She'd been in love with an illusion, a boy who wasn't real, a personality that did not exist, a person she did not know, a person she would never know. Perhaps he had existed once, perhaps his legions of fans had not been completely stupid once, before revenge had become his goal, before death had robbed him of every single positive feeling that had once made up his being. The boy whom they all believed was kind and loyal, who really liked girls with long hair.

But people change, and he was not to be the exception and she, the fool, had not taken notice and realized the boy she loved was no more. And hate was his driving force and revenge, his life goal, and there was no place anywhere in his heart for a silly girl with mistaken dreams and a large forehead. She hadn't understood then that he would never give it all up just for one stupid girl, too weak to be useful, too emotional for a shinobi, and too idiotic to understand him, which is why she had still requested a date regardless of the million times he rejected her. He would never acknowledge her because she was never good enough. Their teammate, the so-called dead-last, would always receive more attention than her. Because she was a burden, a leaden weight, who lagged behind and watched their backs and saw them take the hits for her.

Which is why months from then, when she had stood, as always, looking at his back, with her heart in the palm of her hand, extended towards him, as it had always been, begging him to stay for her, to give up everything just for her, he had stood there with his ice-cold eyes and called her annoying and rejected her for the last time.

And the thank you had been no consolation. Because she had come to realize that he had nothing to thank her for. Because her devotion had always been the product of habit, her love illusionary and blind, and her self a worthless teammate who had never proved to anyone that she could be considered a serious kunoichi. She had never been able to protect them; she had always had to be protected. She had always been the one to cry in the end. She had had to beg her other teammate to go after him because she could not. She was too weak to follow. Her promises to help him had proven empty. What could she have done for him?

The realizations stung. Her happy, hopeful, stupid dreams had shattered and, piece by piece, realization by realization, had disappeared. Because she had been forced to look reality in the face when her teammate returned, battered and still hopeful, empty-handed. He had suffered the pain while she had waited on the side lines for the prize she did not deserve.

But people change, and she would not become the exception. And she had procured herself a new teacher, who would not allow her to stand back, to be protected, to be physically and emotionally weak. Because she had learned to hate her weakness and she had realized everything she should have seen before. She had loved her illusion of him, and she had offered him a worthless gift.

The years passed, and she trained and grew. And no one could call her weak now.

Just the same, no one could call her love for him an illusion. Because she had opened her eyes and learned his past and understood his goal. She understood him. And she loved him now. But her dreams were simple. And her hair would never be long again.

This time, she would not stay behind and wait listlessly for her teammate to bring him back for her. And she hoped, when she offered her self to him once more, once he realized the changes time and effort had wrought in her, she would be enough and he would not look past her to label her worthless and annoying. She would not cry if he rejected her, and she would not offer her self twice.