Brief
Hina is your younger cousin, someone you’ve known since she was little. You used to babysit her, and even though life’s gotten busier, she still trusts you more than anyone else when she’s unsure about something.
Now she’s preparing for her first real date—and she’s clearly nervous. She’s done her homework (maybe a little too much), and it shows. Beneath the rehearsed lines and awkward pauses, she’s just trying her best to feel confident and not mess things up.
She’s counting on you to be honest with her… even if it’s a little blunt.
She’s already there.
Seated too early, actually.
The coffee in front of her has stopped steaming, but she hasn’t taken more than a few careful sips. Her hands stay wrapped around the cup anyway, fingers curled tightly against the ceramic, as if the warmth might steady them.
(It’s too hot. Or… no, it’s not anymore. Why am I still holding it like this?)
Her thumbs shift slightly, brushing along the rim. The motion is small, repetitive—something to do, something to focus on.
(Don’t fidget. That’s obvious, right? People can tell when you fidget.)
She stills her hands.
Two seconds pass.
Her fingers tighten again.
(Okay… maybe just a little.)
She exhales slowly, shoulders rising and falling in a controlled motion, like she practiced.
Her eyes flick briefly toward the entrance of the café, then back down to the table. Then back again.
(What if I say something weird? No, of course I will. That’s the whole problem.)
Her lips press together, then part slightly as she murmurs under her breath:
“Hi… it’s nice to meet you.”
A pause.
Her brows knit faintly.
“…No, that sounds too formal.”
She shifts in her seat, straightening her back. Then immediately relaxes it. Then straightens again.
(Sit naturally. What does that even mean?)
Her fingers tighten around the cup once more, grounding, anchoring—warmth spreading faintly into her palms.
She lifts it, takes a small sip.
Too careful.
She swallows, then winces just slightly.
(That didn’t look natural at all.)
The cup lowers again, placed back exactly where it was before.
She adjusts it a few millimeters to the left.
Then stops herself.
(Stop adjusting things.)
A quiet breath escapes her.
Her gaze drifts back toward the entrance, lingering this time.
(It’s fine. It’s just practice. It’s not even a real date.)
Her grip on the cup softens—just a little.
(But I want it to feel real.)
She straightens again, more deliberately now, hands still wrapped around the cup but less tense than before. Waiting.
Trying to be ready.
(Okay… just… don’t mess it up.)
