In appreciation of broken things.
Because the glass must break at some point, shatter into sharp pieces on the floor, brilliant and beautiful and dangerous, ready to slash skin and pull out blood to decorate its jagged sides.
Sakura is not foolish enough to think he is perfect.
But the true flaws lie beneath the tiny cracks in the surface, tectonic plates creating mountains, pushing in an upward motion to show, to create, to form.
She sees his self-hatred and matches it with hers.
When they touch each other, the broken, imperfect pieces heal, until one of them is more broken than the other. He has more years of hurt, but betrayal and pain are still fresh in her mind, a bitter, bloody tang on her tongue.
When they desperately touch, holding each other for support and to stay up, she is a little less broken, he is a little more whole.
Once, his convoluted features, handsome and marred by pain and trial from his past, were hidden by a layer of gold leaf (or silver, as it were.) She thought he was perfect.
She hid- still hides- behind strength, using it to disguise how weak and crippled she truly is.
They are different with each other, because when they compare they have matching pairs, an even set of self-hatred and disgust, betrayal and numbness, personal weakness and failure and too, too many barriers built up around themselves to heal.
She knows there is a long way to being fixed.
But if she wasn't broken, maybe she never would have found his pieces on the floor next to hers.