There was so much on his heart, so many cruel memories. "I'll need time," he whispered.
"That's good," she said, "we have lots of it."
-
He asked her why she loved him; in return she asked how she could not.
That was all she could say, really. Why try to capture with words what could hardly be described in a smile, in a glance? The brush of his hand and the sigh of his breath. She was weary of words and the impossible worlds they created. There didn't need to be any words. It was just the two of them, beneath the soft and silent, entirely possible sky.
-
Mistaking what he had done for a written confession, for an open admission, for guilt, the villagers stare. So these meetings are confined to unconventional hours; he slips in slowly after the rain when her hair is damp and the sane people are snug in their beds. Even the sound of raindrops on her rooftop isn't sadder than his footsteps.
He hasn't touched her yet. She wonders how much more time he'll need.
It was a soft rain, but he carries a long bony umbrella in his hand, entirely for the purpose of assuming an air of sanity. The villagers watch him suspiciously, still. Even after all this time.
Sakura is sick of time. How can she convince him that this moment is all the time they'll ever need?
With your lips, his eyes tell her. With your lips.