thursday night

She didn't want to get up. She never wanted to get up again. She wanted to flatten herself against the floor and press press press until each grain of wood was imprinted on her skin. She wanted to combust from the inside out and she wanted to never breathe again. She didn't want to die, she just wanted to

she just wanted to

stop.

Her door thumped open, and Uchiha Sasuke was suddenly staring impassively down at her prostrate body. Sakura vaguely thought that she should get up, should come up with a plausible explanation short of insanity, but she only managed to sit up before her hands were at her mouth, pressing back sobs.

A part of her dimly acknowledged that she was going to regret this come morning, and she hated herself too because she shouldn't be crying—there was no reason for her to be crying except for this…what should she even call it? She wasn't sad, she wasn't—she just felt a crushing pressure in her chest day-in, day-out, and it made her do things like sleep on her floor and cry for no reason and sometimes she felt like she was going crazy with it, the feeling and the not-feeling, and sometimes she was that close to scratching her own eyes out—

He must've closed the door, because the next thing she knew he was sitting next to her, and when her hand found his and she squeezed, squeezed so hard that joints probably popped he didn't say a word, didn't pull away and didn't call her crazy, didn't tell her to get over herself and pick herself up off the floor because she was supposed to be so so strong—

He just stayed.