drum of his heart the sight of her incites.

He switches off the lights, forces himself to stop staring, stop these confusing thoughts in their tracks; stop wanting for her to stay, right here, in this space he'd share with only her. With heavy feet, he approaches, holds his breath. The near darkness is worse, a distant moon illuminating her enough to reveal just the edges of her warm smile, outlining only soft shapes and curves. Tentatively reaching, feels the warmth of her skin beneath the tips of his fingers, melting away his reservations. She doesn't flinch, nor react with shock or disgust, and it doesn't escape him how dearly he should cherish this fact. She rests her head against his shoulder, the movement followed by the sweet scent of her hair. Could life ever be like this? Could the woman he's supposed to meet possibly accept him just so—or even come close to the one he feels pressed against him? Haruno Sakura. Her name rests on his tongue like a prayer, feels it hang onto his lips in silent beckoning, wishing, hoping. Realising he wouldn't wish for any of this if it's not with her; if it's not Sakura. So… what is it he truly wants from her?

"Do you think me foolish, loving someone who doesn't want me to?"

The words hit him with their accuracy, almost worries she might've read his mind. He'd do well to remember his place, the actual reason of her coming here, yet cannot for the life of him contain his fixation. He gently brushes the hair from her face, finger running along the soft stresses. He's mesmerised by her, can hardly believe he's allowed to touch her like this, see her this close. What is this want? "No," he mumbles, trying not to let his fascination with her show—this isn't about him, has nothing to do with him, "sometimes it's those who don't want it who need it the most." He knows he needs it, feels his own words ring painfully true.

"What if I don't want it, either?" She turns her face towards his, large eyes searching. "What if I'm just too afraid of breaking the mould of who I've always been?" Her voice is almost a whisper, easy to miss, hard to believe.

He slowly meets her gaze, throat dry, breath held. What if she's only holding onto love because it's become an expectation? Is that what she's saying? He averts his eyes, swallows her name, all the words he'd like to say; realises now is neither the time nor the place. He'd like to tell her just how much her presence means to him, how she confuses yet excites him. Makes him want to ease her sorrows, soothe her fears—wants to be in her presence always. He'd like to say he'd never… Never. Never could realistically be anything like she deserves. So settles on the objective truth: "You're always allowed to grow from who you've been, and anyone opposed doesn't love you as much as they love the idea of you."

Like he expected, the following hours are spent in turmoil. On the one hand, she's the one who came here, followed him and asked to sleep in his room. On the other… he's right back in her apartment, fighting off the way his body- Breathes deeply, feels her back rest against his stomach, limbs tangled, her every breath felt. She'd drifted off within minutes, unlike him. He's unchanged from the person who fled her proximity before dawn, too scared to confront whatever she evokes—he still is. Yes she's lovely and friendly and funny too, and yes she happens to be beautiful and brave and smart and… He thinks what it boils down to—these sudden bouts of indiscernible emotion—is the desire for her to stay with him. But even with her forgiveness, he cannot—will not—forget the sickening mistakes of that day; small body crushed beneath his grotesque palm. He still remembers the awful way her head lolled as she lost consciousness, as she inched closer to death with every passing minute. He did that. Yes, sometimes it is necessary for a shinobi to injure, kill even, but he won't pretend most of his slain enemies didn't result from his own morbid cruelty.

She might have forgiven him, but he doesn't think he could ever forgive himself. Instead insists on punishing himself in every way, leaving himself bitterly unhappy. Once his sister moves to Konoha, he'll only have his brother left to rely on. He'll likely be married off by then, pressured into a union by the council, forced to father children with a stranger who will exist as the tragic victim of his unadjusted, maladapted ignorance. He has no experience in such matters, hardly knows how and- He takes a deep breath, opens his eyes before rolling onto his back, hand resting on his stomach, feeling the rise and fall of his every breath. Truth is he's more terrified of human relationships than he is of anything else. He deeply fears the mortification of rejection, being deemed unfit—irredeemably different. He's fine with superficial exchanges, knows how to navigate politics and negotiate his way through most disputes. But when he finds himself one-on-one—too close for too long—he can always tell when they start to notice; he's not quite normal, doesn't know how to move his body or what to say to fill the silence. He's certain his odd preoccupation with Sakura started exactly for those reasons; when he's with her, he's hardly ever uneasy. Words don't need practice and conversations flow.

He sits up, the movement rousing her from slumber. Her eyes find his, lids heavy with sleep. She doesn't move to speak, only smiles and turns towards him, casually places her head on his lap, stunning him into place. How is it she manages to make such foreign acts feel natural? It's not scary with her; simply being human. She surrenders herself to him, trusts enough to come closer than anyone ever has and- He feels his hand move, drawn to her beauty as ocean waves are to the shore, forever reaching and returning. His fingers brush the hair from her face, mostly to observe her easy acceptance again. She doesn't move to stop him, merely looks on in anticipation. Why doesn't his presence bother her? He's not used to being followed, never had anyone try to help him like she has—though her actions surpass simply intending to help. Why does she seem to want for his company? Why does she continue to take these things further and further, always initiating contact? She's unlike anyone else, appears to somehow consider him her equal and nothing less.

