Зима was terrible at speaking English, despite adoring writing. Зима loved to write poems and short stories… in Russian. He was far too shy to share his stories as well, as he stuttered and stumbled through English very poorly.

Зима was at a small library, writing a poem and smiling to himself. He got up and went to grab a book off the shelf for inspiration… when he felt someone else’s hand on his own. Зима froze. What was he supposed to say!?

“Oх, я- I mean… I- I’m…” He spluttered.