Naruto Oneshots + Imagines

Still Missing (Sakura Haruno x Sasuke Uchiha)

It's one in the morning and she still misses him.

Moonlight shines through the window as she gently places the pot over the stove and switches the burner onto high heat. The flame flickers to life in one go and illuminates her face with its soft, warm glow. that's why she'd decided to boil that tea in the first place- to feel some sort of warmth that could substitute his, to drink the beverage that she hates but tries to love just because was one of his favorites when he was still around.

Frowning, she stands there, thinking of him. The moonlight continues to pour in and bask her in its cool rays as she wonders where he is at this very moment. Logic tells her that he should be sleeping peacefully in his bed right now, but instinct tells her that he's awake doing something stupid; running around with Orochimaru, training, adding onto the list of criminal activities that he's already wanted for. The mere thought of it fills her with rage.

It's one ten in the morning and she still misses him.

The tea begins to boil in the pot, the fragrant smell of vanilla floating up to grace her vicinity. She struggles to fish the mug he got her for her birthday (or, rather, a mug that Naruto made him get her for her birthday so her feelings wouldn't be hurt by the Uchiha forgetting it) out of the cabinet because of how high up it is and thinks that he'd be able to reach it without any problem if he were there.

And what if he were there? What would it be like? Would she be smiling and content instead of feeling that familiar pit of emptiness in her chest? Would he be resting his head on her shoulder, or maybe sitting at the kitchen table waiting for her to finish making the tea so he could have some of it? Or would he be sleeping peacefully on the couch? Or maybe he would be awake in bed working on some papers, waiting for her to get there so they could fall asleep together? She isn't sure, and she knows it's a waste of time to think about things that won't ever happen, but she can't help herself.

It's one twenty one in the morning and she still misses him.

She takes the tea off the stove and pours some of it into the ceramic mug. He loads it with lemon juice, but she drinks it plain instead. When she catches her reflection in the steaming liquid, she grimaces at the sight; sickly pale skin, puffy and bloodshot eyes, swollen cheeks, frizzy pink hair.

..Maybe he'd like her if she were prettier- love her, even.

But that's unrealistic. He's not that shallow- he never has been, and that's what she's always loved about him. He doesn't care about her weight, her height, her makeup, her fashion sense- hell, he doesn't even care about his own appearance, but the thought that one day she might walk in and make his head turn still lingers in her mind, even if it'll never happen. Maybe it's her way of avoiding the truth, because it's much easier to think "he doesn't like me because i'm ugly, which is something that i can change" than it is to think "he doesn't like me because he isn't attracted to my personality, which is something i can't change" or even "he doesn't like me because he has so many other problems to focus on that he hasn't even considered romance with anyone, let alone me, which i also can't change".

Running like this, she feels like she's wasting away. Perhaps it would be better to waste away than to suffer through an existence full of being adored by those she ignores and ignored by those she adores in return.

It's one thirty two in the morning and she still misses him.

She looks on at the empty chairs by the kitchen table and imagines him sitting there again; imagines making him his own cup of tea, imagines knowing just how much lemon juice to add, imagines placing it in front of him and gently wrapping her arms around his shoulders from behind, imagines him holding her soft hands with his much rougher ones and placing a gentle kiss against her wrist as she rests her chin on top of the back of his head.

It's one thirty seven in the morning and she still misses him.

She finally manages to break her gaze from the empty table and takes a drink from the tea. Of course, she fucking hates it- it's bitter and bland, but it tastes the same way that he smells, and it's comforting in a weird way, so she puts up with it and takes another sip before setting it on the counter.

She crosses her arms and stands aimlessly for another few minutes.

It's one forty five in the morning and she still misses him.

It's almost two in the morning and she still misses him. She'll always miss him; no matter how close he is, he's still so far away, and while she doesn't miss him because she's had him as her own at any point, she does miss what could be there if their circumstances were different. She's always had a habit of lingering on what could've been, but she prefers to ignore her own flaws rather than fix them, so she takes her cold tea and pours it down the drain, subsequently dropping the ceramic mug in the kitchen sink in a manner so haphazard that it clatters loudly against the metal and almost breaks. She leaves her notes scattered across the kitchen table, runs a hand through the hair that she hates, and trudges to her bedroom.

On the way there, she catches a glance at her reflection yet again in one of the many mirrors she has- the many mirrors that she keeps around to check her appearance; to validate herself on good days and remind herself of her insecurities on the bad ones- and oh, God, she looks like a mess.

Of course she does. She always does. But because she knows how much he'd be annoyed by it if he were to see her like this, she ignores how much she despises the way she looks and trudges on to her bedroom.

And she falls asleep the second her body hits the mattress, completely unaware of the dark-haired figure sitting on the long branch of the tree outside her window and peering in to watch over her.

Naturally, her missing him carries into her dreams, too.

It's two in the morning and she still misses him.