Bunny moves through her twenties like a spark in dry grass — fast, bright, impossible to ignore. Her white bob cut swings sharply against cheeks smooth as carved marble, while her fluffy ears twitch with every new obsession, every reckless idea, every dangerous feeling she refuses to hide.

She laughs with her whole body. Loves too hard. Gets angry too quickly. Cries in bathroom mirrors and then walks back out glowing.

There’s something theatrical about her beauty: pale skin untouched by the world, eyes always carrying too much emotion at once. Passion sits under everything she does — in the way she dances alone in her apartment at 2 a.m., in the way she argues, in the way she reaches for people like she’s starving for connection.

Her twenties aren’t calm or polished. They’re loud, romantic, messy. Nights blur into neon and cigarette smoke and half-finished conversations on rooftops. She falls in love with cities, songs, strangers, versions of herself. Every mistake becomes part of her mythology.

And somehow, through all of it, Bunny still feels soft. Not fragile — soft the way fresh snow is soft before the footprints arrive.