It's his office she visits first, only to discover it deserted—reminding herself it's what was to be expected. She talks to some of the ninja there, asks if they know where their leader went. No one does, every single one telling her he'd left hours ago and hasn't returned—not only that, he'd told no one where he was going, either. It's frustrating, but it's her own fault really; he'd been right in front of her, and she'd said nothing. She heads out, stalks the streets in search of red, scours corner after corner, only to find beiges and browns. For a man as striking as him, he's surprisingly hard to find. The moon doesn't help her much, its silvery shine washing away most colours, turning everything into a muted sea of blues and greys. Still, she's loathe to give up, determined to spend however long it takes on finding him. But the longer she searches, the emptier the streets become, Suna's citizens slowly turning in for the night, leaving her in her own world of solitude. It's an eerie little place, like the kind of cold you feel in your bones, bringing your joints to rattle, and with every step their haunting creaks grow louder.
She returns to his home in the dead of night, when the last villager has gone to sleep. There's silence everywhere, magnifying her senses; her breathing a howling wind, her heart a violent drum. The lights have all been turned off, casting the mansion in shadows. Luckily her eyes have long since adjusted to the dark, and she finds her way with ease. Everyone's already gone to bed, the living room deserted, swallowing her in its yawning emptiness. Outside, she's surprised to hear the patter of rain, its drops creating a gentle rhythm against the windows, filling her with a sense of melancholy—there's loneliness all around her, embedded into the walls, the empty furniture, and she tries imagining living like this; secluded. Within the shadows, she can almost imagine him residing, waiting for the world to wake again, wearing the darkness like a second skin.
She moves on, trails her fingers along walls to keep her bearings, feels the irregular patterns beneath their tips. Though she's sceptical of his presence, she thinks there's only one place left for her to look. She knows the way by heart, feels her feet follow a path she's walked in her mind, over and over again. It's the racing of her pulse sending a shiver down her spine, causing a trembling in her hands. She holds her breath, afraid the noise might deafen her, chest filled with transitory courage. A door, and she carefully grasps its knob, empties her lungs in search of calm, turns it with the release of air. It opens, revealing more darkness beyond, interrupted only by the glow of moonlight. The rain has started beating down, clattering against the windows, matching the beat of her heart. She steps inside, feels her breath catch.
There's sorrow all around her; weeping leaves and stems like broken bones, an empty room with stilted air, stuttering against her skin. He's not there, probably hasn't been for days. She slips through, still, closes the door behind her, shuts herself away. Inside are memories—feelings—crystalline in their clarity, sprinkled across its space. She nears the bed, feels herself still at the familiar photograph, left to linger on its covers. Their faces, illuminated by a glint of light, stare back at her. She takes a shuddery breath, reaches out a trembling hand, her throat growing tighter with every step, and wonders; had he brought it here? Her fingers trace along its surface, circle the red of his hair, her breath held so as not to disturb the image of them—and realises the happiness it captures. She was, right then and there, if only for a little while.
She allows herself to drop down, afraid her legs might fail her, her weight drawing wrinkles across the sheets, imprinting them with her presence—she feels guilty for disturbing the quiet here, fears she's intruding, yet can't bring herself to leave. Within this shelter of mourning, she finally permits herself to listen; the voice in her head, whispering certainties. She tilts the picture, studies his features, feels a warm fondness mingle with the bitter sting of his absence. All this time she'd been a liar, twisting facts into poor fiction, mixing wants with musts. The answers had been right in front of her, had started filling her heart ever since the wedding, their first dance. Even then, back when they were almost strangers, he'd been full of praise, reminding her what it feels like to be seen. Had she not taken his hand, would she ever have ended up here? Or would they have continued to live individual lives, at the edges of the other's existence?
She takes in those vibrant eyes, wonders how often they might have gazed upon this very picture, questioning everything. Only to find her, hand in hand with another; a man she'd never told anyone she no longer loved. If only she'd opened up more, told of her conflicting thoughts. Incapable of love, yet it is love she sees in all he does; a love for his family, his friends, his people, his village. Unlike him, that's what Temari had said. She has to believe it, has to think there's something she's missed, an explanation to his sudden change. She closes her eyes, listens to the rain, its steady rhythm lulling her into a state of contemplation. She remains adrift for a while, allows her mind to wander the possibilities, pictures a reality without secrets. If only she knew where to find him, have a chance to explain herself, to tell him everything he deserves hearing. But finding Gaara within the desert itself sounds nearly impossible.
