the bed is cold on the other side.
she wakes, hand outstretched, fingers grasping for the warmth of sai’s form, discomfited in the quiet: it takes her a moment to realize that sai is gone, that sai will always be gone. the bed is cold, will always be cold, and she will never see him again.
she waits a moment, gaze fixed on the indent in his pillow, as if he will magically appear, a sardonic smile in place ( and god, she’d take a thousand of his teasings if it meant he’d come home ). she can’t imagine going to sleep without being curled up against him; she can’t imagine waking up without hearing his voice, raspy from sleep, and kissing him before she leaves for work.
she can’t imagine living like this, with a grief so strong and sharp it feels like being gutted, over and over, without pause.
her arms come around her waist, and she holds herself close. they had barely gotten started, the two of them: they were supposed to have years, dozens of them. years to grow old, to have a family, to laugh at stupid jokes and make love in stupid places and to hold hands when everything else was falling apart, because at least they would have each other. years together. years for sakura to tell sai she loved him.
now she feels as cold as the ground he sleeps in.
she closes her eyes, but the pain doesn’t fade. tears seep out, soaking the fabric underneath.
she turns to face the other side.
my muse is dead for 24 hours; what does your muse do?
