"Shikamaru's been injured. He's in a critical state."
The news triggered an immediate surge of panic within her.
"We have to amputate his leg."
That statement echoed like a hammer blow, causing her heart to freeze in distress.
She had never shared a close bond with Shikamaru. They existed as classmates, exchanging occasional nods of greeting. Mere passing acquaintances in the tapestry of their lives.
However, everything changed after that fateful day. Shikamaru transformed into the centre of her universe, her singular focus. The emotion that had taken hold of her, the paralyzing guilt, refused to relinquish its grip.
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Because, in the narrative untouched by her presence, Shikamaru's leg remained intact. He continued his life with all his limbs, unaffected by such a loss. The sole alteration was her own existence within that story. This realization made it apparent that her culpability was not a significant stretch.
What actions had she taken? What had she done? What had she done?
Thus, she positioned herself beside his hospital bed, her presence raising no initial inquiries. After all, they were merely classmates. Others too came and went, a fleeting presence. However, she didn't follow suit.
She persisted, enduring until the designated visiting hours concluded. Then, she'd reluctantly retreat to her apartment, her conscience weighed down by guilt. She would immerse herself in sorrow, a consequence she attributed to her actions.
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When Ino inquired about her daily visits, Yuri simply shrugged and offered the explanation that her absence from missions facilitated her availability. This, however, was far from the truth. She was deliberately rejecting assignments, evading the Hokage's presence for a continuous month. It was highly likely that Lady Tsunade held a simmering annoyance.
Occasionally, Choji would direct questioning glances her way from his steadfast position beside Shikamaru's bed. Yet, he refrained from pressing her for explanations. He harboured no opposition to her companionship. At times, conversations would flow between them—topics ranging from food to weather to mutual friends.
Alternately, they would share wordless moments of contemplation, their attention focused on the dark-haired figure reclining in unconsciousness—
Because of her, because of her, because of her, a refrain echoing in her thoughts—
upon the hospital bed.
Among those present, Shikamaru's parents engaged in the most extensive conversations with her. Inquisitive about her background, they delved into discussions about her family, prompting details about her parents and siblings. For the most part, she provided candid responses, truthfully addressing their queries. Except for one specific inquiry.
"Did you and Shikamaru share a close relationship?"
This question posed a dilemma. She couldn't bring herself to affirm. Truth be told, they had interacted on a mere four occasions throughout her seventeen years. Such infrequent encounters hardly warranted the intensity of her devoted presence by his side.
During the second month of his son's coma, Shikaku sat across from her. He placed a board on the table and arranged the pieces for a game of shogi.
"Care for a game?" he inquired nonchalantly. "It helps pass the time."
With each visit, they engaged in this ritual. Yet, her visits were more frequent than his. She had become an integral part of the room, inseparable from its ambiance. Whenever people spoke of visiting him, it was synonymous with Shikamaru and Yuri. She remained a constant presence, always beside the boy, a book in her hand as she delved into her research.
If anyone happened to glance at the cover, they would discover her immersed in the study of prosthetics—specifically, the art of crafting them. In this realm, the closest parallel was the concept of puppets. Once a ninja lost a limb, their path often veered towards an abrupt end. This sentiment seemed to pervade the general consensus.
However, this perspective didn't sit well with her. In her own reality, individuals without limbs had demonstrated the remarkable capacity to outshine even those with intact extremities. This notion fuelled her determination. "Maybe," she mused quietly to herself, "there's a better solution."
Three months had passed before the Hokage's personal visit materialized. Startled, she hadn't realized the extent of her weight loss until the concerned and somewhat exasperated leader pointed it out.
"Are you intentionally starving yourself?"
She couldn't provide a definitive answer. Was she? There were times when meals slipped her mind, and the weight of guilt made even the idea of food repulsive. It was almost as if a part of her wished that by ceasing to eat, she might cease to exist altogether.
Tsunade, determined to intervene, urged her to resume active duty. However, her response was resolute; she had to remain by Shikamaru's side. Her purpose was to forge a better future for him.
"He doesn't have a future as a shinobi," Tsunade asserted.
In direct contrast, she disagreed vehemently, asserting that Shikamaru could still contribute effectively, just as he had before. The Hokage was taken aback by this bold assertion but was willing to lend an ear, if only to placate the impassioned young woman.
