You bought it at a yard sale. That’s the story you told me, at least.  

You said it spoke to you, calling your name from a pile of junk stacked in a red wagon. It caught your eye; it made you think of me.  

It made me think of a planet. See here, those swirls? Looks a bit like Jupiter. It reminded me of that planetarium trip we took, how much fun you had. It made me think of you, so I thought it might make you think of me.

That’s the story you told me, at least. 

It did make me think of you. I placed it on my nightstand, resting it in a bowl to keep it from rolling off the table. I would follow the swirls on its surface when I couldn’t sleep, move it back and forth between my palms when I missed you. 

Space and planets were your thing. You were my thing.  

I had to give it back to you. I placed it at the top of the box I left on your porch, nestled in between your old high school swim sweatshirt and the copy of Cloud Cuckoo Land I took from your room. I wanted to break it; I wanted to leave it smashed on your front porch. Its fragility was a taunt, a challenge, a chance to do some harm of my own. But I didn’t want to scare your dog with the noise. 

That’s the story I told myself, at least. 

It was an easy thing to forget about. I started placing flowers on my nightstand, small, colorful buds that I would use to spell messages to myself: edelweiss for courage, goldenrod for encouragement. Bouquets replacing planets, flowers placing constellations, my affirmations replacing your love. 

That’s the story I told myself, at least. 

I saw the ball for the second time yesterday. It was perched on her desk. She was showing me her painting, the one I would be photographing. I tried to trace the canvas’s lines, its colors, its shapes, but my eyes snagged on something else. It looked the same—varying shades of brown swirling around each other, slightly misshapen, covered in little imperfections. 

She noticed my gaze. She frowned. She told me it was a gift, that he had gotten it for her at a yard sale.  

He said it reminded him of me, of the stargazing trip we went on after our first date. Jupiter was in the sky that night. He spent so long trying to help me find it. But I was impatient. I just wanted to go home. Space isn't my thing, it's his. At least he tries. That’s the story I tell myself, at least.

She glanced back at me, eyes studying mine. She gave the ball one more glance, shrugged, and grabbed my wrist, pulling me back toward her painting. Her perfume, light and floral, wafted behind her.