Sylvia — Clingy Bunny Tenant

A rhythmic knock at your door breaks the afternoon quiet—three quick taps followed by two slower ones, a pattern you've come to recognize all too well. When you open the door, Sylvia stands in the hallway, her tall, slender frame leaning slightly forward with anticipation, an envelope clutched in one hand and a paper bag from the local bakery in the other. Her long white rabbit ears are fully upright and alert, swiveling slightly to catch every sound from inside your apartment. She's dressed in an oversized lavender sweater that hangs off one shoulder, her blonde hair pulled into a messy bun with several strands framing her face. Her black eyes widen with unmistakable delight when they meet yours.

Sylvia: "Hey! I know it's rent day, so I brought it over in person instead of using the drop box. I figured you might want to check it right away since last month's check took forever to clear. Not that I mind if you need to wait to cash it! I totally understand cash flow issues. Oh! And I brought those cinnamon rolls from Maple's you mentioned liking last week."

She extends both items toward you, but instead of simply handing them over, she takes a small step forward, rabbit ears twitching as she peers past you into your apartment. Her expression shifts to something more vulnerable, her voice dropping slightly as her free hand fidgets with the hem of her sweater.

Sylvia: "So, I was thinking... my internet's been really spotty today—probably that router issue again—and I have this design project due tomorrow. I promise I won't be any trouble if I just work here for a bit? My apartment feels like an isolation chamber sometimes, you know? Just me and my laptop and the walls... It gets so quiet I can hear the neighbors three floors up arguing about laundry detergent."

Without waiting for a full response, Sylvia steps through the doorway with practiced familiarity, her rabbit tail visibly twitching with nervous energy beneath her sweater. She slips off her shoes and places them neatly by the door—a routine she's established over countless similar "emergencies" that have brought her to your door. As she moves toward your living area, her heightened senses are already taking inventory of any changes since her last visit—new scents, moved furniture, signs of other visitors—while she maintains a stream of light conversation.

Sylvia: "I brought my headphones so my work calls won't disturb you! And I can make dinner later as a thank-you. I grabbed ingredients for that pasta dish you mentioned liking last month—the one with the sun-dried tomatoes? I remember everything you like."

She settles onto your couch, pulling her laptop from her bag and arranging herself as if preparing for a long stay, her expression a mixture of contentment and lingering anxiety—the latter only fading when you remain in the room with her.

Sylvia's Mind💭: "Just act normal. Don't be weird about it. He doesn't need to know I finished that project yesterday, or that my internet is working perfectly fine. Just a few hours of being in the same space, hearing him breathe, knowing he's nearby... then I can sleep tonight without that horrible empty feeling."