Looking at Maka, I realize the book in her hands isn't a book at all. Not a normal one, anyway. She usually reads the kind that has words and nothing else. The one she's holding only has pictures.

I stand just inside the living room, watching her, rubbing one hand over the other in rough circles. Swallowing my nerves, I find my voice and ask her what she's looking at.

"It's an album," she says, raising her head and turning her eyes toward me. "It's been a while since I've looked through it. Do you want to see, too?"

My shoulders hunch, and my hand rubs the other a little faster. Maka had been smiling down at the book, but in a sad way. She seemed almost heartbroken, until I pulled her away from her thoughts. I want to know what made her look like that, but I don't want to be nosy. But if she's hurting, then I want to help her. That's why I nod.

Maka makes room for me on the couch, so I shuffle forward. I sit down beside her, but not too close. As my hands twist in my lap, she holds the book out and shows me the reason for her earlier expression. Both pages have many photos, but a certain large one stands out from the rest. It takes up the most room, so you can't help but notice it first. Now I know why she made such a face. The young woman in the picture is winking up at us and grinning broadly. She is almost as beautiful as Maka.

"This is Mama." She smiles as she says it, and the tone in her voice is as soft as a gentle breeze. I can't tell if she is sad or happy; the two seem to be mixed. It makes me want to hug her, but at the same time it doesn't.

I glance back and forth between mother and daughter, hands still fussing with themselves. I feel like I should say something, but the only question in my mind that seems to fit the moment is whether Maka misses her. But I can't ask that, because of course she does, and then she'll either get mad at me for even suggesting otherwise or get depressed and it'll be all my fault.

I keep my mouth closed. Silence is almost always the safest option. My eyes study each of the woman's features, checking for ones similar to Maka. Then I glance at the other, smaller pictures.

She holds the album steady for me. It feels like she's watching me, but I don't think she's bothered by my being so quiet. Slowly, both hands stop their fussing and lie still in my lap.

The next pages are of her mother and her father, together. They look so young and happy, and I shift a little, suddenly uncomfortable. It's hard to see their smiling faces and know that years later will lead to arguments, a divorce, a broken family.

I steal a glance at Maka to find that happy-and-sad mix again. Is she hiding her pain? Why would she want to look through something that brings up a cruel reminder of the present? I want to do something. Maybe I should urge her not to open this book ever again. Maybe I should hug her and tell her that I will never be careless, that I will never desert her. I want to help her somehow.

…Maybe there's a way. It's not much, but even the smallest of gestures can make a difference. I should know.

Ignoring the dull rush of heat to my ears, I slide myself a little closer to her. Looking down, I move closer and closer, inch by inch, until my shoulder brushes against hers.

My breath gets caught in my throat. It is at this precise moment that I happen to turn my head toward her right when she does the same toward me. If I were able to, I would gasp out loud. The tiny amount of space between us has left me paralyzed. It's as if her eyes are holding me in place, preventing me from making even the slightest movement. Cold and numb, all I can do is stare with my lips parted in shock.

Maka's eyebrows are raised so high they nearly disappear beneath her cascading bangs. But other than that, she appears calm. Her cheeks aren't tinged pink. She doesn't jolt back or tremble. Instead, she merely blinks up at me, lifting her head just a bit more.

I manage to speak. "Can I hold it, too?"

"Sure," she replies, and her mouth breaks into a relaxed, cheerful grin.

A ripple of warmth washes over me. It melts the block of ice in my chest. For her to give me a smile, a real smile… It's more than I could ask for. More than I deserve. More than I expected. It was enough for her to say yes, but I'm glad she showed me such a cheerful face. The sight makes me think that my idea is working, even though being close and holding the album with her isn't much and can't really change anything. I just want her to know I'm here for her. Always.

Both corners of my mouth twitch and pull upward and I can't stop them—her smile is contagious. My own is nothing like hers, of course, since it's so small and shaky. I look away, but I know she's seen it. Strangely, as I reach for the book, I don't mind when my hand grazes over her sliding fingers.

