empathy (rewritten 2019)

chapter three

"We knew she was always happy, always bright," her mother said at the funeral. "It's just a terrible thing for the world to be rid of such a joyful girl. I know for days on we'll be missing her smile."

But she was wrong--oh, so wrong. Her happy days as a genin were over when the Chunin Exams hit, when she watched Naruto nearly die for her and Sasuke and the raven receive the very mark that would make him leave. She watched and watched on, something holding her back whether it be her cowardice or the worried looks of her teammates and everyone else. It would either be you should stay back, sakura or you can't do anything, so just watch and she just watched.

She was guilty and drowning in her missed opportunities, in her missed bruises and praises of glory. It was always like this, she would say. Always her, cursing herself, watching the world go by and her classmates giggle and laugh and mock and Sasuke brush her off and her parents just sit there, reading, casting bitter glances at each other every now and then, and the only thing that would ever change was the lip tint she wore.

And at the age of nine, before her final exam at the Academy, before the Chunin Exams, before she absolutely fell, she was walking the streets, walking home alone from the Academy. Her parents stopped picking her up when their library shifts changed and they worked from early nights to late mornings--they had to rest in the afternoon before leaving again in the evening.

So she walked slow. She knew the moment the front door creaked open her parents her mother would pause in the middle of her telling her husband how he didn't take the trash out, how you always do this, and do I need to remind you all I've done for you? And as she walked in she would walk past their bedroom door, catching a glimpse as they bit their bitterness goodbye and pretended to rest harmoniously. She took her time, because if she was a minute earlier, she would have to watch and listen and cry.

And she thought to herself, Naruto is lucky he doesn't have parents. Parents like mine.

As she walked she kept her head down, hugged her books close to her chest. Amy from her class walked past with her parents; turning and laughing behind her parents' backs as she passed by. Sakura bit her wavering lips and crossed the street, looking down at the ground.

And then it happened. She heard an oh, i'm gonna get caught and then the clack of footsteps and felt her books fly, her papers flutter and her shoulders groan in pain as she crashed to the ground, knocked over by an anxious stranger. Sakura sat, still watching the ground and its cracks and small pebbles quiver, frozen and afraid. If it was Amy, she would beat Sakura up; if it was anyone from her class, they would laugh and run off and forget.

But it was someone else. "Ah! Gomen, gomen--daijobu desuka?" She felt cold, clammy hands on her new dress and she remembered Rena and how she tore the sleeve of her left shoulder last month, and her mother was angry and wouldn't stitch it and--"No, don't cry, please, I'm so sorry--"

"No, it's okay," Sakura stood, gathering her books and papers. The stranger stood and dusted themselves off. "I don't even know you. Why would I cry? I'm sorry, I was in your way and--"

"No, no! It was my fault. I was in a rush and didn't see you there," the stranger said. Sakura looked at their feet. Their shoes were old and busted, as though they ran in the dirt and rain in them. Then they bent down and picked up a forgotten paper. "Here, you dropped this."

She took the paper and, looking up, noticed the dirt and scratches on their knuckles and fingertips. She looked up, and, shocked, found a dirtied child of the streets standing before her. An older girl, her skin tan from the harsh sun in the summers and her structure stuck to bones and small muscles from afternoons of running. Her clothes were torn and full of sewn-on patches of different colors, splattered with dirt and stains. Her hair, dry and pulled into a low half-bun, was choppy as though she ran a pair of scissors through it.

"What's your name?" The stranger asked with a bright smile that Sakura, inwardly, pitied.

"Sakura. What's yours?" Sakura held a hand out as common courtesy. She could wash her hands later.

And the girl shook her hands, changing the future like a snap or a cursed mark or meeting a man worthy of leaving for--from then on Sakura found the only one who could listen, smile, and watch with her, who could change her mind about poor boys without parents and remind her of past dreams that weren't so far from reach. They shook hands and the stranger smiled even brighter.

"Keiko. I'm a chunin."

At nine years, Sakura met me.