I was born into a family where the sound of fists cutting through air was more common than lullabies.
Some girls grew up surrounded by dolls and ribbons. I grew up surrounded by wooden dummies, training mats, and the steady, disciplined breathing of martial artists. My earliest memories were not of being cradled to sleep, but of sitting at the edge of the dojo, watching my parents move like flowing water and crashing steel.
The moment my ability manifested at the age of eight, everything changed.
It wasn't loud.
It wasn't flashy.
But it was… different.
Useful.
Especially in a world where abilities ruled everything.
My parents realized it immediately. Their eyes—sharp and experienced—saw the potential before I even understood what it meant. They never treated me like something abnormal. If anything, they became gentler. More protective.
Because outside the dojo, the world was not as kind.
I was strong, liked fighting. And children can be cruel to anything that doesn't fit into their neat little boxes.
I still remember the day.
A group of older kids had cornered a smaller boy behind the convenience store. He was trembling, trying not to cry while they mocked him.
My body moved before my mind did.
One step.Two steps.
A punch that made the loudest one drop to his knees.
I didn't think about winning or losing. I only knew that it was wrong.
When I returned home that day with bruised knuckles and dust on my clothes, my mother gasped.
My father laughed.
Then they both hugged me so tightly I couldn't breathe.
From that day on, they spoiled me even more.
Not because I was weak.
But because they knew the world would not always understand me.
I never liked skirts due to them restricting my movements.
Training clothes were better. Loose shirts, pants, short hair tied back so it wouldn't get in my eyes. I could run, jump, fight—be myself.
My mother would sigh every time she saw me.
"Just try something cute for once," she would say, holding up a dress.
My father would cross his arms and nod seriously. "Your mother is right. What about your future boyfriend?"
"I don't need one," I would answer, returning to my stance.
They worried.
Not about my strength.
But about my happiness.
Because they thought no one would understand a girl who loved to fight.
When I was younger, I used to watch hero shows on TV.
Masked figures saving people. Protecting the weak. Standing against impossible odds.
I knew they weren't real.
This world didn't have heroes.
So I decided to become something close to one.
Not for justice.
Not for recognition.
Just because it felt right to help.
Carrying an old woman's groceries.
Stopping a fight between students.
Training until my body ached so I could be strong enough when it mattered.
That became my normal.
When i grow up some boys did confess to me. They would call me beautiful, their faces red and voices shaking.
But the moment they saw me in the dojo…
The moment they heard I preferred sparring over shopping…
The moment they watched me knock someone flat on the ground…
Their feelings disappeared.
Like mist under sunlight.
I got used to it.
So when Shido called me beautiful—
When he looked at me without hesitation, without discomfort, without trying to change who I was—
I didn't know what to do.
After meeting Shido, something inside me became… restless.
I tried to ignore it.
I went back to my routine.
Helping people. Training. Living the way I always had.
I even tried to observe other boys. To see if that strange tightening in my chest would happen again.
It didn't.
Not once.
They were kind. Some were strong. Some even shared similar interests.
But none of them made my heartbeat lose its rhythm. None of them made my thoughts wander in the middle of training.
None of them made me replay a single conversation over and over in my mind.
So I began to rely on logic.
Maybe it was curiosity.
Maybe it was admiration.
Maybe it was just because he was new.
That's what I told myself.
"Mom," I asked one morning during breakfast, trying to sound normal, "how do you know if… you like someone?"
My father suddenly coughed out his coffee then when he stopped he immediately stood up.
"This is a conversation between women," he declared, nodding to my mother with the seriousness of a warrior heading into battle.
He left the table without looking back.
My mother watched me carefully.
And I told her everything.
About the confusion. About the way my chest felt tight. About how I couldn't recreate that feeling with anyone else.
About how he called me beautiful even after seeing me fight.
When I finished, she smiled.
A gentle, knowing smile.
"Sakura," she said, placing her hand over mine, "that's love. You've fallen in love for the first time."
Love?
The word echoed in my head like a strike against a bell.
So this was it?
This was the emotion that made people change?
That made my parents look at each other the way they did?
Since that day, I've been trying to confirm it.
Through training.
Through helping others.
Through meeting new people.
But nothing compares.
Nothing feels the same.
So now…
Standing alone in my room, staring at my reflection—short hair, sharp eyes, a body built through discipline rather than delicacy—I whisper the truth I've been avoiding.
"I still don't fully understand this feeling… but I think it really is love."
There's only one way to be sure.
"And when I confirm it… everything will become easier."
Because next time I see him—
I will know.