Disclaimer: I don't own the Naruto franchise, thankfully. If I did, it'd almost never be updated, and I'd probably be receiving death threats in the mail. But I'd probably have enough money to hire a slew of bodyguards...

A/N: Constructive criticism would be appreciated. I'm trying out a different style of writing, and I'm not sure if it comes out smoothly all the time... If any part seems confusing, let me know, please (the last sentence is purposefully ambiguous, but I don't know if it's convoluted beyond understanding or not).

Prologue

He doesn't realize the reason why she circles their anniversary date in screaming red ink every year is not because she wants to remember the date, but because she's afraid of forgetting. He doesn't realize the reason she tells him she loves him every morning before he leaves (for work) is because she's afraid it isn't true. He doesn't realize, and he doesn't care.

.oOoxXxoOo.

They were married in December, and she couldn't help feeling their wedding was the end of something she couldn't quite name. When she tried, it stung her eyes and numbed the end of her tongue like the snowflakes that fell, melting into nothing. Her breath froze into white, much like the dress she wore. The stiff, low-cut lace itched, rubbing raw the skin above where she imagined her heart to be.

It was a small wedding with a quiet reception; he had no family and she had few friends. They sipped their champagne from different glasses, ate from separate plates, rode in different cars to the hotel they'd stay that night. The clerk at the front desk, a woman with grey hair dyed a buttery blonde, smiled knowingly and wished them a good night. He flushed red; whether it was the alcohol or embarrassment, neither woman could tell. The wet, muddy hem of the wedding dress was the same color as the roots of the clerk's hair.

He opened the door to the room and held it open with the side of his arm as he entered, without looking back. Grabbing the rough lace with her fists, she followed, her train dragging along the matted carpet. He let go of the door before she was through, but she, too, was able to prop it open with her elbow long enough to pull the frilly swathes of lace and silk and fabric through the hotel room door. That night, as she showered (alone; he had showered first, leaving her on the bed as hard as a platform and cold as the altar of an empty church) and felt the cold water pelt her skin like dying snowflakes and saw her breaths cloud the mirrors like angry ghosts, she felt somehow smaller than before. She had expected to come out of the wedding bed, in which she and her husband both had participated as obliged actors, stiff and quiet, as something more (a woman, perhaps?) or at the very least the same as she had been before. Never had she imagined she would be something less, for joining with a man. Watching the water run in rivers down her legs, and feeling the ache somewhere so deep it couldn't possibly have been physical, she wondered if she had lost something important, there on that bed which did not belong to her (or him).