“I hope you forgive me for intruding.” Sakura’s former mentor sits at her desk. Tsunade still looks like she never ages, but Sakura notes the fine lines that sprinkle her temple. There are things that Tsunade has allowed to be—like time.
“You’re never a stranger.” Sakura approaches her for a hug. “Sorry about the mess, I finished at midnight.” Open scrolls on medicinal innovations litter her usual squeaky clean desk.
Tsunade rolls her eyes and smirks, “Honey, have you seen mine?"
“Well, compared to Kakashi and Naruto, you did fine.”
Tsunade’s sight lingers on the edge of the files. Sakura traces her eyeline and sees what caught her attention. She fakes a laugh and tries to sweep the letter under another larger scroll.
“He’s writing?”
“To them.” Sakura notes the disbelief in Tsunade’s inquiry that bubbles under the surface. “Not to me.” She just basically told Tsunade that she steals these letters from her other teammates. Not that they would notice anyway, and sometimes Kakashi leaves them on her table.
Her mentor shrugs and throws an arm over her shoulder. They watch the cherry blossom tree outside of the office, long beyond its flowering season, but still a sight to behold. “Makes sense, considering how he writes.”
“It’s sparse, but he has always been economical that way.”
Tsunade stifles a laugh. “Didn’t I teach you about forensic handwriting?”
Sakura shakes her head, unsure of the conversation’s direction.
“Sasuke writes fast. His letters overlap, almost unintelligible, but whenever your name is mentioned, each stroke becomes heavier, bigger, leaves a more lasting imprint on the scroll. He’s also experiencing some intense feelings. It’s intentional, the way he writes about you.”
“What do you make out of it?”
“Like you give him peace.”
Sakura could only laugh. “I don’t….receive letters yet.”
“You’ll know when it comes.”
When her first letter lands on her windowsill a month later, Sakura notes the difference in handwriting. She asks him about it when he comes home and he asks her to go with him on a hike. On top of a hill overlooking the village, a picnic spread under them, a bracelet of forget-me-nots in progress in his hand.
“Do you use different pens?” she jests.
“For one thing, you’re more critical with things like handwriting than the two. You often complained of Iruka's style, didn't you?” Sasuke replies. He uses his mouth to close the string of flowers, and gives them to her. “I just also like writing your name.”
She wears the bracelet nonetheless but feels as if it’s her heart dangling on her sleeve with the way his answer left her unsatisfied.
“But not as much as I love saying it,” Sasuke adds, staring at her now and the way the afternoon sun paints her skin. “Sakura.”
