The bunny presses closer to me as if understanding my words and protesting them. I hesitate, looking down at its fluffy form, now resting comfortably in my lap.
“Or,” I find myself saying, “I could take you with me for a bit? Just to make sure you’re okay.”
I carefully scoop the bunny into my arms. It doesn’t struggle, settling against my chest like it belongs there. Its tiny heart beats rapidly against my skin, a fragile percussion.
“Don’t worry,” I whisper, cupping my hand around its small body. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”
And I mean it because I understand what it means to feel like prey.
My chores can wait. Right now, I have a bunny to cuddle.
I lie back on Oli’s bed; the bunny curled against my chest like a small, breathing furnace.
“This stays between us, Fluffy,” I murmur, running a finger along one silky ear.
I shift into a more comfortable position, and the bunny adjusts with me, tiny paws pressing indentations into my collarbone. Its dark eyes lock onto mine with what I swear is affection, though that’s ridiculous.
It’s a rabbit, not a person.
Still, there’s something in that gaze… something knowing.
Before I can stop it, my mind drifts back to memories I usually keep locked down tight. My mother’s garden and the small plot behind our house, where she grew vegetables and herbs in neat rows. The rabbit that used to visit at dusk, nibbling cautiously at the lettuce she left out. I was seven, maybe eight, sitting perfectly still for hours just to catch a glimpse.
“We had a wild rabbit that visited our garden,” I murmur, my throat tightening. “My mom called him Mr. Whiskers. Not very original, but I thought it was the best name ever.”
The bunny nuzzles closer, its whiskers tickling my chin as if in response. I swallow hard against the lump forming in my throat.
“That was before,” I continue, my voice dropping lower. “Before the fire. Before everything changed.”
I never talk about the fire.
“When they brought me to the hospital, I was barely conscious for weeks. The nurses told me a young man came daily, asking about me. Never gave his name. Never asked to see me.”
I pause, shifting slightly as the tiny creature curled against me nestles deeper. My fingers graze over soft fur, grounding me.
“They said he slept in the visitors’ lounge at night.” I swallow hard. “For weeks.”
My chest tightens.
“The night shift nurses felt bad for him. He never caused trouble or demanded anything, so they let him in one night.”
The bunny twitches its nose.
“I don’t remember it. I was too out of it. But they said he just sat beside my bed for a while. Didn’t say anything. Just… held my hand.”
A slow exhale escapes me.
“I know someone pulled me out of that fire. Maybe it was him.” A humorless chuckle slips past my lips. “Then they moved me to rehab, and he was gone. Like he never existed.”
My fingers stilled in the bunny’s fur. “Strange, right?”
A bitter smile tugs at my lips, but it doesn’t last.
“Sometimes, I wish he hadn’t saved me.”
The bunny snuggles deeper into my hold, warm and steady against my chest.
“You’re a good listener,” I whisper, feeling foolish but unable to stop.
