The gym’s fluorescent lights hummed, and I stood at the edge of the balance beam, my purple wristbands twisted tight in my hands. But my focus wasn’t on the beam—it was on Lila, sitting on the old wooden bench across the room, her notebook open, a pencil tucked behind her ear. She was biting her lip, staring at a sketch I’d drawn of her the night before, and the way the light hit her hair made it look like honey. I didn’t even hear the coach call my name until a voice cut through my daze.
“Hey, Where are your eyes? HUH?”
I jumped, spinning around to find Lila standing behind me, her hands on her hips, a playful grin on her face. “You’re supposed to be practicing your beam routine, not staring at me like I’m a new gymnastic move.” My cheeks burned, and I glanced at the beam, then back at her. “I—sorry. You just… look like you’re thinking about something important.” She laughed, stepping closer, and I could smell the lavender in her hair—same as the gym’s odd, cozy scent. “I was thinking about your sketch. The one where I’m sitting on the bench, purple ribbon in my hair. It makes me look… soft.” I reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “You are soft. Even when you’re yelling at me for not focusing.”
That was the start of it—her teasing me for “having eyes only for her,” my pretending to be annoyed, but loving every second of it. We’d practice together every afternoon: she’d spot me on the beam, her hands steady on my waist, and I’d pretend to trip just to feel her laugh against my shoulder. “Your eyes are on my face, not the beam,” she’d say, grinning. “Hey, Where are your eyes? HUH?” And I’d say, “Right where they belong.”
One evening, after the gym closed, we stayed late to practice a new flip I’d been working on. I stood on the beam, taking a deep breath, and Lila called from the mat below: “Eyes forward! Focus!” But when I jumped, I didn’t look at the beam—I looked at her. I missed the landing, crashing onto the mat with a thud. Lila ran over, kneeling beside me, her hands hovering over my arm. “Are you okay? I told you to focus!” I laughed, wincing a little. “I was focused. On you. You’re better than any beam routine.” She rolled her eyes, but her smile gave her away. She helped me up, and as she brushed chalk off my shirt, her fingers lingered on my waist. “You’re impossible,” she said, her voice soft. “But… don’t stop looking at me.”
A week later, we found a box of Lila’s grandma’s old gymnastic videos in the attic. We sat on the bench in our apartment, watching them together—her grandma coaching a young girl on the beam, yelling, “Eyes on the end! Don’t get distracted!” Lila laughed, leaning her head on my shoulder. “She sounds just like me, doesn’t she?” I nodded, wrapping my arm around her. “But she never had someone worth distracting her.” Lila kissed my cheek, and I looked at her—the way her eyes crinkled when she smiled, the purple ribbon in her hair, the grandma’s pin I’d given her (shaped like a heart, tucked into her shirt). My eyes were exactly where they belonged.
The gym held a small showcase that month, and I decided to perform a routine dedicated to Lila. I wore her grandma’s old purple leotard (it fit perfectly, somehow) and tied a purple ribbon around my wrist. When I stepped onto the beam, the crowd went quiet—but I only saw Lila, standing at the edge of the mat, her notebook in her hands, her eyes on me. I did the flip I’d messed up before, and this time, I didn’t look away. When I landed, the crowd cheered, but Lila was already running toward me. She pulled me into a hug, whispering in my ear: “Your eyes were perfect. On the beam. On me.” I kissed her, right there in front of everyone, and heard someone whistle. We both laughed, and I thought: This is it. This is love—messy landings, teasing, eyes only for each other.
Now, we coach kids together at the gym. Every Saturday, we sit on the old bench (we brought it back, after begging the coach) and watch the kids practice. One little girl, Mia, kept staring at her friend instead of the beam, and Lila walked over, hands on her hips, and said: “Hey, Where are your eyes? HUH?” Mia blushed, and Lila laughed, kneeling down. “It’s okay to look at people you care about. But sometimes, you have to look at the beam too. Balance, right?” Mia nodded, and I smiled—because Lila gets it. Love isn’t about never being distracted. It’s about finding someone who makes the distraction worth it.
Last night, we sat on the bench in our apartment, drinking tea, watching the sunset. Lila was flipping through my sketchbook—filled with drawings of her, the bench, the gym—and she stopped at one of me on the beam, my eyes looking toward her. “You drew this?” she asked. I nodded. “The day I messed up the landing. I wanted to remember how it felt—looking at you, even when I fell.” She leaned over, kissing me, and I closed my eyes, savoring the moment. When we pulled away, she said: “Hey, Where are your eyes? HUH?” I opened them, looking right at her. “Right here. Always.”
Love isn’t about perfect routines or steady landings. It’s about the person who teases you for staring, who helps you up when you fall, who makes you want to keep looking—even when the world around you is loud. It’s about Lila, with her purple leotard and her grandma’s heart, and me, with my sketchbook and my eyes only for her.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
