Estella

The apartment feels suffocating, too quiet. Bucky is on his couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. His stomach churns, not just from the headache pounding behind his eyes but from the gnawing pit of regret. 

The image of you, standing by the bar last night, arms crossed and eyes guarded—that’s what makes his hangover worse. Not the lingering taste of whiskey or the meaningless, hollow kiss he wishes he could take back. 

Just you. And the way you looked at him like he was exactly what he feared becoming—someone who couldn’t be trusted with your heart.

He runs a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. He needs air.

Grabbing his jacket, he steps outside, the cold midmorning air making his eyes sting. He sniffles and zips up his jacket, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he moves on instinct, as if his feet remember his usual route than his brain does in his current state. 

He makes it to the coffee shop, pausing before walking in, hoping to find you. He takes a deep breath and walks inside. His eyes wander to the back table but find it empty. His shoulders slump in disappointment. He tries to shake it off as he orders a cup of hazelnut coffee. He takes a seat at the same table that used to bring him comfort but now it just feels cold. He sits there, letting the untouched mug grow cold and stares ahead, remembering the way you smiled at him over the rim of your own mug. He hates how upset he feels, knowing he doesn’t deserve to feel this way. Since he brought you here, the atmosphere has changed. The sight of the empty chair in front of him twists anger and hopelessness deep in his chest.

The park is quieter this morning, the usual sounds of dogs barking and groups of old women chatting on their morning walks, are dulled by his intrusive thoughts. He walks along the path where you had strolled beside him, past the hill where you had sat together. He stops and visualizes the way you had tilted your head up, watching the light filter through the trees, and how he had caught himself watching you. He misses the smile that would appear on your face as he spoke about his past and how much he loved that he was the reason for it. The realization of that had startled him then. Now, it haunts him.

The Brooklyn Promenade stretches out before him, the skyline hazy against the afternoon sky. He leans against the railing, the same spot where you had stood. He remembers the look in your eyes, gleaming as you took in the Manhattan city outline. He had been drawn to that look on your face, the way you absorbed the world like it still had so much beauty to offer. And he had found himself watching you instead, more taken by your beauty and wonder— it made him feel some unfamiliar stir in his chest, something terrifying and real.

Now, the space beside him feels too empty.

The record store is the last stop. The familiar scent of vinyl and dust wrapping around him. Music plays softly over the speakers but it doesn’t make him feel the usual calmness. He walks to the listening booth, stopping in front of it, remembering the way you helped him through a difficult memory. 

He hadn’t realized just how much he liked seeing you experience his happiness. Now, all he can think about is how easily he’s managed to ruin everything.

He swipes a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. He’s spent so long keeping people at arm’s length, convincing himself it’s better that way. But you—you slipped through the tiny cracks. And last night, he shattered the fragility between you. 

Bucky swallows hard and leaves the store, his mind still a tangled mess of regret.

The fear had crept in before he could stop it. The moment he started wanting this—you—it became too real, too much. He had been here before, letting himself believe in something good, and look where it got him.

Losing his mom nearly broke him. Having Natalie leave right before shattered whatever pieces were left. And now, standing in the wreckage of his own making, he wonders if he’s doomed to repeat the same cycle—pushing people away before they have the chance to leave on their own.

He rubs a hand over his jaw, clenching as he exhales through his nose. He doesn’t know how to fix this. He doesn’t know if he can.

But the thought of losing you for good? That terrifies him more than anything.

And for the first time in a long time, Bucky is scared of something that isn’t the past—he’s scared of the future.

And what it might look like without you in it.

A sharp knock rattles the apartment door. He knows it’s not you, you still haven’t returned from your hasty exit this morning. He texted you once, just wanting to know if you’re okay. He hates the thought of you walking around in an unfamiliar city. You read it but didn’t reply. 

He ignores the knocking at first, slouched on his couch, staring at the floor like it holds all the answers he can’t find. But the knocking comes again—louder, more impatient. He knows who it is.

With a sigh, Bucky pushes himself to his feet and opens the door.

Sam doesn’t wait for an invitation. He steps inside, arms crossed over his chest.

“Alright, man,” Sam greets with a stern look and pressing eyes. “What the hell were you thinking?”

Bucky exhales sharply and shuts the door, rubbing a hand over his face. “Not in the mood for a lecture, Sam.”

“Well, that’s too damn bad.” Sam’s eyes darken as he takes a step closer. “Because somebody’s gotta say it. You say you don’t want to lose her, but you’re doing a damn good job pushing her away.”

Bucky clenches his jaw, looking away. “It doesn’t matter.”

Sam scoffs, shaking his head. “Bullshit.”

Bucky groans, shoulders tensing. “You don’t get it—”

“No, I get it just fine.” Sam cuts him off, his voice sharper now. “You’re scared. You’ve been running from these feelings for years. And now, instead of dealing with your own shit, you’re just hurting her.”

Bucky flinches but doesn’t argue.

Sam exhales, shaking his head. His voice softens, but there’s no less weight behind it. “I remember what you were like after your mom died. You were wrecked, man. And Natalie? She just walked away. Left you when you needed someone the most.”

Bucky swallows hard, the memories hitting him like a punch to the gut. The loneliness. The heartbreak. The way he shut himself off from everything and everyone after that.

Sam steps closer. “You’ve been keeping people at a distance ever since. And maybe that made sense back then, but not now. Not with her.”

Bucky’s hands clench into fists at his sides. His throat feels tight. “I do care about her, Sam.” He looks away, jaw tightening. “More than I’ve cared about anyone in years.”

