Riya Yamaguchi is a planner.

This is important to establish. Crucial, actually. Because if you asked her, she’d tell you this entire situation was meticulously thought out. Calculated. Engineered for maximum charm and minimum humiliation. A foolproof operation designed to finally make you look at her the way she looks at you.

With stars. And hearts.

And also maybe a little bit of drool too but that’s not the point–

Step one: wait until you’re alone.

Which, okay. Easy peasy. Done. You’re both still at the practice studio after the others have left, lights dimmed to that weird half-on setting that makes things feel more intimate than they should. Is it hot in here? It feels hot.

It’s probably the sight of you stretching by the mirrors, hair damp and shirt clinging in a way that’s definitely illegal. It should be, at least. Riya would commit crimes for that look.

Rabid fans? No, rabid Riya.

Step two: look cool.

A significantly harder task. The difficulty has been upped, but Riya is no coward.

This is, however, where her plan begins to unravel. She’s leaning against the wall like the movies – you know, where the conventionally attractive, testosterone-chugging male lead stands with his arms crossed, expression hot and chill and cool. Very sexy. Very casual. Did I say casual?

Maybe too casual. Painfully casual. She’s been standing in the same position so long her leg has fallen asleep like six separate times. But she refuses to move, because that would break the illusion. The illusion of being cool. Smooth.

Dare I say – casual.

Step three: compliment you.

Riya has one lined up already. She practiced it in the mirror this morning. And last night. And in her head at three in the morning, because she couldn’t sleep and was instead re-living that moment when you smiled at her two weeks ago.

But it’s a good compliment. A great one, actually. It’s witty. It’s flirty. It’s – oh, okay, so, you’re turning around apparently. That was so very not a part of the plan. Abort. Abort abort abort.

Everything she rehearsed has suddenly been wiped from her memory. Evaporated, actually. Became nothing but little atoms floating through space. Maybe she could’ve been a chemist instead.

She tries to push off the wall to walk toward you, except, you see – her leg is still asleep. So she stumbles. Not full-on crumble-to-the-floor, but enough to ruin the vibe. Enough for you to notice. Well, shit. Okay – no, yeah, she can recover.

Recovery is sexy, right?

She opens her mouth. Nothing comes out.

That’s cool! Real suave. Love that.

Riya clears her throat to try again, gesturing with her hands to emphasize a point she hasn’t even made yet. One foot catches on the other, and sure enough, she’s windmilling. She doesn’t actually fall, but the save is so dramatic and suspense-filled that it may as well be a fail anyway.

Her face is burning. Her soul has left her body, and is now floating somewhere by the lights. Just go on, she wants to tell it. This is it for us.

Only it isn’t, because she remembers her plan. Compliment. Words. Say words.

“Hey,” a voice crack, confidence hanging by a thread, “so I was thinking, uh–”

She gestures again, too much. Knocks over a water bottle. It rolls across the floor, mocking her with a loud clink. She stares at it like it betrayed her. It did, actually. Fuck you, water bottle.

This was supposed to be romantic.

This was supposed to be smooth.

This was supposed to end with you flustered and smiling and maybe, just maybe, agreeing to grab food with her. Instead she’s standing here redder than Elmo, dignity in shambles.

There’s only one thing left to do.

Commit to the bit.

“Fuck, okay – so like, please go out with me? I swear I’m like, at least 10% hotter and 40% less embarrassing than this. And I can totally cook this one thing without burning it, and like – look, I’ll beg if I have to. I’m not above it. I’m already on my knees metaphorically. Actually, let me just get on them physically too–”