The gym smelled like chalk and lavender—an odd mix, but one that felt like home. I adjusted my purple gymnastic wristbands, the fabric soft against my skin, and walked toward the balance beam. That’s when I saw her: sitting on the old wooden gymnastic bench in the corner, her legs crossed, a notebook in her lap. She wore a faded purple leotard, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun, and she was staring at the ceiling, like she was solving a puzzle. “Purple on gymnastic bench,” I whispered to myself, pausing mid-step. “She looks… like she’s made of stardust.”
I’d been coming to this gym for six months, ever since I moved back to town, trying to rediscover the joy of gymnastics I’d lost in college. But lately, joy wasn’t in the flips or the jumps—it was in her: the way she bit her lip when she scribbled in her notebook, the way she laughed at the coach’s bad jokes, the way she’d stretch her legs on that bench, her purple leotard catching the gym’s fluorescent light like a beacon. I’d never talked to her, but I’d drawn her in my sketchbook a dozen times—quick lines capturing the curve of her spine, the way her wristbands matched mine.
“Your landing’s off,” she said, making me jump. I turned to find her standing behind me, her notebook tucked under her arm, a small smile on her face. “You’re leaning too far forward. Try shifting your weight to your heels—like you’re standing on sand.” I blinked, surprised she’d noticed. “I—thanks. I’ve been struggling with that.” She nodded, stepping closer. “I’m Lila. I coach here part-time. And I’ve seen you watching the bench. You like it?” I flushed, scratching the back of my neck. “It’s… cozy. For a gym bench. And your purple leotard—matches it, somehow.” She laughed, tapping the bench’s wooden armrest. “It’s my grandma’s old bench. She coached here in the ’80s. Said it’s ‘seen more dreams than any mat in the gym.’”
We sat on the bench together that afternoon, after practice. She told me about her grandma—how she’d taught her to do cartwheels when she was five, how she’d left her the bench and a box of old gymnastic ribbons, all purple. “Grandma loved purple,” she said, pulling a frayed purple ribbon from her pocket. “Said it’s ‘the color of courage—brave enough to be bold, soft enough to be kind.’” I thought of Nikos’s red roses, of Marisol’s grandma’s letters. Colors, I realized, were just love with a different name.
We started meeting at the bench every day. She’d help me fix my landings, and I’d show her the sketches I’d drawn—of the gym, of the bench, of her. “You make the bench look like a work of art,” she said one day, tracing a sketch of her sitting on it, purple ribbon in her hair. “My grandma would’ve loved this. She always said art and gymnastics are the same—both about heart.” I reached over, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and my fingers brushed her purple wristband. “You have heart,” I said. She looked up at me, her eyes soft, and I kissed her—slow, gentle, the taste of chalk still on my lips.
One weekend, she took me to her grandma’s attic. Boxes of old gymnastic medals, purple ribbons, and a photo album filled with pictures of her grandma coaching—young, smiling, standing next to the very same bench. “She always wanted someone to share the bench with,” Lila said, pulling out a small wooden box. Inside, there was a purple gymnastic pin, shaped like a heart. “For you,” she said, placing it in my hand. “Grandma’s. She said it’s for ‘the one who makes the bench feel like home.’”
Two months later, the gym announced they were replacing the old bench with a new one. Lila and I protested, but the coach said it was “too worn out.” We spent the last night sitting on it, holding hands, the purple pin glowing in the dim light. “We can’t let it go,” I said. Lila smiled, pulling out her grandma’s purple ribbon. “We won’t. We’ll take it home. Put it in our living room. And every time we look at it, we’ll remember—grandma, the gym, the day we met.”
Now, the bench sits in our apartment, next to the window. We’ve covered it with purple cushions, and I’ve taped my sketches of it to the wall above. Lila’s grandma’s ribbon hangs from the bench’s armrest, and my purple wristbands are draped over the back. Sometimes, we sit on it at night, drinking tea, talking about the future—about coaching kids together, about adding more purple to our lives.
Last week, Nikos and Marisol came to visit. Marisol saw the bench and laughed, holding up her grandma’s letter. “Look—another bench with a story,” she said. Nikos nodded, pointing to the purple pin on my jacket. “Colors are funny things,” he said. “Red roses, purple wristbands—they’re just ways to say ‘I love you.’”
He was right. Love isn’t about the bench, or the roses, or the wristbands. It’s about the people—Lila, with her purple leotard and her grandma’s heart; Marisol, with her curly hair and her letters; Nikos, with his sea and his roses. It’s about finding someone who makes even a worn-out gymnastic bench feel like home.
Yesterday, I found Lila sitting on the bench, writing in her notebook. She looked up at me, smiling, and held up a sketch I’d drawn of her—purple ribbon in her hair, sitting on the bench. “Purple on gymnastic bench,” she said. “It still looks like stardust.” I sat down next to her, taking her hand, and we watched the sunset through the window. The bench creaked softly, like it was smiling.
And in that moment, I knew. Home isn’t a place. It’s her—Lila, with her purple wristbands and her grandma’s love. It’s the bench, with its stories and its creaks. It’s love, in all its colors—red, purple, and everything in between.