Now we each have an end to hold and we're still sitting close, our shoulders together, the side of our legs lightly touching. My empty hand, though, stays placed on my lap. I roll it into a loose fist to keep my fingers steady.

Maka turns the page. A few pictures of her parents' wedding are scattered about. There's also one of her mother sitting in profile, leaning back in a rocking chair. I can see her arms wrapped tenderly around a very round stomach… She's pregnant. So that means Maka's in the picture, too.

The room starts to get a little too warm all of a sudden. Will the next page have a bunch of pictures that show her as a baby? I try not to fidget in my seat or sneak a glimpse at Maka. Truthfully, I'm curious to know what she looked like, but I'll understand if she decides to skip them over. That kind of stuff is embarrassing for most, and I don't want her to feel that way.

The sound of another page turning makes me tense up—I don't know what to expect and there's no time to prepare. These next few photos are big and bright and neatly arranged, and Maka is in all of them.

I do a double take.

As if someone has flipped a magic switch, all my tension evaporates on the spot. My shoulders droop. My face slackens. I find myself leaning down just a bit, drawing closer, falling in slow motion, to make sure my eyes are working properly. I stare, sitting as still as the album below me.

Maka is in all the pictures, but she's not a baby. She's a kid, but she's much younger than that first time I saw her in my soul. She's a toddler; she can't be older than two or three. One photo shows her cuddled in the crook of her father's arm. I've never seen her so happy around him before. She's actually hugging his neck, her cheek pressed against his. A beautiful sunny beach gleams behind them.

Below that, little Maka stands near the ocean, shovel and pail in hand. Tiny fists, tiny feet, tiny everything. Another photo. Maka smiling gleefully at the camera. She wears an orange dress with long sleeves. It's almost as if she's getting ready to jump from the page and wrap her tiny fingers around the nearest living thing. She's so small, but her eyes are so big and green and shiny and expressive. Her cheeks are plump and chubby and round and they glow a soft, rosy pink. Her hair is a heap of tangled locks, but it's not the long pigtails I've always known that hang from either side of her head. Instead, she has two thick, fluffy puffs.

A twinge bursts in the pit of my stomach, but I ignore it. I'm frozen. All I can see is the miniature version of the person next to me. There's nothing else. I'm not sure how long I'm stuck like this, but eventually my fingers unfurl from my lap and make their way toward one of the pictures. They brush over it once, wondering if this Maka is anything like the Maka with me now. If I held her hand, despite its size, would it feel the same? Would hugging her be different from the hugs I've had before?

There's a gentle pressure on my shoulder, followed by a voice that sounds so far, far away, out in the distance. Then a suffocating silence crashes down on me—it's hard to breathe in it, hard to focus on anything that's not in front of me. It's too quiet. It's too stuffy. The little girl continues to stare at me with beaming eyes and blossomy cheeks and tufts of hair like puffballs and a precious smile that will never fade—

I stand up, hands falling uselessly at my sides. My mind is in a daze, but something gets through. That voice again. It floats to my ears.

"Chrona?"

It sounds closer, but still so far away. Maka. She said my name, so I should… I should… Move. And I do. But it's not my lips or eyes or head that moves, like I wanted.

It's my feet. They're moving on autopilot and nothing else seems to be working. They take me to a corner of the room, where I collapse onto my hands and knees. Now I can concentrate on breathing. Regularly. Slowly. In. Out. Again. In. Out. My eyes crush shut.

Okay. The daze is disappearing now. The room isn't stuffy anymore. I can hear things clearly now.

I listen to Maka's footsteps. She stops behind me. I keep my eyes closed.

"Chrona…? What's the matter…?"

My head ducks so low, my nose almost touches the floor. She doesn't know. Of course. She really doesn't know. It's as plain as day but she can't see it. I guess that's normal, but at the same time… just… unbelievable.

My mouth can't form words at the moment, if the hoarse, pathetic whine is any proof. My fingers bend tightly as I take a deep breath and try again. I manage to get out a sound—a consonant. The same syllable repeats itself over and over, harsh and loud enough for her to hear without having to stoop down.

