The gym’s new blue walls glowed in the morning sun, fresh and bright, but my eyes kept drifting to the corner—where the old wooden bench sat, polished and proud, its plaque catching the light. “It looks different, doesn’t it?” Lila said, sliding her hand into mine, her purple wristband a soft contrast against my sleeve. I nodded, staring at the way the blue paint made the bench’s wood look warmer, like it belonged in a painting. “Like something’s missing, though.” She tilted her head, following my gaze. “What?” I smiled, pulling a small white paper bag from my gym bag. “This.”
Inside were white lilacs—Lila’s grandma’s favorite. I’d picked them that morning from the bush in her old backyard, their petals soft and sweet-smelling. “Grandma used to put them in a white vase on the bench,” Lila said, her voice quiet, as I set the bouquet in a ceramic jar (the one we’d found in her grandma’s attic) and placed it on the bench’s armrest. The white flowers against the blue wall made my chest feel full—like the gym had finally come home. “White in front of the blue,” I said, tracing a petal. “It looks like her. Soft, but bright.” Lila leaned her head on my shoulder, and I could feel her smile. “It looks like us,” she said. “The bench, the flowers, the blue walls—all the pieces, together.”
That afternoon, a group of kids from our gymnastics class crowded around the bench, pointing at the lilacs. “Who are those for?” Mia, the little girl who’d once stared at her friend instead of the beam, asked. Lila knelt down, brushing a strand of hair from Mia’s face. “For my grandma. She loved white lilacs, and she loved this bench. Now she gets to watch all of you practice.” Mia nodded, then picked up a piece of chalk and drew a small white flower on the blue wall next to the bench. “For her too,” she said. Soon, all the kids were drawing—white stars, white hearts, white flowers—until the blue wall looked like a sky full of light.
That night, I stayed late to sketch the bench, the lilacs, and the kids’ drawings. Lila sat beside me, flipping through my sketchbook, until she stopped at a page I’d hidden: a drawing of her, in a white gymnastic leotard, standing in front of the blue wall, the bench behind her, lilacs in her hand. “When did you draw this?” she asked, her voice soft. I flushed, scratching the back of my neck. “Last night. I couldn’t stop thinking about the blue walls and the white flowers… and you.” She leaned over, kissing me, and the taste of her lip balm (strawberry, her favorite) mixed with the lilacs’ scent. “It’s perfect,” she said. “Can I hang it up here? By the bench?” I nodded, and she taped it to the blue wall, right above the plaque.
A week later, Mr. Torres brought us a surprise—a white wooden shelf, built to fit on the wall above the bench. “For the lilacs,” he said, grinning. “And for your sketches. The kids kept asking where the ‘white flower drawing’ was.” We hung it that afternoon, placing the ceramic jar of lilacs on the shelf, along with my sketch of Lila and a photo of her grandma (white lilacs in her hands, standing in front of the gym’s old beige walls). “Grandma would’ve loved this,” Lila said, running her finger over the photo. I wrapped my arm around her, staring at the white lilacs against the blue wall, the sketch against the shelf, the photo against the wood. It was like every part of our story was there—past, present, future—painted in white and blue.
One rainy Saturday, we canceled practice and sat on the bench, watching the rain hit the blue windows. Lila had brought her grandma’s old recipe book, and we flipped through it until we found a page marked with a white lilac pressed between the pages: “Lilac Cookies—For When You Need a Hug.” “Let’s make them,” she said, standing up, her eyes bright. We baked them in the gym’s small kitchen (Mr. Torres had let us use it after we saved the bench), the oven filling the air with the smell of vanilla and lilacs. When we set the cookies on a white plate and placed them on the bench, the blue wall behind them looked like a backdrop for a memory. “They taste like her,” Lila said, taking a bite, crumbs on her chin. I wiped them away, kissing her. “They taste like home,” I said.
Last month, we held a small celebration for the bench’s “one-year anniversary” in the renovated gym. The kids brought white flowers, the former students brought photos of Lila’s grandma, and Mr. Torres brought a cake—white frosting, with blue sprinkles, and a tiny edible bench on top. “White in front of the blue,” he said, setting it down. “Just like you two said.” Lila and I cut the cake together, and as I fed her a bite, I looked around—at the blue walls covered in white drawings, at the bench with its lilacs and sketches, at the people we loved, all together.
That night, after everyone left, we sat on the bench, holding hands, the last of the lilacs still in the jar. “Hey,” Lila said, grinning, “Where are your eyes? HUH?” I laughed, pointing at the blue wall, at the white flower Mia had drawn, at the sketch of her. “Everywhere. On the walls, on the bench, on the flowers… but mostly, on you.” She kissed me, slow and soft, and the rain started again, tapping on the blue windows.
Love isn’t just about the big moments—the community meetings, the renovations, the celebrations. It’s about the small things: white lilacs on a wooden bench, a sketch on a blue wall, a cookie that tastes like a grandma’s hug. It’s about Lila, with her purple ribbon and her fierce love for her family, and me, with my sketchbook and my love for all the little pieces of her story.
And it’s about white in front of the blue—two colors, one bench, and a love that makes every part of life feel like a work of art.