When she pitched the concept of a prosthetic solution, her proposal wasn't outright rejected. However, the Hokage did voice her reservations.
"Perhaps this could be functional for civilian life, but as a shinobi…"
Yuri felt her hopes shatter into pieces. Her realization was dishearteningly accurate—perhaps Shikamaru could regain the ability to walk, but becoming a shinobi seemed an insurmountable challenge. Once again, she believed she had let him down.
"Can I take a look?" Shikaku reappeared, the shogi board conspicuously absent. His gaze bore into her, drifting toward the paper that held her intricate prosthetic designs.
How had he found out? she wondered silently.
"Lady Tsunade informed me of your proposition," Shikaku revealed. "She believes it could give Shikamaru a chance to walk again."
Her heartache was palpable as she responded with a bitter acknowledgment—Shikamaru would never fulfil his aspirations as a shinobi. Her spirit felt drained, a slow descent into the depths of desolation.
"Can I?" he inquired once more. She simply shrugged; her indifference evident. He was free to proceed as he pleased; it held no significance. In her mind, the weight of failure echoed incessantly, a relentless mantra of self-blame.
Five months had dragged by the boy ensnared in a seemingly endless coma. The impending arrival of his eighteenth birthday loomed like a sombre cloud. Would this milestone slip past unnoticed while he remained trapped in this state? She fervently wished for his awakening, for his eyes to open once again.
Then, her sentiments took a twisted turn. A new prayer emerged, one she scarcely dared to voice. Perhaps, she thought, it might be better if he didn't awaken. What kind of existence awaited him in the wake of this prolonged slumber? The world he would face was fraught with challenges, particularly for one robbed of their vitality.
Yet, against her wishes or intentions, he did stir from his dormant state. Just a week before his eighteenth birthday, his eyelids fluttered open. She, absorbed in her reading about intricate Chakra networks, remained oblivious to his awakening until his voice, hoarse and fragile, broke the silence.
"Yuri-San?"
Startled, she jolted, inadvertently dropping her book in her astonishment. There he sat, propped up, his gaze fixed on her with a mixture of confusion and drowsiness. An unspoken exchange passed between them, both taken aback by the presence of the other.
A raspy cough disrupted the stillness, prompting her into action. 'Water,' she thought urgently, her hand grabbing the empty glass and hastily filling it. She offered it to him, and he expressed his gratitude, a simple act that only deepened her internal turmoil. She wished he wouldn't thank her; he shouldn't feel indebted. This entire situation, she believed, rested squarely on her shoulders.
Guilt echoed relentlessly, a ceaseless chant that seemed to etch itself deeper into her thoughts.
After he had taken a few sips of water, she assisted him in placing the glass back down. Gently adjusting the pillow behind him to offer more comfort and support, she noted a hint of unease in his demeanour. Yet, he didn't resist her aid, his sharp eyes scanning his surroundings in their customary astute manner.
"What happened?"
In her mind, a confession loomed—'I've damaged your life irreparably,' she yearned to admit. 'Because of me, your future has been forever altered.' But the words remained unsaid. Instead, she lifted her Chakra book, tucking it under her arm, and bestowed upon him a smile that felt strangely artificial.
"I'll summon the nurse for you," she announced, her voice carrying a semblance of normalcy. With that, she departed, acutely aware of his gaze tracing her movements until she reached the door. Once outside, her hands trembled, a tell-tale sign of the turmoil roiling within her.
When news of his awakening spread, a flood of well-wishers converged to see him. They arrived in bustling clusters rather than in small gatherings. Among those who gathered were his parents, steadfastly at his side, and his teammates. She, however, chose not to re-enter the room.
On occasion, she would advance as far as the corridor outside his room, only to retreat. At times, the very thought of entering the hospital would paralyze her. What claim did she have to be in his presence? Her internal conflict kept her at bay, a silent observer of the reunions and emotions that transpired within those walls.
She stood in the hallway on the night he finally succumbed to his emotions, grappling with the reality of his changed circumstances. His initial awakening had appeared composed, perhaps the presence of an unexpected visitor in his hospital room had diverted his attention. The subsequent influx of well-wishers had likely provided further distractions.
