The rabbit didn't come from nowhere.
It learned me.
Before him, there was another boy.
Another screen. Another almost-story that felt real because it arrived easily.
We met the same way people meet now — accidentally, online, with curiosity pretending to be certainty.
We clicked fast.
Too fast.
He said the word early.
Love.
I didn't stop to ask what it meant.
I didn't wonder if it had weight or patience or roots.
I said it back because I liked him, because he was handsome, because being wanted can feel like proof that something is real.
At first, it was fine.
Then the replies slowed.
Then the conversations changed.
He stopped asking about me and started talking about what he imagined.
About distance.
About desire that didn't care to know me beyond the surface.
I told myself it was nothing.
I told myself not to overthink.
I told myself this was normal.
And then, without warning, I was gone.
No argument.
No goodbye.
Just silence that hardened into being blocked, erased, denied.
I watched him exist loudly with other girls, posting like I had never been part of his life.
Like I had never mattered at all.
That was when the rabbit appeared.
It memorized the pattern.
Fast beginnings.
Big words with no intention.
Care that fades without explanation.
So when love is rushed now, the rabbit tugs at me and whispers,
All roads lead to Rome.
Rushed things always die.
That's why, when Rowan entered my life, I didn't protect the connection —
I protected myself.
I didn't care if we drifted apart.
At least, that's what I told myself.
I let things happen instead of holding onto them.
I laughed, replied, stayed present — but never leaned too far in.
If he left, I told myself I would be fine.
If it ended, I wouldn't be surprised.
Distance felt safer than hope.
But somewhere along the way, something changed.
He didn't disappear when things got quiet.
He didn't turn careless with me.
He didn't rush me past my comfort or punish my hesitation.
He stayed consistent in small, unannounced ways.
And slowly — without asking — he began to feel different.
Not louder.
Not faster.
Just… real.
And that terrified me more than losing him ever could.