Love in the Smallest Galaxy
By Mary Joe Brin
The Ring
There were two things Brin never trusted: blind dates and mood rings.
The first had let her down too many times, and the second had always seemed like a scam wrapped in fake gemstones. But on a breezy Thursday afternoon, while wandering through an old pawn shop tucked between a fried fish joint and a laundromat, fate—or something stranger—made her pause.
The ring sat in a dusty glass case, glowing faintly, like it had its own secrets. It wasn’t flashy, but something about the swirl of color, blues deep as oceans, flickering bursts of gold, called to her.
“How much?” she asked.
“Five bucks,” the shopkeeper grunted. “But if you’re asking me, I’d say it’s priceless. That’s no mood ring. That’s a galaxy.”
Brin blinked. “Come again?”
“Galaxy. Tiny one. Got its own moons and suns. Whole civilizations, probably. That’s why it changes colors—it’s reacting to you, but also to them.”
She smirked. “Right. Sure. I’ll take it.”
The Rescue
Two weeks later, Brin was on her third failed date in as many weeks. Her date was drone-on-about-his-startup levels of awful. She’d just about texted her cousin an SOS when someone behind the bar caught her eye. He had deep brown skin, a sly grin, and the kind of eyes that knew when someone needed saving.
“Babe,” he called out, walking over like they’d done this a dozen times. “You ready to bounce?”
Brin caught on quick. “Absolutely. I thought you were getting the car!”
The date looked confused. Brin and her rescuer walked out laughing.
“I’m Andrè,” he said, grinning as they reached the sidewalk. “I saw your face. Figured I’d help.”
“You have no idea how grateful I am,” she said. “I’m Brin. And I owe you a drink. A real one.”
The Vanishing
Their connection was instant. Like they'd known each other in another life, or ten. Conversations flowed, texts turned into phone calls, and eventually, late-night taco runs and Sunday morning pancake experiments. The more time they spent together, the more the ring seemed to respond—pulsing with color whenever Andrè was near.
“Okay, I know it sounds nuts,” Brin told him one night, showing him the glowing amber gem. “But this thing reacts to you. It’s like it knows I’m happy.”
Andrè took her hand. “Maybe that shopkeeper was right. Maybe it is a galaxy.”
Brin rolled her eyes, but deep down… she wondered.
Then one night, as a joke, Andrè slipped the ring on. And vanished.
Brin screamed. The air shimmered, leaving behind a warm, electric scent, and an empty couch.
Panicked, she called out. Nothing. The ring just lay there, lifeless on the floor.
Hours passed before it buzzed and shimmered again, and dropped Andrè back into her living room, covered in glowing specks and laughing like a madman.
“I met a sentient cloud named Martha,” he gasped. “Also, your ring? Total galaxy. It’s like… space, but snack-sized. And apparently I’m the Chosen Fry-Cook of Quadrant 5.”
Brin just stared. “You’ve been gone for like three hours.”
“I’ve been there three days. We built a diner on a comet.”
Exploring Together
That was the beginning of their shared secret.
They started taking turns wearing the ring, exploring the galaxy inside. They met star-babies, space librarians, a moody meteor who only spoke in riddles, and a punk rock nebula that played bass with its gravitational waves.
But more than that, the ring became a mirror of their love, growing brighter, warmer, deeper with every adventure, every kiss, every shared laugh across light years and city blocks.
The Proposal
On Brin’s birthday, Andrè took her to a floating balcony orbiting a nebula that looked like melted sorbet. He knelt.
The ring glowed a color neither of them had seen before, something between memory and magic.
“Let’s make this our universe,” he said. “You and me. Forever.”
Brin smiled, heart bursting, the galaxy inside the ring humming like a lullaby.
“I thought you'd never ask.”
Now, when you see Brin walking through the city, there’s a spark on her hand that’s more than just a ring.
It’s a galaxy.
And it's in love.
