My name is Bunny. Not by birthright, but by nickname. A side effect of being an Easterling in an elementary school. A last name too perfect, a punchline a little too easy.

It stuck, and over the years I made it mine—softened it, wore it proudly like ears no one could see.

And maybe that's why, every year, the night before Easter, I place a basket outside my door. Just an empty basket. No note. No expectation. Just... what if?

What if I woke up one morning and found it full? Candy, eggs, a chocolate rabbit smiling with its ears still intact?

I'm not expecting the Easter Bunny. I'm not delusional. But somewhere, deep in the bone of memory, I still crave that feeling—that unreachable high of childhood belief.

That sense that someone magical might be real. That something impossible might still happen. That maybe, just maybe, a kind-hearted stranger or a supernatural being might be waiting for the right moment to remind me that I am seen.

The world teaches us to outgrow these things. But I never did—not completely.

So I put out the basket, year after year, not out of stubbornness, but out of heartfelt defiance. A small, gentle rebellion against a world that insists we stop dreaming.

Not because I think it'll be filled, but because I still believe it could be.

This has been a love letter to a forgotten thing, and the little acts of defiance we perform in a world that forgot to dream.