When her caretaker shoves her white cane in her hands and tells her to put it to good use, Sakura’s really got no choice. It’s been sitting in the corner of her room or in her backpack, but it’s been collecting dust either way and the older woman doesn’t like that. Not that she really cared about what her caretaker didn’t like, but she abides by the demand anyway because she’s genuinely a good girl(and not to mention the woman was kind of pissing her off right now). So with her usual backpack neatly strapped on her shoulders and her cane in hand, she walks out the door with a displeased grimace and an audible list of pre-ordered things from the grocery store. Sakura doesn’t like her cane—scratch that—she hates it. It’s a relatively bothersome thing to carry around everywhere: it was heavy, it took up too much space, and it literally defined who she was. It’s useful, in its own way—sure, but it gets her unwanted attention and garners her more than enough curious and judgemental looks her way. Plus, she has a strange tendency to knock against passing people’s ankles, so that alone was a validated reason to why she shouldn’t be swinging her stick around the streets. And there was always the fear that she’d accidentally smack someone in the head with the end of her cane(probably unlikely, but the possibility is still there). But like the way she didn’t care about what Chiharu thought, her caretaker didn’t either. It’s not long until she feels like she’s walked a considerable distance away from home, and there was no way her caretaker would be stalking after her, so she folds up her cane and sticks it back it its rightful place—her backpack. A few steps after she puts away her guide, she abruptly collides into something, or rather someone, and a split second thought rushes through her mind that maybe she should’ve at least kept the stick out until she reached the supermarket. There’s a string of words that come from the unfortunate person she crashed into and it sounds much harsher than it really should. She’s grown accustomed to hearing it at this point, but it still leaves a sour sting and an urge to cry(hell, she’s still a kid so she can cry all she wants). It shouldn’t mean a thing, but it does without reason and she can’t help but visibly shrink at the four, simple words. “A—Ah.” She doesn’t really know what to say that’ll possibly make her feel better about this whole situation right now, but she figures whatever stutter-y, superficial apology she comes up with will work(she’ll still probably reflect and mope about it home, though). “Sorry, I… uhm—I didn’t exactly see you.. uh—see.. you there.”
