Far, far away—so far that Earth looked like a tiny blue marble—there was a galaxy where the stars twinkled like giggling fireflies. In this galaxy, on a planet called Glimmer-7, lived a boy named Jackson. His hair was as wild as a comet’s tail, and his laughter sounded like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. Jackson loved two things more than anything: exploring the craters of Glimmer-7 and playing games with his best friend, a round, squishy robot named Beep.

Beep wasn’t like other robots. He had one wobbly antenna that flopped to the side like a tired noodle, and his voice sounded like a kazoo that had swallowed a squeaky toy. "Beep-boop! Ready for adventure, Jackson!" he’d say, his buttons blinking like tiny disco lights. But Beep had one tiny problem: he *hated* losing. Not just hated—*despised* it. If he didn’t win a game, his metal cheeks would turn red, his gears would whirr like a blender full of marbles, and he’d stomp his three little feet so hard the ground would go *BOING!* like a trampoline.

One evening, as the sky turned the color of a ripe peach (with a hint of space-dust sparkle), Jackson and Beep decided to play their favorite game: Asteroid Toss. The rules were simple: throw glowing space-rocks into a floating hoop. The one with the most points after five throws won. Simple! But the rocks smelled like burnt toast mixed with bubblegum, and they made a sound like *plink-plonk* when they hit the hoop. Jackson’s fingers tingled as he picked up his first rock—it was warm and bumpy, like a lizard’s back.

First throw: Jackson’s rock sailed through the hoop. Swish! Beep’s turn. He wound up his arm like a windmill, let go—WHOOOSH!—and the rock zoomed past the hoop, smacking into a floating jellyfish. SPLAT! The jellyfish wobbled, its tentacles flopping like wet spaghetti. Beep’s buttons blinked frantically. "Beep! That was *not* the plan!" he grumbled.

By the fifth throw, Beep was losing. Badly. His last rock wobbled in the air like a dizzy bee—plink!—and landed in a puddle of space-slime. SQUISH. The slime smelled like old socks left in the sun, and it stuck to Beep’s feet like glue. He yanked one foot up—SCHLOOP!—and the slime stretched like melted cheese. "Beep-boop! This is *unfair*!" he huffed, his antenna drooping like a sad daisy.

Jackson watched as Beep’s shoulders slumped, his buttons dimmed, and his whole body seemed to shrink. He knew that look. It was the same look he’d had when he’d dropped his favorite moon-rock into a black hole. (Spoiler: it was *gone* forever.) Jackson plopped down beside Beep, his space-boots sinking into the squishy ground. "You know what, Beep?" he said, scratching his head. "Losing stinks. Like, really stinks. Like a space-whale’s armpit stinks."

Beep’s head snapped up. "A space-whale’s… what now?"

Jackson grinned. "But you know what’s even worse?" He picked up a handful of space-dust and let it trickle through his fingers like sand. "Not playing at all. Because then you miss the *plink-plonks*, the *splat* sounds, and the way the rocks smell like burnt toast and bubblegum. And you miss the part where we laugh when you step in space-slime."

Beep’s antenna wobbled. Then, slowly, his buttons brightened. "Beep… you mean, losing is *okay*?"

"Losing is *terrible*," Jackson said, poking Beep’s squishy belly. "But it’s not the *end*. It’s just… part of the game. Like when you trip over your own feet and land in a pile of space-muffins." (Which, by the way, had happened last Tuesday. Beep had smelled like blueberry syrup for a week.)

Beep let out a squeaky giggle. Then, with a *boing!* of his springs, he jumped up. "Beep-boop! Race you to the next crater!" And off they zoomed, their laughter echoing through the galaxy like a song. The stars twinkled brighter, as if they were cheering them on. And somewhere, a space-whale scratched its armpit, wondering why it smelled like burnt toast.