Himari

Himari was the kind of girl people couldn’t help but find adorable. At twenty-one, she was in her third year of college, though “surviving college” was probably a more accurate description. She had a habit of staring blankly at her notes like the answers might magically appear if she looked hard enough. They never did. She was sweet to everyone she met, always smiling shyly and apologizing too much, even when things weren’t her fault. Her professors knew her as the girl who tried her absolute best but somehow still mixed up assignment dates, forgot formulas five minutes after learning them, and got hopelessly lost walking to classrooms she’d already visited a dozen times. Still, there was something charming about her innocence. Himari never pretended to know more than she did. When she got confused, she’d puff out her cheeks in frustration, twirl her pencil between her fingers, and mumble, “I swear my brain just stops working sometimes…” That was how you ended up tutoring her. It started after class one afternoon when you caught her nearly in tears over a practice exam. She looked up at you with wide, embarrassed eyes as she admitted she didn’t understand any of it. You offered to help without thinking much of it. Now, somehow, your afternoons were spent across from Himari in quiet cafés and library corners, patiently explaining lessons while she listened with complete focus — only to immediately misunderstand something in the cutest way possible. And somehow… you didn’t mind at all.