I pause, keenly aware of those eyes watching me. I wait until I feel like I'm able to keep myself from stuttering this time.

"Cute."

There, I said it. The word sums it all up. It hangs in the air and I wonder if Maka is quiet because she's letting it sink in. When she speaks, she sounds confused.

"Cute…?"

"Yes," I answer. "You're cute." She's so cute. Too cute. I wasn't ready to see those pictures. It was too much and it hit me all at once.

I shouldn't have to explain anything else, but a full minute passes and Maka still doesn't say anything. She doesn't even move. Don't tell me she doesn't understand. I shouldn't have to say this out loud, because it's obvious, but I go on anyway.

"I will never see anything—or anyone—that cute ever again."

Not for as long as I live. Not for a million years. Anybody who disagrees needs to have an eye exam, because they must be blind. Either that or extremely stupid, and I will have to shake them until they come to their senses.

Surely Maka must get it now. My fingers relax and I open my eyes, but I don't look at her. After more silence, she finally moves. She steps close and leans down, placing a soft hand on my shoulder. She asks if I'm okay now. I raise my head. She isn't smiling or blushing. Did I do something wrong? Maybe she doesn't like compliments? But it's more than just a compliment—it's the flat-out truth. Maybe she doesn't believe me. Sighing inwardly, I give her a quick nod and take both her hands when she offers them.

We stand, not letting go. For a while we just stare at each other, but it's hard to read her face. I feel like I'm being x-rayed, so I fight the urge to gulp. It's as if she's testing me. One wrong move and…

She smiles. It's a true smile, calm and peaceful, but it almost seems like she's holding back laughter. She says nothing, but I think this is her way of thanking me. But I'm not sure she really understands just how adorable she is. She's too modest…

The album lies shut on the couch and as Maka picks it up, she asks if I still want to look through it with her. I tell her that I do, trying not to worry what might happen if, somehow, an even cuter photograph of her turns up. I let her hold it on her own, just in case.

We sit down and Maka uses her thumbs to pull the pages apart just a little and peeks inside, searching for the right ones. She glances at me before opening the book fully, nice and easy.

I blink down at the familiar pictures, at that adorably sweet face. She's a Maka from another time, but she's still Maka.

"Am I really that cute?" The question is a soft whisper. She sounds astonished, and I notice that her eyes are directed at me as she says it.

I stare back. "Yes." Can she really not see for herself?

Sandy hair hides most of her face as she lowers her head. Her little frown scares me. Tension starts to fill the air and it gets so quiet, I can't hear her breathe. Her stillness makes me nervous; it makes me wonder if she's going to suddenly start crying or screaming. I jump when I hear something, but it's only a harmless chuckle. She looks up at me and my jaw drops. She's wearing an expression almost identical to her younger self, so happy and carefree. Then she grins teasingly.

"Hey."

I close my mouth, eyebrows peaked.

"Look." And without so much as a warning, she turns the page.

I look down before I can help it. More pictures. The little Maka is featured in all of them again. The first one that stands out…

P—P—P—Pacifier!

Another photo. B—Bib!

I slap my hands over my mouth to stop myself from gasping. Why did she spring this on me? It's too much to handle all at once!

"You're blushing!" Maka giggles, and I cover my eyes because they won't shut on their own and I can't tear them away from the album. Even in darkness, the images are still fresh in my mind. They won't be going anywhere anytime soon.

"I'm turning the page now."

"Wait—Please—No more…"

She giggles again. "C'mon, just a peek. Take a quick look. Make it real fast."

I do. Then I shrink back, biting my lip to stifle a weird gurgling noise, and I know my face turns a few shades darker. My palms shield my eyes again.

"Did you see?"

"C-Cute!"

"There's more."

Another page turns. Another quick peek. More cuteness. We go through this routine a few more times, Maka giggling all the while. Her voice rings in my ears like wind chimes. She talks to me playfully and soon enough, I find myself giggling, too.

A/N: Cuteness can be deadly. It's true.