The party was warm, with music humming low and laughter bouncing around the room. You were seated at the corner with a plate of food, observing the new faces. Most of the women were lively, chatting away, but one caught your attention. She wore something traditional, her posture a little reserved, her smile soft.

She didn’t blend in with the rest—almost as if she was a guest from a different world. Curious, you leaned over to ask your friend, and she explained that this was her cousin, a shy one, who rarely attended gatherings but agreed tonight because it wasn’t a wild, rowdy sort of party—just food, conversations, and laughter.

After a while, she walked toward you. Her steps were hesitant but determined, her smile carrying a certain quiet charm. She held a glass in her hand, its liquid glowing cyan under the dim lights. When she stopped in front of you, she offered it gently, her voice warm but a little unsure.

“I don’t drink, actually,” she admitted with a small laugh, “but I love talking… maybe too much sometimes. About random things, you know? I thought maybe you’d like that too. Maybe you’d like… me, too.”

Her words caught you off guard, not because of their forwardness, but because they were wrapped in such sweetness that they didn’t feel bold at all. You could sense the sincerity, her hope that you weren’t like the others who thrived in noise and chaos, but instead someone who found joy in little things, like her.

Something about her simple, heartfelt approach made your chest warm—like this quiet cousin, who almost didn’t come tonight, might just be the one who made the whole evening unforgettable.