However, for someone who had no knowledge of Russian even a day before, she can't imagine it was even half as easy to write.
Still, Anya finds herself enthralled by the book as she goes through it, flipping through the page and letting her fingers touch over the sketches with almost reverent caution, as if she wouldn't be able to forgive herself if she smudged even a single line. The stories make her laugh, make her smile even in the earliness of the morning before she even gets ready for school. She might be late. But she's never late - so it'll be okay just this once, right?
Since she doesn't think she can pull herself away from this. Especially as she spends a long minute looking at the last detailed picture of the warmth of her home, of what Yato thinks of their little makeshift family, and -
It doesn't hit her that she's crying until teardrops fall on her own wrists - and then she's scrambling to make sure she doesn't cry onto the storybook, holding it further out from her with one hand as the other touches her face in confusion as she blinks through the tears. It only confuses her when more come, when her fingers tremble and her nose sniffs as she frets in soft, confused Russian over the state of her own emotions.
Who knew feeling so loved could make her cry?
It's only when she's walking to school that she sees him - and to be honest, it takes less than a second for Anya to make the decision that she'll just miss her first class entirely - because then she's exclaiming:]
Yato!
[Please wake up.
Please wake up and don't be mad when she throws herself at him for a hug that almost makes her tear up all over again.]
no subject
However, for someone who had no knowledge of Russian even a day before, she can't imagine it was even half as easy to write.
Still, Anya finds herself enthralled by the book as she goes through it, flipping through the page and letting her fingers touch over the sketches with almost reverent caution, as if she wouldn't be able to forgive herself if she smudged even a single line. The stories make her laugh, make her smile even in the earliness of the morning before she even gets ready for school. She might be late. But she's never late - so it'll be okay just this once, right?
Since she doesn't think she can pull herself away from this. Especially as she spends a long minute looking at the last detailed picture of the warmth of her home, of what Yato thinks of their little makeshift family, and -
It doesn't hit her that she's crying until teardrops fall on her own wrists - and then she's scrambling to make sure she doesn't cry onto the storybook, holding it further out from her with one hand as the other touches her face in confusion as she blinks through the tears. It only confuses her when more come, when her fingers tremble and her nose sniffs as she frets in soft, confused Russian over the state of her own emotions.
Who knew feeling so loved could make her cry?
It's only when she's walking to school that she sees him - and to be honest, it takes less than a second for Anya to make the decision that she'll just miss her first class entirely - because then she's exclaiming:]
Yato!
[Please wake up.
Please wake up and don't be mad when she throws herself at him for a hug that almost makes her tear up all over again.]