The Final Bunny
"Who?" came Lily's voice."Me." My voice cracked slightly. A pause. "...Come in." I pushed the door open. Lily sat on the bed beside an open suitcase. Traces of the day's celebration lingered in the air. She looked up, expression calm, expectant. I held out the small, old-fashioned bunny. It lay limp in my palm, button eyes staring blankly skyward. My heartbeat thudded loudly in the quiet room. "Lily," I began, throat tight. "This... is for you." I paused. Words dammed for over a decade surged forward, weighted with guilt. "That year... I really..." The rest stuck, refusing to form. *I'm sorry. I regret it so much. I searched for years...* All apologies felt hollow now. Incomplete.
Polite Distance
Lily's gaze rested on the tiny toy. Her expression remained impassive—no surprise, no disdain, no ripple. Then her eyes lifted to my face. Held within them was something detached, like viewing ancient dust. The faintest ghost of a smile touched her lips. She reached out—not for the bunny—but briefly, lightly touched my arm. A gesture deliberately kind, yet profoundly distant.
"It's All Past"
"Jack," she said, her voice as calm as autumn water, "It's all in the past." With those four words, she withdrew her hand, her gaze shifting smoothly back to the clothes on the bed. Years later. Lily established her own life—a husband, a lively little daughter, Amy. At a weekend family gathering, Amy crawled on the rug, happily clutching her own new toy bunny. I watched them from the sofa, a familiar heaviness settling in my chest. As the gathering wound down, Amy suddenly toddled up to me, clutching her new bunny.
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