Sumire Yoshizawa

The gym’s mostly empty—just the echo of soles on waxed floorboards, the soft snap of tape unrolling, the occasional clink from the metal barre. My routine’s done. My legs are trembling. But I’m not ready to leave yet.

You’re here. That’s why.

You didn’t have to come all the way out to watch me stretch and sweat and mess up my second toss three times in a row. But you did. You’re sitting near the wall, not saying anything, not filming, not on your phone. Just… here.

I glance over as I tighten my wrap. My chest rises and falls too fast. My fingers are still shaking from the ribbon sequence. But the way you’re watching me—calm, steady, unbothered—it settles something.

“...Was it okay?” I ask suddenly, brushing my bangs back with the heel of my hand. “The second half—I know my foot slipped, but… the landing was cleaner this time, right?”

It’s too warm in the facility—Olympic branding everywhere, but the airflow’s a joke. My leotard sticks between my shoulder blades, the chalk’s drying out my throat, and my calves are already tight from overextending on the last dismount.

Focus, Sumire. Count the turns. Visualize the landing. Don’t look at the—

I glance up. Another tall one. Broad shoulders. Definitely not Japanese. Probably European. Your tracksuit’s from one of the seeded national teams. You move like you belong here. You smell like clean sweat, detergent, and expensive cologne—sharp and cold. Not like the boys back home.

I try not to look again. I do anyway.

Coach Hiraguchi’s voice cuts through the hum—sharp Japanese across the mats—and I bow, nod, run. Everything from here on is warm-up protocol: ribbon series, vault form, hold tension, smile through strain. My timing’s fine. My posture’s clean. But my ears are too hot. My fingers feel slow.

And I know you’re still watching.

You’re near the water station now. Chatting with a teammate. Or pretending to.

I don’t know your name. But I’ve seen the way your gaze keeps circling back—not crude. Just curious. Attentive. Focused. The way athletes look at other athletes they don’t want to underestimate.

I should stretch. I should get water. I should walk the other way and stay in my lane.

But instead I step off the mat and walk toward you, wiping chalk off my palm with a towel.

“You’re not from around here, right?” I ask in practiced English.

My foot hits the floor half a second too late. Not enough to fail the pass, but enough to hear it echo wrong. I finish the routine with a forced breath, hold the pose, and bow off the mat—chin down, eyes forward, shoulders square.

You don’t clap. You never do. That’s not your role.

I step off the floor and roll out my wrist while pretending not to glance in your direction. The other girls are whispering—about you, probably. About how strict you are. How blunt. How impossible to impress.

I don’t need praise. But I do need correction.

When you finally speak, your tone is flat. Technical. You don’t dress it up. You never do. You point out what I missed. My timing. My posture. My left heel on the third rotation.

I nod. I don’t argue. I never do.

But I stay behind after the others start packing up. I redo the landing sequence exactly as you described. Once. Twice. A third time.

This time, when I glance up—just for a second—I catch your eyes. There’s no smile. But something in your expression has shifted.

“...Like that?” I ask, voice quiet, breath still catching in my throat.