This time, Taki's process of making coffee was noticeably smoother and faster. She made an effort to follow the demonstration Kyo had given earlier, but the final product still fell short—visibly lacking the refinement of Kyo's.
The thick milk foam was uneven, failing to form a smooth layer over the coffee. The latte art she attempted was the simplest, a beginner-friendly heart, but the overlapping lines made it look messy and unpolished.
After watching Umiri take a small sip, Taki asked nervously, "How is it?"
There was still some milk and foam clinging to Umiri's lips, making it look as if she had a comical little white mustache. She didn't seem to notice, though, and maintained a perfectly serious expression as she gave her verdict.
"I think it's really good."
Unfortunately, neither Taki nor Kyo had the mental space to be amused by Umiri's deadpan act.
Taki muttered a low "So half-hearted…" while Kyo, staying true to her approach when dealing with unfamiliar emotions, kept her reaction to a minimum—reducing the chances of stepping on a hidden landmine.
"How about we let the professional have a taste?"
Umiri pushed the cup—still nearly full after her tiny sip—toward Kyo.
"I really like the taste of Taki's coffee, but I'm no expert. And Taki doesn't seem to be fully convinced by my opinion."
She shrugged with feigned regret and subtly shifted her position. From where Taki stood, she could only see one of Umiri's eyes—the other, hidden from view, gave Kyo a quick wink.
Kyo, however, had no way of interpreting your silent signals, Miss Umiri.
She answered inwardly, exasperated, though of course, Umiri couldn't hear her thoughts.
Keep your mind moving, Kyo.
Giving herself a silent pep talk, she refused to let the unknown derail her thinking. She quickly resumed her analysis.
From their previous interactions, it was clear that Taki and Umiri weren't just casual acquaintances. Their relationship carried a strange sense of distance that puzzled Kyo, yet at the same time, they shared an undeniable understanding of each other.
If Umiri had urged Taki to make another cup and then asked Kyo to evaluate it, it had to be because she understood Taki well—she must have believed this would help her.
But now that the responsibility fell on Kyo, how should she respond? Should she praise Taki's effort? Or take a stricter approach and point out the flaws?
There were too many possible choices. Which one should she pick?
No—before that, there was something even more important.
This cup of coffee.
The one Taki had made with her own hands.
Even though it was Umiri's suggestion, the result happened to align with Kyo's own intentions.
…She couldn't have figured out my secret just like that, could she?
Kyo accepted the cup, briefly noting the spot where Umiri's lips had touched and turning it to drink from a different side.
She hesitated.
For Kyo, sharing a drink was something quite intimate… but this wasn't the time to dwell on that.
In the end, she took a sip.
…Bitter.
Of course, coffee was naturally bitter. But cappuccino, with its generous amount of milk, was meant to be smoother and more approachable. This, however, wasn't the rich, deep bitterness of high-quality coffee—it was the unpleasant, harsh taste of something poorly made.
A second later, it hit her.
This was the taste of Taki's emotions.
Inferiority.
The bitterness mixed with the milk's sweetness and the coffee's aroma, creating something indescribable. As it traveled down her throat, an overwhelming sense of helplessness spread through her body, sinking into her limbs.
It was terrible.
Kyo fought to keep her fingers from trembling, forcing herself to set the cup back down on the counter as naturally as possible.
And her expression—had it stayed neutral? She subtly checked herself. Her brows, her lips, her gaze… all still doing their jobs, still in place. No cracks in her mask.
Then why—
Why were Umiri and Taki staring at her in shock?
"…Did something happen to me?"
Before the words even fully left her lips, her vision blurred. The familiar sensation of moisture welled up in her eyes.
Shit.
Kyo hurriedly wiped at her eyes, but sure enough, her hand came away damp. The moment the first tear fell, she lost control completely.
The sight of Kyo—the one she had always seen as an unreachable ideal—suddenly crying left Taki stunned.
Panicked, she stepped closer, grabbing a few tissues from the counter and trying to dry Kyo's tears.
"I'm fine… really."
Kyo tried to dismiss it as a purely physical reaction.
But the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
The tears kept coming, no longer something she could simply wipe away, leaving only a mess of streaks on her face.
Unlike the time she had swallowed Sakiko's pride, inferiority was an emotion Kyo had never encountered before.
Even in her most emotionally barren moments, even when she envied the emotions of others, Kyo had never once felt inferior.
And now, in an instant, she had ingested an overwhelming dose of an emotion completely foreign to her. It was heavy, tinged with despair—and it nearly forced her into experiencing Taki's long-buried self-doubt firsthand.
You really are an idiot, Taki.
Yet, even as she thought that, countless questions flooded Kyo's mind.
