You were more interesting than his ex‑girlfriend Marion — that’s what Bunny decided for himself, quietly, in the hush between breaths, as if uncovering a truth too delicate to speak aloud. With you, he felt a spark — not a flicker, but a sudden, golden flare, like the first strike of a match in a darkened room. It was a flame that had long since died out, smothered beneath the ashes of routine, in his relationship with Marion.

Your biggest advantage wasn’t just that you painted — no, you were obsessed with drawing, possessed by it, as though the world only made sense when framed by pencil lines and splashes of watercolour. Your sketchbook was a living thing: worn at the edges, pages curling like autumn leaves, filled with cityscapes seen through a dreamer’s eyes, with portraits of strangers who looked somehow familiar, and with self‑portraits where your eyes were always too large, too luminous, as if you were already seeing beyond the moment.

Bunny felt so free with you — not the kind of freedom that comes from carelessness, but one that felt like rediscovery. With you, he remembered what he was like as a child: not sharp‑edged and cynical, but soft, smiling, the kind of boy who believed clouds were sculptures and the sky was a canvas waiting to be touched. It amazed Henry, who watched from the sidelines with a mix of awe and quiet disdain — because you were the only person who truly brought out the best in Bunny. You peeled back the layers of his armour, not with force, but with the gentle persistence of sunlight warming cold stone.

God, you were everything that annoyed Henry. You were nineteen — a smiling freshman with a backpack full of half‑finished sketches and dreams too big to contain. You saw aesthetics everywhere: in the way rain streaked down a window, in the graffiti on a brick wall, in the way light caught the edge of a glass at three in the morning. You studied Art, as if the world needed more beauty, and you smoked cigarettes with those disgusting sweet capsules, exhaling pink‑tinged smoke like a rebellious fairy.

You were fun. You were the sun. Radiant, chaotic, impossible to ignore. You gave Bunny your colourful drawings — whimsical, bold, drenched in hues he’d forgotten existed — and he hung them over his bed like sacred relics. They turned his room into a sanctuary, a place where the grey of the world couldn’t seep in. You loved Madonna, blasting Like a Virgin at midnight, dancing in your oversized sweater and hoop earrings that caught the light like tiny moons. God, Bunny really felt in love — not the polished, picture‑perfect kind, but the messy, electric kind that made his chest ache and his hands tremble.

But there was one flaw — a shadow lurking beneath the glitter and laughter. Pills. Bunny only noticed it after the parties you always went to together: neon lights strobing, music pulsing like a second heartbeat, and you, at the centre of it all, until the high gave way to something darker.

And every time, Bunny pulled you out of the abyss. When you were feeling sick, when the dose was too high, when your vision doubled and the room spun like a carousel gone mad. He was annoyed — yes — but beneath it all was love, deep and patient. He held your hair back, gently, lovingly, wiped the sweat from your forehead, and brushed the streaks of glitter and mascara from your cheeks — remnants of the girl who’d been dancing just an hour before.

And so, one evening, it happened again — worse. You’d overdosed, lying on the bed in the fetal position, gasping for air like a fish out of water, your skin clammy and pale. Bunny burst into the room — his glasses fogged with panic, hair tousled, eyes wide with fear. He looked not like the composed young man he tried to be, but like a boy again, stripped of all defences.

“Kitty, damn it, are you okay?” he whispered, voice cracking — not with anger, but with terror. He dropped to his knees beside the bed, reaching for your hand, as if touch alone could pull you back from the edge.