This brings us to now.
We basically live together. He keeps his own place for the bad days—when the darkness creeps in too heavy and he needs to be alone. I've tried telling him that's not healthy, but he's stubborn.
Whenever things get tense, or we feel someone sniffing too close, we both retreat into the shadows of our apartments, quiet like ghosts. No footsteps, no silhouettes in the window. Just silence, stillness—like hiding in a world that doesn't want us.
But those moments were few and far between.
Bucky had talked about leaving Romania.
"Staying in one place too long gives them a better shot at finding us," he told me once.
At some point, it had become we. Us.
I didn't mind. Actually, I liked it.
"Where were you thinking?" I asked.
"Morocco or Budapest. Both are good."
I brushed it off at the time. I'm a creature of habit—I had only just gotten used to Romania. The thought of starting over again somewhere new made my stomach churn, even if I'd have Bucky with me.
He didn't bring it up again. I think he understood without needing me to explain with words.
One day, walking home from a tutoring session, I ducked into a local bookstore—my usual routine. I went to grab the day's paper and maybe browse for something new Bucky might like.
I had tried getting him to just use my laptop to look up what he wanted, but—no surprise—the hundred-year-old man wasn't exactly tech-savvy.
I chuckled to myself remembering the last time he tried.
Then something on the TV behind the register froze me in place.
It was a news broadcast—UN coverage, subtitles in multiple languages.
"The suspect has been identified as James Buchanan Barnes—a Hydra operative also known as the Winter Soldier. The suspect is armed and extremely dangerous. If seen, contact local authorities immediately."
What?
A bombing in Vienna. They were saying he did it. But he wasn't there.
He couldn't have been.
I was with him.
The books fell from my hands. I stared at the screen, willing the image to change—to prove me wrong.
Then came the photo. Grainy, but clear enough. A parking garage camera.
It looked like Bucky.
But it couldn't be.
Not my Bucky.
But who would listen to me?
I was a wanted money launderer, now protecting someone the world thought was a killer.
I sprinted out of the store, the bell above the door echoing behind me. I left the books on the floor, running through the streets like the air was fire.
If we could just leave now—Morocco, anywhere—it would be fine. He'd be fine.
But as I turned onto our street, I saw them—police, paramedics, unmarked cars.
Our building surrounded.
I ducked into a bush near the side, tugging up the hood of my sweatshirt. My heart thundered in my chest.
They didn't get him. They couldn't have. He's strong. He's smart. He's Bucky.
I waited.
Three hours passed, though it felt like days. Eventually, the police cleared the building and let residents back in.
Climbing the stairs, I saw the damage—bent rails in ways a normal man couldn't do, shattered doors, bullet holes, blood.
Whose blood?
Not his.
No—he got out. He had to.
I gripped the strap of my leather crossbody bag like it could keep me upright. My knees shook.
What would I find when I reached our floor?
Memories flashed—his hand in mine as we slipped through alleyways. His head on my lap as I played with his hair. The feel of his arms around me like it was the safest place in the world, something I needed now.
Tears blurred my vision. Gently stream down my face scared to climb the last few floors, I brace onto what little is left of the railing and climb the last few floors.
His doorway, covered in crime scene tape.
His door was destroyed and gone.
I slipped under the tape, to find it an actual crime scene. I always teased him by saying it looked like one, but now it really was.
His mattress, the one he barely used, was full of bullet holes, thrown up against the wall.
The windows, once covered in old newspapers I helped him collect, were shattered.
Scorch marks painted the floors. Flashbangs maybe. Not grenades, I hoped.
His handmade shelf was rubble, cement chunks littering the kitchen. I saw dried blood on some of them.
Then—
The hole. Near the kitchen.
I remembered it.
"Always keep a go-bag," he once told me. "You never know when you'll need to run. Hide it somewhere only you can get to."
He kept his under the floorboards—only he could punch his way through.
I knelt and peered into the hole.
Empty.
Tears hit the concrete.
If he took the go-bag but didn't come for me, it meant he couldn't.
It meant he wasn't coming back.
Something caught my eye—his notebook. Buried under dust and broken tile.
I pulled it free, wiping it clean, and tucked it into my bag.
He might need this.
I scanned the room once more.
A glint in the window. One shard of glass still clung to the frame.
A piece of newspaper folded beneath it.
My crossword.
One I thought I'd thrown out.
I turned slowly. There were more. Crosswords. Taped over other windows. Ones I had finished. Ones he had saved.
Right where he could see them.
Right where he could remember me.
squish
I stepped on something soft. A plum.
There were several on the ground, half-buried in the dust and chaos.
I spotted the grocery bag near the door.
More plums and crossword puzzle book.
A laugh broke through my chest—sad and warm at the same time.
"Oh, Bucky…"
I gathered the plums and the book and slipped out under the tape.
Back in my apartment, I shut the door behind me and slid down until I hit the cold floor.
I didn't know what to do.
Where to go.
Before him, I had plans. I had control.
With him, I had peace—love I never expected.
But I never thought there'd be an after him.
Why didn't I?
Tears fell, quiet and slow.
I held the puzzle book to my chest like a life raft.
Was he hurt?
In jail?
Dead?
"Where are you, Bucky?" I whispered, barely a breath, as the ache inside me bloomed into silence.
I finally peel myself off the floor, dragging my body toward the bed — our bed. It's too small for two people, really. We used to joke that it forced us to be close, not that either of us minded.
I climb in and curl into the blanket that still smells like him — faint traces of sweat, soap, and street dust. My hand finds the indentation where his head rested just last night.
We had fallen asleep tangled together, knees knocking, my face buried in his chest. He had mumbled something half-asleep about picking up tickets the next morning for a new museum opening.
I had smiled, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. I didn't know that would be the last thing he said to me.
I hold the puzzle book tighter to my chest, breathing him in through it — paper and dust and him. As I run my fingers along the bent cover, something slips loose from between the pages.
Two museum tickets. Folded neatly.
My thumb brushes over the printed date — this weekend.
My face crumples. I press the tickets to my chest and lie back against the cold mattress, pulling the blanket up over my body like maybe, somehow, it will keep me from falling apart.
Now all that's left is the cold side of the bed. Two museum tickets. A crossword puzzle book. And a future we were supposed to have.
"Where are you, Bucky?" I whisper into the quiet, but there's no answer — just the soft creak of a floorboard settling, like the apartment still remembers him too.