She takes a deep breath, inhales the familiar scent of greasewood, opens her eyes as the realisation hits her; she knows exactly where he is. By now the sun has started to rise, alighting the space with rosy rays, revealing hints of hope; life endured through blooming cacti. They've withstood their solitude, survived by themselves and managed to flourish despite their hardships—she'd like to think they could, too. She shoots up, darts across the room, determined not to waste anymore time on wishful thinking or empty fantasies. She leaves behind the mansion, feels the rain cool her skin, sees its droplets fracture sunlight into a starry curtain, gleaming against heavy clouds. Closing her eyes once more, she takes a deep breath, inhales the desert itself, revealing paths she'd never observe otherwise, and starts moving.
She runs, wet sand shifting beneath her feet, crosses rolling dunes and rocky hills. She doesn't fear getting lost; with him is the only place she needs to be. The downpour has turned into a gentle shower, hair sticking to her face, clothes to her skin, but she doesn't stop to worry about her appearance. The sun continues to rise, warms her with its glow, paints the skies a gentle pink, the dunes like a frozen sea. She crosses them with confident steps, no doubt in her mind, the surrounding air luring her deeper into barren lands. When she finally spots him, she doesn't quite know how to feel, his lean figure perched on one of the many rocks, the surrounding hills swallowed by a landscape of creosote. Her heart races, pounds through her skull and limbs, keeps her on her toes. She's nervous, that's for sure, but also excited and relieved; she's a thousand things at once, yet—despite the flood of emotion—she's more determined than ever.
"Your plants are dying."
Though it's subtle, she can tell he hadn't expected anyone to find him, his back and shoulders stiffening. He turns his head, allows his gaze to take her in, the slightest hint of a frown on his brow. He looks as worn as he had that afternoon; eyes dark and skin sallow—she wonders just how much weight he's lost, too, features sharper than she remembers. His hair has darkened to a deep crimson, glistening with droplets of rain, clothes completely soaked. She takes a step, and his reaction is instant.
"Don't," he snaps, stare boring into hers. "Don't come closer."
She pauses, surprised at his severity, but quickly collects herself, realising she's caught him off guard. "I'm not afraid of you," she says, taking another, tilting her head as she observes his reactions.
He clenches his jaw, lowers his legs from where they'd been folded against his chest, his shoulders raised and back hunched. "Please," he tries instead, and she's surprised when she feels the sand beneath her move, sliding her backwards, "stay there."
"No," she protests, hands balled to fists, pointing a glare in his direction. "I want to talk to you."
"I can hear you just fine," he deadpans.
"Gaara... please, I-" she pauses, searches for words, feels the ache of missing him slip around her heart, strangling the organ in its grip. She's tired. Of everything, really; tired of her own lonely life, cooped up in her apartment or worked to the bone at her job. In fact, she's exhausted, threadbare and—if she isn't careful—ready to come undone. "I can't do this anymore." She means it, thinks of how returning to her old life would be the worst kind of punishment, and feels the familiar trickle of tears before she angrily rubs them away, annoyed at their betrayal.
He watches her, eyes following her movements, softening ever so slightly. "I'm sorry."
She shakes her head, finds herself grappling for words, something to break through his defences—however impossible that might seem. "I understand if this is all difficult for you." She hesitates, takes a deep, calming breath. "I'll admit it's hard for me, too." His frown deepens, but he doesn't speak. "You said I didn't do anything wrong," she tries, searching for the right way to evoke a reaction. "Then why do you treat me this way?"
It works, a scowl twisting his brow, gaze narrowed to bitter slits. "Because I'm wrong," he admits, averting his eyes, drops of rain falling from his hair, running down his skin.
She tries moving closer, careful not to approach too fast, adrenaline surging through her, leaving her light and jittery. "What do you mean...?" She can tell he's conflicted, feels it in the sizzling air, charged by his presence.
"I-" he starts, cuts himself off, turns his head as if ashamed. A hand shoots to his hair, lowers again, muscles in his jaw betraying the angry clench of his teeth. It's a sad display, fills her with his grief, numbs her lips to the unspoken words between them. "I just don't know anymore!" he bursts, a crack in his voice—a sharp contrast to his usual self. He releases a deep breath, rubs at his eyes, rests his elbow atop his knee, forehead in his palm, fingers digging into his hair. "I'm filled with all these- these thoughts," he continues, gaze directed at his feet, shoulders slumped. "About you. Always you, constantly. It's driving me insane, and the more I try to think of something else-" he pauses, leans further forward, other hand wrapped around his bicep, traveling up his shoulder—his entire posture a testimony of his vulnerability. "And then when I see you, it's like I can't control myself, I can't control anything. It's as if your very presence is enough to make me burst, and I'm not sure what I'm capable of if I do."