Yet, once solitude embraced him, his composure crumbled. His tears flowed in hushed, heart-rending sobs that barely reached her ears. In a shared moment of empathy, her own vision blurred, mirroring the depth of his anguish.
"I'm sorry," she whispered to the emptiness of the corridor, the words a soft lament that hung in the air like a fragile confession.
"I'm so sorry."
As three days passed since his awakening, and yet she hadn't visited once, whispers began to circulate. Conversations carried the weight of unspoken questions: "Where is Yuri? Shouldn't she be here now that he's awake?"
She fervently hoped these discussions wouldn't reach his ears. It seemed more prudent for him not to be privy to her absence during this crucial time. When inquiries came her way, she could only offer a nonchalant shrug and a vague promise that her visit would be forthcoming.
Two days elapsed after her unfulfilled promise, and Ino's persistent knocks echoed at her door. The timing was rather telling—on the day of his birthday.
"It's his birthday today," Ino announced, her expression anticipatory and her determination unmistakable.
"He says he wants to see you."
Yuri felt the foundations of her world crumble at those words. He wanted to see her. The notion was confounding.
Before she could muster a refusal, Ino's grip on her wrist tightened, leaving Yuri with little choice but to relent. A resigned sigh escaped her lips as she slid her shoes on, her thoughts tethered to the undeniable truth: Ino always managed to get what she wanted.
Shikamaru's brows knitted in response to his father's remarks as they entered the room. The occupants of the space observed as Ino paraded Yuri into the room as if she were a prize to be displayed.
"I got her," Ino proclaimed triumphantly.
Shikamaru, though grateful for her presence, shot Ino a rueful glance, his frustration evident. He turned to his fellow female teammate; his voice tinged with exasperation. "I told you to ask her, not drag her here against her will."
Ino's defences bristled, sparking a heated argument between the two teammates. Seizing the opportunity, Yuri managed to slip free from Ino's grasp. With a fleeting smile of appreciation, she acknowledged Shikaku, who was seated nearby.
As she awkwardly stood in the room that had become all too familiar over the past months, a sense of displacement settled upon her. Shikaku gestured towards the worn chair, her customary perch throughout this trying time. With a nervous nod, she settled into the seat, struggling to find a comfortable position as an air of unease surrounded her.
Ino had departed in a huff, her mutterings about ungrateful teammates carrying more fondness than true anger. Amid the atmosphere of relief that he was finally awake, Yuri found herself locking eyes with Shikamaru.
"I'm glad you came," he spoke, a sincere smile gracing his lips. His happiness at her presence was palpable, yet a voice within her responded with bitter disbelief. He shouldn't be glad, not after what she felt she had done to him.
Suppressing her inner turmoil, she offered a hesitant smile in return. Shikamaru and his father both noticed her uncertainty, but neither chose to address it. Shikaku, with a deliberate motion, raised a familiar parchment for her to see—her design for a prosthetic.
"I made a few adjustments. I hope you don't mind," Shikaku mentioned, offering her the paper. Upon taking it, Yuri's gaze fell upon his added annotations, intricately weaving over her own smaller writing. It was evident he had enhanced her design, tailoring it for combat.
A rush of exhilaration surged through her. "Then this means—" she began, her voice trailing off, wary of speaking her thoughts aloud. Shikamaru's reassuring smile encouraged her to continue.
"You can still be a shinobi," the words tumbled from her lips, mingling with the burgeoning joy that danced in her eyes. It was a radiant smile, one that had been absent since the day she had received the disheartening news.
"And it's all thanks to you," he concluded.
The smile faded.
"No," her mind screamed vehemently. She couldn't accept gratitude for something she considered so inadequate. The weight of Shikamaru's appreciative gaze bore down on her, too intense to bear. It was a burning sensation that seared her insides.
Ignoring the perplexed questions that followed her sudden movement, she rose from her seat and headed for the exit. The room had become stifling, and the weight of Shikamaru's thanks was suffocating her. She had given him the prosthetic, but in her eyes, it hardly amounted to redemption. All she could do now was beseech forgiveness silently, each day for the remainder of her existence, while diligently staying out of his path.
He deserved more than her presence; her mind insisted. He deserved the life he was meant to have before her intrusion had shattered it.
Promising herself that she wouldn't return, she walked away with a heavy heart.
It was the least she could do for the boy whose life she had singlehandedly shattered.