Kakashi remembered the way she looked when she was angry, her green eyes flashing with a certain endearing vitality. And she was angry a lot of the time. And, he remembered the way she felt with her arms around him. As well as the way she smiled; the way she laughed. He remembered everything about her. But more so than anything, he remembered how she had cried, more out of joy than anything else, the day they had admitted that they loved each other.

They loved each other.

But then, because he remembered everything about her, he also remembered the things he wished he didn't. Like how her body was slumped on the ground which was wet from the rain, lifeless, clammy and cold. He remembered those glassy eyes, which by then no longer seemed to be the shade of green that he found he had come to love, though previously thought it impossible. And then he remembered how she had clutched desperately at his vest with the last of her remaining strength, and how it scared him to death the enormous juxtaposition of her normally monstrous strength and the weak hold she had on him while she was dying.

She was dying.

His heart was never whole to start with. But as the days passed, he found that he could no longer deny that the growing feeling in him for her wasn't love. For the first time in his life, he wanted to fall heads over heels, crazily in love with her. He wanted something. But then again, he didn't dare to let her notice; couldn't bear to hope for something more. Who knew she'd have gone ahead and noticed anyway? She'd responded, and slowly pried open his feelings for her, slowly turned it into something more. For the first time, he could learn to feel. Yet suddenly he was alone, because in that moment in time, she was there, and then she was gone.

She was there, and then she was gone.

It is dark every time he visits. Sometimes, it rains like it had on that day she left him. The soft sound of the ground under his feet hypnotizes him as he walks. His tired body and aching muscles scream out, but he ignores them, treading carefully so as to not step on the flowers and offerings others have brought to pay their respects. He carries on walking, taking every step until he comes before the cool, polished, memorial stone that shines in the moonlight streaking through the trees. It is dark every time he visits, but even in the darkness, he knows where to find her.

He knows where to find her.

And she, in turn, can find him. She comes to him sometimes, in his sleep, or in between wakefulness. He will lie on his side, remembering the contours of her body where she last slept in his bed. She comes to him before a thunderstorm, when it is dark and lightning is flashing. He can see her standing by the bed, silhouette illuminated by the occasional flash. She comes to him in the sharp whistling of the kettle that breaks his train of thoughts, forcing him to remember her last scream of his name. She comes to him, and it is dark every time she visits. She comes to him, and he finds that he is no longer alone.

He finds that he is no longer alone.