She thinks she knows what that feels like—recalls the searing heat of his touch—and she's convinced the both of them aren't too different in that regard. Could it be... No. Impossible, right? Then again, his words still ring clear in her mind, whisper honest, unguarded truths. What if it is? What if he's describing exactly what she suspects with all her heart? The word rules her thoughts, overrides whatever doubt presents itself. It has to be—how else is she to label this painful want burning within? This yearning for not only his touch, but his soul also. It's now or never, and she knows there's only one way to unearth the truth. "Sounds like love to me." She holds her breath, braves herself against whatever might come.
"It's obsession!" he counters, raising his head, eyes snapping to hers, surprising her with their intensity. "It's all-consuming and I've never felt this—ever—yet the only thing I can compare these urges with is cold-blooded murder and that scares me to death."
She swallows, raises her chin, tries inching forward, relieved to find the sand unmoving. "You wouldn't hurt me." Obsession. Would she know the difference? She's always believed she loved Sasuke, only to discover it was obsession; with looks, an idea, and eventually a promise. Does she even know what love is?
He shakes his head, lowers his hands, grips his legs. "What would you know! You have no idea of the things I've done—what I've thought of doing." The sun's glow hits his glistening skin, adds a shine to each drop of rain, pattering all around them, translucent like his eyes, she thinks.
"That's not you. Not anymore, and thoughts are just thoughts." Even now, he's something ethereal, staring back at her with his dark-rimmed gaze, giving rise to a familiar call in her bones, and she thinks she does know.
"And if I lose control, like I used to?" He stands, scrutinises her—she doesn't cower, knows her goosebumps have nothing to do with the rain, and relishes the heavy gallop of her pulse. "What if those thoughts become actions and I end up ripping you apart? You have no idea how easy it is!"
He's wrong. She moves closer, surprised he allows her. "That's not the Gaara I know—the real Gaara," she asserts with complete certainty, not a doubt in her mind—not anymore. "I've been confused too," she continues. "All this time, I've been so blind." His scowl melts to a frown, though he makes no move to speak. "I didn't believe I knew what love was anymore, or that I ever understood it. Somehow I'd gotten love mixed up with obligation, thinking myself responsible for someone else's fulfilment. How wrong I was!" she laughs, pauses, then decides to press on, knowing it's now or never: "I know, you've already told me you're not interested in any of it. But... I just need to say it, for my own peace. Do with it as you will, I know better than anyone you couldn't change such feelings." He's close enough to touch, but she senses it might scare him away again, restrains her hands despite their yearning to enclose his. Still her smile lingers, rain mixing with the old tears on her cheeks. She's warm, inside and out, overflows with all this feeling, purpose still fresh on her tongue, forming words from her heart: "I love you."
Those eyes, round as marbles, shock her with their severity, steal the breath from her lungs. His head snaps to the side, gaze darting to nowhere in particular, entire stance gone rigid. She can't help but look at the kanji, red as ever, filling her with wonder; there's still so much she doesn't know about him. The sun hits his eyes, alights their glistening surface until he clenches them shut, releasing a shaky breath, and she realises it's not just rain rolling down his cheeks.
She collects the courage she needs to continue, feels his sorrowful expression seep into her soul. "You've made me the happiest I've ever been, and..." She moves closer, raises a hand but drops it again, her lips twitching into a hopeful smile. "Somehow you've actually managed to talk some sense into me, and I don't think I've ever known more clearly what I've wanted than I do now."
He sucks in a breath, shakes his head, blinks his eyes open, yet doesn't meet her gaze. "Sakura," he whispers, voice hoarse, features twisted into a tortured expression, "I can't."
She falters, feels her resolve start to crumble, eyes growing large, searching for answers. Could it be... Sasuke was right all along? The cruelty of it, the sheer brutality. A tool, incapable of- no. No, it's not true, the very notion ridiculous. She refuses to believe it. "Yes you can." She steels herself, raises her chin. Then, without hesitation, takes his hand, places it above his heart, his head whipping around to face her. "Right here—all you need is already here."
