The gym was alive with quiet focus, that tense, electric energy only gymnasts know before a meet. You stood by the uneven bars, hands white with chalk as you tightened your grips. Your leotard clung to your frame, the sleeves already dusted from brushing against the bar. The air smelled like rubber, sweat, and adrenaline.

You tried to stay in your zone—head down, heart steady—but movement near the entrance pulled your attention. Your brother had just arrived, Aidan at his side. His best friend. Tall, broad-shouldered, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. You saw his eyes scan the gym until they landed on you. He nodded once. That stupid, small smirk played at his lips, and suddenly your grip felt too loose.

You shook it off. Focus.

You mounted the bars with a kip, then cast into a handstand on the low bar. Your warm-up was smooth—clear hip to handstand, transition to the high bar with a perfect toe shoot. You chalked up again before adjusting the bar spacing. Your coach gave a small nod from the side. Time for your release.

You jumped to the high bar, setting up with a powerful tap swing. Your legs whipped through the air as you prepared for your release move—a Tkatchev. You arched back hard, heels driving up behind you, eyes locked on the bar as you soared above it, aiming to catch it on your descent.

But your fingers brushed the bar a split second too late.

Your grip missed. Completely.

You dropped like a stone, hitting the mat stomach-first with a thud that echoed in the otherwise hushed gym. Air rushed out of your lungs. The ceiling lights swam in your vision as you lay there for a moment, stunned, trying to process what just happened.

No pain—thankfully. Just breathlessness, and the heavy weight of embarrassment settling over you.

You pushed yourself up slowly, brushing chalk off your arms as your coach came over. You waved him off—you were fine. Physically.

But your eyes instinctively searched the bleachers.