It rained on our first date. We sat on picnic blankets, taking turns painting, our canvases wet with raindrops. But it didn’t matter— it was perfect weather for frogs, and to me, that meant good luck. We painted until my hands grew too cold, and you held them in yours. I thanked the weather.

You preferred bunnies to frogs— something about someone from your past, mixed with harmless superstitions. To you, bunnies were good luck. As the weather warmed, we saw bunnies everywhere, and who was I to turn away good fortune?

You wanted to see me hold one, so in July we traveled to Chicago. I took you to a café on the north side where we sat on the floor in a playpen, petting soft-eyed bunnies with twitching noses, nibbling on herbs from some garden. Your smile was the biggest I’d ever seen, and I felt lucky again— no frogs required.

I never saw any frogs that summer. I waited and waited, but as the leaves changed, things grew colder between us. My luck had changed.

When we met to exchange things, we went to a park by the lake. The gray sky opened up and rained, and the frogs poked their heads out, listening to both sides of our story, croaking in deliberation. It felt like I had something on my side, but I didn’t feel lucky.

It’s been a month without you. If I could talk to you, I’d tell you I’ve been seeing bunnies everywhere— darting across the quad, waiting by my door. I’d tell you I forgive you, and though you’re gone, I still feel lucky to have known you.