His eyes dart between hers and their limbs, blinking, chest rising as he sucks in a deep breath—she wonders what secrets lie in the quiver of his lips, the deep lines on his brow, the hurt lingering in the shadows of his expression. She dares take it a step further, gently brushing his hair to the side, wet strands cold against her fingers. He takes her arm, holds it there, large eyes searching her face. "How do I know you're telling the truth?"
She flattens her hand across his, feels the racing of his heart beneath her fingertips. "Why would I lie?"
His eyes follow the movement, ever as unreadable. "Sasuke hates me."
It startles her, the comment made so casually she'd almost think it logical. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"He could want me dead." Revenge. It does sound like Sasuke, though murder might be a bit extreme. She's reminded of the night of his arrival, the way his eye never left Gaara; it'd struck her as strange then, too. Could this be the reason for him wanting to stay? Revenge?
"I'm not here to kill you!" She thinks of how Sasuke had taken her hand, held onto it in front of Gaara, as if trying to prove a point. At the same time, he did bring her flowers and make an actual effort. It couldn't be about revenge only, though she doesn't doubt it might have played a part.
"You're a lot like him," he says, releasing her arm, and she lowers it in response.
She grimaces, narrows her eyes at the strange observation. "Sasuke?"
He shakes his head. "My uncle." An uncle? Somehow she has a hard time imagining his family beyond his siblings. "He was just following orders. Only I didn't know that, not for a long time. I couldn't take it again. Not from you." Was he implying his uncle had tried to kill him? Whose orders had he been following, and more importantly; where was he now?
"Sasuke and I, we're over," she says instead, hoping to alleviate his worries.
Confusion flashes through his gaze, brows knitting together. "You changed your mind?"
"You changed my mind," she asserts, tightening her hold on his hand.
His frown deepens, lips thinning. "It was never my intention."
She releases him, allows her arm to drop back to her side. "Intended or not, it happened. If you won't take my word for it, then at least allow me to prove it." She's almost impressed by her own boldness, feels the same abandon she would in battle.
He sighs, wearily rubs his face. "I'm not exactly dating material, Sakura."
"Neither am I, if you'd ask me." The response comes instant, like a snap of the fingers, and she pauses to think, chewing her lip, aware it isn't a convincing argument. "Imagine you didn't have any fears of hurting me, would you? Give me a chance, I mean."
His lips part, close again, eyes darting across her features before he releases another breath, and finally speaks: "Yes."
It's enough to get her hopes up, ease her insecurities, and with that guarantee she doesn't hesitate to propose her thoughts. "Then why not try? See if whatever it is you're feeling really is that abnormal. We could take it slow, even stop at any time." Her entire body fills with a new kind of tension, high and thrilling, her pulse dancing erratically.
He appears to consider it, crosses his arms as he glances to the side, out into the desert. "What if I disappoint you?"
She feels a smile tug at her lips, tilts her head. "Gaara," she says, "have you been listening?" Her smile widens, the high of her confession still running through her. "I'm in love with you. I already admire you in every regard, disappointing me would be a near impossible feat." He doesn't look convinced by her words, and she's starting to understand the need for another approach. "Tell me what's really going through your mind."
He briefly meets her eye, appears hesitant to share whatever he's thinking, gaze lowering to the ground. "I'm afraid," he mutters, something sad passing over him, his arms uncrossing as he clenches his eyes shut. "Part of me is convinced you'll either leave or betray me, but the other part tells me I'll be the one scaring you away, and I don't want to lose you."
That's it, then, she thinks; the words are out, washing over her like the rain, and she feels cleaner bathed in their purity. "I don't want to lose you, either."
He averts his gaze again, shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair, allows himself to slump back onto the stone he was perched on before. She hesitates, observes the torn expression marring his features, sits down beside him, legs inches apart. The rain has almost completely stopped, reduced to a slow drizzle, tones of orange starting to bleed through the sky, announcing the passage of time. She stares ahead, allows her gaze to take in the view he'd most likely been observing; the desert spreading out before them, endless miles of glittering dunes, beautiful yet inherently lonely. She starts when she feels his hand, hesitantly wrapping around hers, tips of his fingers tracing along her skin, searchingly. She swallows the nerves closing her throat, tries not to succumb to the sudden race of her pulse.
"What does love feel like?" he asks, softly, almost a whisper, as if ashamed at not knowing.