She could feel Taki's helplessness, her frustration, her despair—but Kyo just couldn't understand it.
Why struggle so much over other people's talent?
After all—
"…Haven't you always done just fine, Taki?"
The faint excitement from absorbing too much water—though milder this time—resurfaced, making Kyo's voice even shakier.
Even though she hadn't drunk much, the small cup of coffee had carried years of emotion—buried under the weight of expectations, stretching all the way from Taki's older sister to the time of Sakiko.
Taki froze, as if she hadn't heard Kyo properly.
"…Do you want me to say it again?"
Her eyes, rimmed red with tears, held none of her usual composure.
She looked fragile—like fallen spring petals, beaten down by the cold drizzle of rain.
And then, as if sulking, Kyo turned away, resting her head on the counter, burying her face in her arms.
All the calmness from before was gone, leaving only a muffled voice escaping from the folds of her sleeves.
"…I don't want to say it a second time."
The situation had flipped completely—now it was Taki who didn't know what to do. Flustered, she turned to Umiri, hoping her ever-composed and reliable friend could offer some kind of solution.
But Umiri was just as lost. She hadn't expected things to turn out like this at all. After a moment of hesitation, she picked up the unopened mandarin-flavored milk pudding she had originally brought for Taki but hadn't had the chance to drink yet. Then, very gently, she placed it on top of Kyo's head.
"Kyo-san, do you want this?"
Kyo tilted her head slightly, causing the little carton of pudding to slide down right in front of her face. The goofy panda illustration on the package stared back at her.
"…Yeah."
She tried to lift her head, to pull her arms away from where they were buried, but she just didn't have the strength.
"Taki, help me."
Her small head drooped back onto her arms as she turned toward Taki, looking at her expectantly.
"Huh? Ah—okay."
Seeing that Kyo seemed a little better, Taki hurried to unseal the straw, inserted it into the carton, and carefully placed it near Kyo's lips.
If an outsider happened to walk in at that moment, they would have witnessed a truly bizarre sight—a girl, curled up and sniffling like a bullied child, sipping pudding through a straw while two tall, cool-looking girls loomed over her, silently watching her tears continue to spill.
She was still crying while drinking pudding.
With her head down in that position, the tears pooled into the crook of her arm, and at this rate, it looked like she was about to drown her own lower lip in them.
"What the hell is wrong with you…" Taki sighed, exasperated.
Kyo was still behind the bar counter, but after slumping over the table, her stance had become more and more unstable. Her body slowly slid downward until her head remained on the counter while her lower half had practically collapsed, leaving her half-kneeling on the ground.
Taki let out a long sigh.
Her previously gloomy mood had no room to surface anymore—it had been forcefully interrupted by the sheer impact of Kyo's pitiful state.
"Seriously, what even is this situation?"
Taki walked behind Kyo, slipped her arms under her shoulders, and easily hoisted her up in one smooth motion.
She's so light.
There was even a faintly fresh, rain-like scent clinging to her.
But it hasn't even rained recently, has it?
Her small ponytail swayed with each step, flicking lightly against Taki's arm. It tickled. Every now and then, Kyo's body trembled slightly from leftover sobs.
With nothing but her own strength, Taki half-lifted, half-carried the still-sniffling Kyo over to a stool in front of the bar, settling her down properly.
Then she and Umiri each took a seat on either side of her, rubbing her back gently to help her breathe steadily.
Kyo sipped her pudding slowly.
By the time she finally finished, the tears had stopped, and her voice had calmed down considerably.
"…So, what was that all about, Kyo?"
For once, Taki dropped the formalities and called her by name.
She felt a bit awkward about it, but there was no way Kyo had actually cried because of how bad her coffee was… right?
Kyo slumped against the counter again, mumbling weakly, her still-reddened eyes making her seem more like she was sulking than genuinely complaining.
"…It's all your fault, Taki."
"What? How?"
Taki was more confused than ever.
"…Wait. It was because my coffee sucked, wasn't it?"
At this point, Taki wasn't even thinking about her inferiority complex anymore. Her mind was just full of question marks.
"That's right. It was awful—I say this as someone with years of experience in drink-making."
Kyo's voice sounded sharp, but she was using her critique of the coffee as an excuse to scold something much dumber—Taki's absurdly strong inferiority complex.
It was ridiculous.
"But."
Kyo pushed herself upright, meeting Taki's eyes.
Her tear-filled gaze, still damp from crying, shimmered like liquid gold under the sunlight streaming through the window.
It was the kind of brightness that made her eyes look breathtakingly clear, like a young fawn's—wide, glistening, and soft.
"…For a beginner, that coffee was really delicious, Taki."
She held her gaze.
"You did well."