The Returned Bunny
After dinner, I heard Lily's drawer open and close. Soon, my door creaked open a sliver. The new pink bunny sat primly on the floor just inside. The red bow was still perfect, untouched. Lily didn't appear. Only the solitary bunny offered its silent, cold rejection. Undeterred, over the following years, every birthday, Christmas, even random weekends, if I had spare money, I'd buy another bunny.
Endless Attempts
All varieties: large, small, dressed, hatted... Each chosen with fragile hope. Always the same result. The new, adorable rabbits reappeared—next day, few days later—pristine on my doorstep or the living room table. No trace of Lily. Always coldly new. Lily remained constant: polite, distant, detached. At school, passing me, she'd offer a brief nod and walk on.
Lily's Distance
Anything requiring communication went through Mom. "Mom, tell Jack," became her refrain. We lived under one roof, yet orbited like distant planets. Time raced. I graduated high school, left for university hundreds of miles away. Brief holiday visits home revealed little change. Lily shot up, a young woman now, but those eyes held the same quiet, frozen distance when they met mine. Conversation remained surface polite: "Trip okay?" "Busy with classes?" "Yeah." "Pretty busy." Then, silence.
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