She feels another smile tug at her lips, skin sparking at his touch, lighting her up from the inside out. "Love can feel like many things," she offers, returning his hold. "It can feel like happiness, excitement, passion—but it can also feel like pain, sadness, despair. It's the flutter or breaking of your heart; the leap or twisting of your stomach; the nervous excitement or dread in your bones." She's always known what love was supposed to be like, taught at a young age the supposed rules of it. But reality often doesn't work that way, and she realises now how life tends to disfigure the idea of love into something else entirely. "To love someone, means to cherish that person for who they are. They'll be on your mind whenever they're not with you, and you'll wish for nothing more than to see them again—especially at the early stages of it. Love can be tender, comforting and sweet, but it can also be passionate, aggressive and intimate. It should always be selfless and equal; meaning the other person's needs matter as much as your own, and you wouldn't wish harm upon them. Losing them can feel like losing a part of yourself, and you'll want to do anything to keep the other safe."
He raises his legs, wraps his arm around them, rests his chin upon his knees, and turns his head to watch her.
"I don't know..." she continues, feeling herself flush beneath his gaze. "To me it's the little things; like being considerate, bringing strange little gifts, having fun together, but also being able to confide." Pausing, she feels a playful grin creep up on her. "I suppose I'm also weirdly attracted to men who know their way around plants."
He returns her smile, causing her to blush to deepen. "Even if they've been neglecting them?"
She chuckles. "Even then."
He hums, remains silent for a while, thoughts dancing behind his eyes as they roam their surroundings, then meets her gaze again, an austere expression settling over him. "That's funny, I feel that way about women who are clueless around plants."
She laughs, nods, bites her lip, raises a leg to rest her cheek against, turning her head to watch him in return. "A lost cause to keep busy?" she tries, curiosity tempting her.
He blinks, then snorts. "There are no lost causes." Her smile widens, and he again answers it with one of his own, suffusing her pulse with a special kind of thrill, before his expression turns serious again, brow furrowing. She wonders whatever's on his mind, finds her thoughts answered when he speaks: "I'll try." He turns his eyes to the rising sun, and she notices the rain has finally stopped, permeating the air with the heady scent of the surrounding shrubs. "For you."
She tightens her grip around his hand, an entirely new kind of excitement bubbling within her. "Thank you," she grins, biting her lip, unsure if she's ever felt such elation before, the relief spreading through her smooth as silk.
He watches her with his pale eyes, a familiar warmth in them she has sorely missed. The corners of his lips start to tilt, until he averts his gaze again, a grin slowly spreading across his features, giving her pause at the beauty of it. She follows his gaze, watches the sun as it climbs ever-higher, creating dunes of gold. It's a breathtaking sight, and she allows her head to rest against his shoulder, content to sit there in silence, thinking to herself she wouldn't mind remaining here, forever if possible, just like this; together.
They stay that way for several hours, and Sakura isn't certain if she's remained awake for all of them, the growing heat of the sun warming her pleasantly, drying the rain from her clothes. It's Gaara who eventually suggests they head back, offering his hand as he stands. She blushes when they come face to face, the realisation of it all hitting her. She has difficulty believing the past few hours really happened—but they did, reshaping all she thought her future would hold. From now on, she'll be dating Gaara, a man who—only a few months ago—she'd hardly ever paid attention to. She thinks him beautiful, features bright under the harsh desert rays, hair long since dried and sticking out in every possible angle. It has her giggling to herself, and she raises a hand to smooth out the unruly strands, surprising him as he stares at her, the hints of a blush staining his cheeks. They'll be dating, she reminds herself again, only because she has a hard time believing her luck.
First, though, she'll have to go home, and she feels her impending departure weigh on her as they walk. She doesn't recognise the landscape they cross, realising just how little she'd paid attention to it, aware she would have been utterly lost had she not found him. He's the one who takes her hand, intertwines their fingers, holds it tight enough to make her wonder if he has a hard time believing it, too; just like her, he most likely never saw any of this coming. She smiles, returns his grip, cementing their reality, feeling more than ready for whatever may come. When the village enters their sight, she thinks of the hospital, Sasuke's flowers still there, and wonders if she should leave them or pick them up. She decides on the latter, not wishing to be ungrateful, reasoning she could gift them to Temari—almost certain the blonde would love them for target practice.
When they stop by the hospital, Sakura already spots several of the nurses through the windows, glad to be able to see them a final time. She uses both hands to open the doors, the sound drawing the attention of those inside.
"Kazekage-sama!" one of the nurses, Heiko, stiffens, offering a respectful bow at his entry, eyes shooting curiously between the redhead and Sakura. "We didn't expect to see you return so soon, Sakura-sama."
