Janella was a shy girl from a quiet coastal town. She spoke little in school, but her tablet was a universe of color. One night, she sketched a bunny with long, floppy ears that faded from lavender to sky blue, and eyes that looked like tiny, twinkling galaxies. She named her Bunnyjanjan —part pet, part echo of her own hidden joy.

One day, the school announced a city-wide art fair. The theme was “Imaginary Friends.” Most kids brought stuffed toys or described dragons. But Janella, nervous and trembling, stepped onto the stage with only her tablet.

“You don’t need me to be brave anymore, do you?” she asked.

“Only when you believe I am,” chirped Bunnyjanjan, her voice like wind chimes. “And only because you drew me with love, not just lines.”

Janella won first prize. But better than the trophy was what happened after: kids crowding around her, asking how she made Bunnyjanjan, wanting to draw their own imaginary friends.

Janella closed her eyes. “That’s because she’s shy. Just like me.”

That night, Bunnyjanjan sat on Janella’s pillow, her galaxy-eyes soft.

And then, from her tablet screen, Bunnyjanjan leaped out—not as a ghost, but as a radiant hologram of kindness. She danced around the stage, painting rainbows with her ears, and whispered in every child’s ear: “You have magic too. You just forgot to look.”