[Whatever he's gotten into his head, he's not ready to explain it just yet. He's worrying at his lip as, rather than try, he bends closer to the computer to cut off the video feed.]
Until next time -
[And that's all. He's not there anymore.
Towards the end of the day, though, Jun might open her door or come back to her room to find a small, black book-bag hanging off the door, empty save for a slim, hardback volume. The cover is plain and plainly old, its title in French.
Inside, the text is the same - a French prose adaptation of stories from Ovid's Metamorphoses, presumably for schoolchildren. But here and there are dog-earred pages, always with illustrations, and sheets of notebook paper slipped in with them, taped down. Each one has a short, simplified (and often imperfect) translation of the pictured story into English, handwritten in delicate script.
He doesn't know if they'll be any use, if Jun even has enough of a start to sound out the words and attempt to tackle them. But it was the only thing he could think of - and remembering how it felt trying to learn, not being able to escape into a story or piece things together, is too miserable for him to shrug it off.
He guesses, if she needs help past that, she could always ask? Not that there's any name or note included with the impromptu gift.]
this reply went totally off the rails, I'm so sorry
[Whatever he's gotten into his head, he's not ready to explain it just yet. He's worrying at his lip as, rather than try, he bends closer to the computer to cut off the video feed.]
Until next time -
[And that's all. He's not there anymore.
Towards the end of the day, though, Jun might open her door or come back to her room to find a small, black book-bag hanging off the door, empty save for a slim, hardback volume. The cover is plain and plainly old, its title in French.
Inside, the text is the same - a French prose adaptation of stories from Ovid's Metamorphoses, presumably for schoolchildren. But here and there are dog-earred pages, always with illustrations, and sheets of notebook paper slipped in with them, taped down. Each one has a short, simplified (and often imperfect) translation of the pictured story into English, handwritten in delicate script.
He doesn't know if they'll be any use, if Jun even has enough of a start to sound out the words and attempt to tackle them. But it was the only thing he could think of - and remembering how it felt trying to learn, not being able to escape into a story or piece things together, is too miserable for him to shrug it off.
He guesses, if she needs help past that, she could always ask? Not that there's any name or note included with the impromptu gift.]