"I forgot my flowers," she admits, walking to the sink she'd left them in, their petals still fresh and vibrant.
"Oh, right," Heiko's eyes follow her, "the ones from that dark gentlemen."
"Yes." She takes them, admires their beauty, their gentle scent pleasant as it hits her. "It didn't quite work out."
"I see." The nurse tips her head, raising a quizzical brow. "I'm sorry to hear that?"
"Don't be," Sakura assures her, "it means you and I will see a lot more of each other in the future."
Heiko lights up, offers a grin. "I'm happy to hear it."
She smiles, nods, and returns to Gaara's side. "So am I," she says, taking his hand as they leave, chuckling at the nurses' expressions of shock.
He turns to her when they exit, sends her an inquiring look. "You'd do that?" he asks. "Move to Suna?"
She's quick to answer him, no contemplation needed. "Of course!" she grins. "I actually like it here—and I could hardly steal away their Kazekage; he's too good at his job."
He smiles, brighter than the sun, she thinks.
"Where do you think you've been!?"
Sakura shrinks back, hides behind the bouquet, even though Temari's wrath isn't directed at her. Instead, the blonde points her scowl at the unexpected redhead, who doesn't appear shocked by her rage. Without a word, he steps forward, wraps his arms around his sister, taking both her and Sakura by surprise.
"I apologise for worrying you," he says, causing Temari's eyes to widen. Reluctantly, she returns the embrace, awkward at first, until it seems she melts into it, squeezing her brother lovingly.
"Alright, mister charming," she grins playfully, though Sakura doesn't miss the hint of emotion in her voice, "you're forgiven, alright, no need to use such extreme measures." She doesn't mean it, the joy on her features an obvious contradiction to her words, and Sakura smiles at the display. They release each other, needing no more words to clear the air, a truce reached through looks alone.
"These are for you." Sakura offers the flowers, smiling sheepishly. "They're from Sasuke."
"Why, what a treat!" the blonde exclaims, accepting the large gift. "I was looking for something to decorate the training grounds with."
Sakura laughs, relieved at Temari's talent for lightening the mood, thinking herself exceptionally lucky to be part of such a family.
It's not easy, leaving it all behind again—for now, she tells herself; she'll be back eventually. Still, it doesn't make saying goodbye any more pleasant. He's told her he'd visit again a month from now, when the Chuunin exams bring him to Konoha. In the meantime he'll keep in touch—not through notes, she's made him swear. His siblings will be there too, and she's excited to take them around Konoha—a spa day already on their list of activities. They all walk her past the village walls, chatting happily, almost making her forget she'll have to miss them. But, far too soon, their time together comes to an end. She's already considered remaining in Suna, only for a couple days, but couldn't bring herself to neglect her responsibilities any longer. Which has her thinking of Sasuke, who she hasn't seen again—she can't help but feel guilty for her sudden rejection, but she's sure he'll get over it sooner than later. He's Sasuke, after all.
When they say their final goodbyes, she hugs each of them, saves Gaara for last. She holds onto him with crushing strength, fears letting go, afraid doing so means missing him. He surprises her when he pulls back, pressing his lips to her forehead in a gesture of affection, overwhelming her; it's more than she'd expected him to give, and her skin buzzes with both gratitude and pride. Only a month, she reminds herself, battling the sting of tears in her eyes, just a single month alone. They release each other, remain silent for a while, and she tries her hardest to commit him to memory. It's impossible, she thinks, convinced she'll never be able to remember the exact emotion each part of him evokes, certain no conjuring of her mind could ever compare. Admitting defeat, she bids him farewell—for now, she reminds herself.
Then, she starts her journey, arriving home much too soon. Upon entry, she spots the blinking of her answering machine, mentally prepares herself for her mother's barrage of questions. She decides to ignore them for now, instead heads for her room to unpack. Passing the kitchen, she spots the small succulent, sees it alive and healthy. She smiles, happy for the reminder of him, then continues. She drops her bag onto her bed, releases a long, weary sigh. The exhaustion of her travels starts to set in, muscles sore from several days of running. She'll have to shower before she can rest, though, and decides to unpack before doing so. When she opens her bag, she's surprised to find a folded piece of paper. She takes it, slowly brings it closer for inspection, carefully unfolding it. Wrapped inside is the picture of them, revealing his features in clear detail, her stomach leaping at the sight. Then, when she turns to inspect the paper, she sees it's in fact a note, three words written across in familiar elegant strokes: 'I love you.'