It all begs the question: "Why do you trust me?" He caresses her, exploring this new sensation, thumb sweeping along her cheek. He likes the texture of her skin, the small scars littering its pale surface, hardly visible. He enjoys the roughness, the grit of her hard work and perseverance. Out of the two of them, he's certain he's the truly delicate one; she carries a toughness and resilience he's rarely seen matched.

"I don't know, just something about you," she says, her eyes searching his, moving on to his features until they land on his brow. He knows what she's looking at, has seen her gaze dart there on occasion, always quietly wondering. He's not used to being scrutinised, grown accustomed to the quick flicker of averted gazes. He stiffens when she lifts a hand, raising her fingers towards the scar. His eyes flutters between her curious ones and the approaching limb, heart stuttering as she touches his skin, gently as if not to startle him. "You see me."

Recognition flares within him, savours the words and their meaning. The caress of her fingers soothes tight skin, peppered sensations warming numbed tissue. "I've hurt a lot of people… You among them." Wishes he hadn't, longs daily for these crimes to be undone. Maybe then, in a reality where the hiss of sand wasn't followed by blood and mourning, he might have had a chance at this; might have truly been her equal. Is that what he wants, what this silent longing commands through the stutter of his pulse?

"You've helped me more times than you've hurt me." There's no doubt to cloud her gaze, no hesitation as she offers the words. They lessen some of the burden. Fuel the hope that someday, the good might outweigh the bad, even if it could never be undone.

"There's many things I wish I could take back," he admits, feels the air leave his lungs—emptied for a short moment, free—then breathes again.

She takes hold of his hand, keeps it firm against her face, fingers partially laced through his. "You were a child," she says, large eyes darting across his features, the moonlight washing away their colour but never their intensity. He closes his own, reminded of the phantom pain—the wasted potential—still living inside. The silent burn of 'what ifs' and 'if only's', always questioning if perhaps, under different circumstances, he might have been like his siblings. Might have been happier. "Either way, you've earned your forgiveness." She squeezes his hand, a small but meaningful gesture; she's here with him, supports who he's become and doesn't judge who he was.

When he meets her gaze again, he can tell how much she means it, sees the confidence behind her beliefs—even if he himself might not agree. It touches deeper than his skin, imprints itself within. Thinks he just might burst. Part of him believes her, latches onto the glimmer of light she represents, fiercely clings to it. Hasn't ever been told these words, his own family too unfamiliar and awkward in their ability to vocalise their feelings.

"Thank you," he replies, unable to better put into words the profoundness of her support. Within him, a tide has started to shift, washing away some of his fears and reservations. Overcome instead with an eagerness to shower her in gratitude, thank her endlessly for all the good she brings. Doesn't want this empty space between them, this distance he's had trouble bridging his entire life. Would that be okay? To hold her ever closer? Until there's nothing to separate them but the individual beat of their hearts. How much is actually allowed? At what point would she object, perhaps even grow fearful? Maybe he's too much, overbearing and consumptive. These thoughts border on possessive, doesn't know if they're normal by any means. Do others feel this way? Do they long for another as if they were a part of themselves? Is it just because he's… wrong? He's never been able to talk about this to anyone. Even now he finds it hard to say all he truly wants to, doesn't quite know who he is anymore beneath the layers of careful polish. What if she finds out he's filled with abnormal thoughts? He'd lose this understanding they have, could he handle that? How would-

"What are you thinking about?"

He stiffens, paranoid she might realise the full extent of his worries just by looking at him. What was he thinking about? Her? How's he supposed to explain—should he tell her something else instead? No, he should be truthful, even if he isn't really certain what the truth is anymore. All he really knows, and has for a long time, is that he's lonely even in his own head. He offers a tired smile, assuring her it's nothing truly awful—at least hopes it isn't. "I tend to go astray in the silence; nothing but my own thoughts to occupy my mind. I still have to get used to it at times."

She seems to consider the words, perhaps tries to compare them to her own experiences, then offers: "If it helps, you can always talk to me."

It's impossible, regardless of how much he'd like to. Talking to her has been the single most enjoyable thing he's done in his life. Which is exactly why it won't help. "It does… and it doesn't."

"Why?" she still asks, well-intentioned and genuine.

He looks away, feels a bitter smile pull at his lips. The thought of having and losing seems infinitely more painful than never knowing any better. "I'll miss you," he answers, means to say: 'when you inevitably leave, I'll be lonelier than ever.' But the words never leave his mouth.