Categories > Anime/Manga > Naruto
Lee has memorized the distance from his house to hers; he knows the exact number of steps from his favorite training ground to the hospital where she works; he remembers precisely how long it takes him to travel from the flower shop to her doorstep. Still, each time he tries to get there just a little faster, partly to see if he's improved, but mostly because he wants to see her face again.
They're routines, like his training, and he loves them, because he loves her. He thinks, sometimes, that he knows her as well as he knows himself; and yet every day he finds something else to marvel at, and he falls in love all over again.
Her hands, with their short and polished nails, equally used to grasping a kunai, arranging flowers, and healing the wounded, all with the same elegant precision.
The little line she gets between her eyebrows when she's exasperated. He can tell when she thinks he's being foolish, and he adores that she can be the one to keep her feet on the ground while he dreams huge, impossible dreams.
Her scars, few but notable; white marks against her light skin. There, on her left shoulder: an enemy knife on a mission to stop an assassination attempt. That one, on her knee: she'd stumbled and fallen when she was six years old. Here, on her arm: a shuriken she'd been too distracted to dodge. She seemed glad to explain each one, said it would help remind him that she was, after all, only human, but not as fragile as he sometimes thought.
Her impossibly beautiful combination of leaf-green eyes and hair the color of her name. It makes him think of spring, and lends itself well to poetic metaphors, which he fine-tunes endlessly in his head until they are perfect enough for her. She always smiles, and he smiles in return, because that's all he's ever wanted.
They're routines, like his training, and he loves them, because he loves her. He thinks, sometimes, that he knows her as well as he knows himself; and yet every day he finds something else to marvel at, and he falls in love all over again.
Her hands, with their short and polished nails, equally used to grasping a kunai, arranging flowers, and healing the wounded, all with the same elegant precision.
The little line she gets between her eyebrows when she's exasperated. He can tell when she thinks he's being foolish, and he adores that she can be the one to keep her feet on the ground while he dreams huge, impossible dreams.
Her scars, few but notable; white marks against her light skin. There, on her left shoulder: an enemy knife on a mission to stop an assassination attempt. That one, on her knee: she'd stumbled and fallen when she was six years old. Here, on her arm: a shuriken she'd been too distracted to dodge. She seemed glad to explain each one, said it would help remind him that she was, after all, only human, but not as fragile as he sometimes thought.
Her impossibly beautiful combination of leaf-green eyes and hair the color of her name. It makes him think of spring, and lends itself well to poetic metaphors, which he fine-tunes endlessly in his head until they are perfect enough for her. She always smiles, and he smiles in return, because that's all he's ever wanted.
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