Rage
The last rays of twilight filter through her sheer curtains, casting a pale lavender glow over Sakura's face. But it's not the sunlight that stirs her from sleep—it's the throbbing ache in her chest, a pain so familiar that it has almost become a part of her. One more day in mid-March down and the anxiety within her continues its rolling boil just under her skin. One more day in Mid-March anticipating her child's disappointment as Sarada turns eight years old without Sasuke.
Sakura stretches out her arm to the side of the bed, knowing logically that her husband's warmth won't meet her fingertips. And yet, the cold sheets under her grip feel so… unexamined. Flat. Angry.
She flinches. Instinctively pushing that thought away, Sakura physically recoils away from a thread of memories that will denature with her all-consuming anger. It would be so much easier if she didn't harbor these feelings, if Sakura could fight off the invasion of foreign feelings. She doesn't want this anger; she doesn't want to hold space for this. If Sakura accommodates this ugly feeling growing at the pit of her stomach, she fears how far it might mar her past life choices.
And yet… God. Why did she follow him? Why did she say 'yes' to running away with him? Why did she hold on to Sasuke's hand so tightly? Her younger self, fueled by a heady combination of love and steadfast conviction, chased Sasuke. Across borders, through forests, up and down mountain ranges, and along the coastlines. With his fingers, with his warmth, with his lips, and with his body. Through it all, Sakura let her nineteen-year-old self throw her careful plans freefalling from cliffs. Winds whipping her hair, their shared laughter filling the quiet trails, dancing in the dark of their dwindling campfires, Sakura remembers it all that past sweetness with such a bitter aftertaste now.
Adult Sakura, the Sakura of today, feels a different kind of exhaustion—an emotional fatigue that makes her question everything.
Entrenched in the darkness of midnight, the memories flicker one after the other. Sakura's mind sees a film reel she can't stop—Sasuke's fingers intertwining with hers, promising he'd come back soon as they entwined their bodies together. Long nights with his hand up in her hair, kissing away the pain. Echoes of his footsteps on their stairs, coming home like he promised. But promises, she's learned, can be as ephemeral as shadows, slipping away no matter how tightly you try to grasp them. Teenage dreams painted with seafoam green polish and ruby red eyes crackle and break apart in the fire of her remorse.
A surge of anger rises in her throat, threatening to spill over. She's angry at Naruto for bringing Sasuke back into her life only to have him leave again. Angry at Sasuke for making the correct choice to protect them from unseen danger from other dimensions. Angry at her younger self for not foreseeing this loneliness. And most of all, angry at her current self for even entertaining these thoughts.
It's not just Sasuke she misses. It's the dream of them together. Of waking up side by side, of sharing quiet breakfasts, of laughing at little Sarada's antics, of learning how natural it is for Sasuke to be a great father.
His love was evident not in grand gestures, but in the countless small moments Sarada and Sasuke shared. Sasuke made a ritual of reading their Sarada bedtime stories, even when she was too young to understand, just to hear her soft coos in response. When Sarada took her first shaky steps, it was Sasuke's outstretched arm that beckoned her forward, assuring her of safety. He spent nights mastering the art of preparing her favorite meals, ensuring she received the best nutrition. After long missions, he'd come home with a new trinket or toy, delighting in the way her eyes sparkled with joy. The Uchiha family crest, usually worn with so much gravity, became an emblem of playful peekaboo games between father and daughter. On days when she was ill, Sasuke would remain by her side, cooling her brow and calming her fears. He taught her little ninja techniques, turning training into fun father-daughter games. Despite the shadows of his past, he was determined to shield Sarada from similar pain, enveloping her in warmth and security. And every birthday, he'd ensure it was made special just for her.
But that's just it, isn't it? Sarada already knew that her father's love was immeasurable, his dedication unwavering. And Sarada would be crushed when Sasuke's love wouldn't be enough to bring him to her for her eighth birthday.
She brushes a stray tear off her cheek, chastising herself at how a simple birthday could fill every space within her with rage. How dare she let herself feel this way? By all accounts, she's led a life of success and fulfillment. She's a top medic in Konoha, the proud mother of a bright, eight-year-old Sarada, and she's surrounded by friends and a community that looks up to her. Instead, there's a gaping void that she constantly feels the need to fill with smiles and laughter, even if they're forced.
Everyone looks up to her. They see her as a pillar of strength, as the always-smiling medic, as the perfect mom. And she can't crumble, not when so many depend on her.
Hours have passed, dawn will begin to brighten her room any second now. Another sleepless night bathed in the fury she can't let herself touch in broad daylight. Sakura swings her legs over the side of the bed, her toes touching the cold wooden floor.
She hears Sarada's room's door creak. In an instant, Sakura pastes on the smile she's perfected over the years. "Good morning, sweetie," she calls out, voice light and breezy. "Want some pancakes?"
Sarada bounds down the stairs, her dark eyes shining with excitement. "Pancakes? Yes, please!"
As Sakura watches her daughter's exuberance during their morning routine, she forgets her own turmoil. She immerses herself in the routine, in the simple pleasure of flipping pancakes and listening to Sarada chatter about school. This, she thinks, is her solace. This, she accepts, is her shield against letting her own rage make ashes out of her.
THE END.