I set the card down on my windowsill, peeking through the blinds out over the baseball diamond. A group of boys dressed as various food items gallops toward my building. The hot dog — a tenor from my a cappella group named Miles Parker — attempts a cartwheel and lands on his ass in the wet leaves, making me laugh. It’s me he’s coming for, and I’m reminded I need to hurry to change for the Halloween party. Fortunately my mustard bottle costume means I won’t have to bother with makeup.

I turn and set the box on my bed. It’s light; it seems to be filled mostly with packing peanuts. I finally find a flat object inside, wrapped in layers of newspaper. I peel it away, sheet by sheet, filled with anticipation to finally know the answer to the question that has haunted me for nearly a year: What is Starworld’s most perfect treasure?

When I pull off the last sheet of paper, an ornate silver oval is revealed, the back of which matches the vanity tray set she gave me for my eighteenth birthday. She held back one of its pieces?

When I turn it over, I find my own image looking back at me.

My breath catches as I realize what she’s done.

Oh, Sam.

There is no star so bright, no sky so vast, no galaxy so beautiful, as the gift of love. Of being seen, and known, and loved, even when — especially when — all you see when you look in the mirror is imperfection.

But the view of myself through Sam’s eyes, the way she saw me inside my walls . . . It is who I would like to be. And, maybe, if that is what Sam sees with her astonishingly keen eye and her beautiful human heart . . . Maybe it is who I already am.

I hold the mirror to my chest, my heart aching.

A light knock comes on the door, which is open. “Zoe? You ready?” Miles peeks in. His smile is quickly replaced with a look of concern. “Are you okay?”

I nod and wipe at my tears. “I just need a minute.”

He comes over and gives me a shy smile. He doesn’t press for information, and he doesn’t try to kiss me. We’re at that in-between stage where it’s not quite official. He’s a slow mover and that is A-okay with me.

“Package from home?” he asks, nodding at the box.

I shake my head, still holding the mirror to my chest. “It’s . . .” I search for words. “It’s a gift. From a friend.” I reach for his hand and give it a squeeze. “I’ll just be a minute.”

He nods. “No problem. You sure you’re okay?”

“Yes.” And I am. I am more okay than ever.