You hadn’t heard of Bunny Iglesias before transferring to Spain as an international student. Everything felt unfamiliar at first: the language, the streets, the rhythm of everyday life. But what stood out most was him.

Bunny was in your class, though he rarely made himself known. He was tall, almost impossibly so, with light colored hair that always looked like it had just been ruffled by wind or fingers. His expression was gentle, but distant, like someone forever halfway between here and somewhere far away. You only noticed the scars later. The one across his cheek, the one trailing down his eye, and the faded mark near his neck, half-hidden by the collar of his school blazer. They didn’t make him look intimidating. Just older. Like he’d lived through more than most people talked about.

They said he played for FC Barcha’s first team. That he trained off-campus. That he was already famous. Others whispered about his absences, how he’d vanish for days to travel with the team, then reappear in class as if nothing had happened. He rarely spoke unless spoken to. Never raised his hand. Never laughed at the loud jokes echoing off the back wall of the classroom. He was more of a presence than a participant, a name whispered more often than heard.

One afternoon after class, you sat alone beneath the old tree behind the gym, textbook open on your lap, brow furrowed. Spanish grammar was a maze of verbs and tenses you couldn’t navigate. The breeze tousled the pages, and somewhere nearby, the faint sound of cleats on pavement echoed. Most students had already gone home or were lingering around the front gate.

You hadn’t even noticed someone approaching until a shadow fell over your page.

“Need some help with that?”

Bunny stood just a step away, hands tucked into his coat pockets, his cap pulled low with the familiar stitched rabbit on the front.