Sam nods, like he already knew that. “So what the hell are you doing?”

Bucky exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to let someone in like that again. What if—” He stops himself before the rest of the thought can spill out.

Sam watches him for a long moment before speaking. “You don’t get to use that as an excuse forever, man. Yes, she will be going back to Oregon soon but that doesn’t mean she’s leaving you for good. It’s scary. It’s always gonna be scary. But if you don’t face that fear, you’re gonna lose the best damn thing that’s happened to you.”

Bucky lets out a slow, shaky breath, his chest aching. He doesn’t know what to say—because deep down, he knows Sam’s right.

The bell above the door chimes as Sam steps into the coffee shop, sweeping over the room until he lands on you. You’re by the window, hands curled around a cup of coffee that’s long gone cold, staring out at the city. But you’re not really seeing it. The movement of people, the rush of yellow cabs, the flickering neon signs—they’re all just blurs beyond the glass, as distant as the thoughts clouding your mind.

Sam doesn’t hesitate. He walks over and slides into the chair across from you.

“You look like you could use some company,” he says, resting his arms on the table.

You blink, snapping out of your daze. Your lips tug into a small, tired smile. “Hey, Sam.”

“Hey,” he replies, but there’s a softness to his voice, a knowing look in his eyes. Like he already sees the storm inside you before you can even say a word. He leans forward slightly. “You doing okay?”

You hesitate, your fingers tightening around the ceramic cup. The truth is, you’re not sure. The emotions tangled in your chest are too heavy to sort through. “I don’t know,” you admit quietly. “I’m just… trying to make sense of it all.”

Sam nods like he expected that. He glances around, then exhales. “You see him now, but you don’t know the version of him that I do—the guy who didn’t even want to get out of bed, who stopped talking to me for weeks.”

Your brows draw together as you look up at him. “After his mom passed?”

Sam nods. “Bucky was different after that. He was always the guy who carried everything on his shoulders, but when she died, it crushed him. And Natalie?” He scoffs, shaking his head. “She didn’t stick around. Their relationship was already rocky, but when grief hit, she made him feel like a burden.”

A sharp pang twists in your chest. Your mind flashes back to the way Bucky had spoken about Natalie. How his voice turned hollow, how his shoulders tensed like even the memory of her was something he wanted to bury deep. And suddenly, you understand it more. The way he hesitates, the way he pushes and pulls, how he keeps you at arm’s length even when his eyes tell a different story.

Sam continues, his voice quieter now. “He stopped showing up. Stopped answering calls, stopped seeing people. And when he did come back around… it wasn’t the same. He didn’t let anyone in after that. Not really.”

You lower your gaze, tracing the rim of your cup with your fingertip. The weight of Sam’s words settles into your chest, filling in the gaps of a story Bucky never quite told you himself.

“And now?” you ask, your voice softer.

Sam studies you for a long moment before answering. “Now, he’s trying. Or at least, he was—until he screwed up.”

A humorless laugh escapes you as you shake your head. “Yeah. Until he screwed up.”

Sam doesn’t argue with that. He just watches your reaction.

You swallow hard, staring down at your untouched coffee. “I don’t know what to do, Sam. I care about him. A lot. But I can’t be someone’s maybe. I can’t stand here waiting for him to decide if he wants me in his life as a friend or as more.”

Sam nods, thoughtful. “I get it. And I’m not here to make excuses for him. What he did was messed up. But I just thought you should know… he’s not a bad guy. He just doesn’t know how to let himself be happy.”

Your throat tightens. Because as much as you hurt, as much as you’re angry and disappointed—you know Sam’s right. You’ve seen it in the way Bucky looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention, in the way his fingers hesitate before touching yours, like he’s afraid of wanting something he’s convinced himself he can’t have.

And now you see it in yourself, too. The ache in your chest isn’t just from what he did—it’s from knowing he doesn’t believe he deserves more than what his past taught him.

“I just…” You pause, your voice smaller now. “I want to be there for him.”

Sam exhales, offering you a sad smile. “Maybe he needs to figure out how to let himself be loved first.”

You nod slowly and let his words sink in. Understanding Bucky doesn’t erase the hurt. But it does leave you with one painful question:

How much longer can you wait for someone who’s still learning what he wants?

That night, when the knock on the guest room door comes, you’re not surprised.

You’ve been expecting it.

Still, you hesitate. Your fingers hover over the handle for a beat too long before you finally pull the door open.

Bucky stands on the other side, looking exhausted—like he hasn’t slept in days. His hoodie hangs loose on his frame, hands shoved deep into the front pocket, shoulders hunched like the weight of everything is pressing down on him all at once. But it’s his eyes that catch you. There’s no shield there, no guarded walls—just rawness. Regret.

“Can we talk?” he asks hesitantly.

You inhale slowly. There’s no anger left in you, not really—just exhaustion, just a dull ache where warmth used to be. Without a word, you step back, leaving just enough space for him to walk inside.

Bucky lingers for a moment before he moves, running a hand through his hair as he exhales. The silence stretches, pressing down on both of you.

Finally, he breaks it.

“I was wrong,” he says, voice rough. “I keep messing this up. I keep pushing you away, and I know why—I just don’t know how to stop.” He swallows hard, shifting his weight like he’s fighting himself. “I don’t want to hurt you. I just… I don’t know how to be what you need.”

His words land deep, stirring up everything you’ve been feeling since you got here—the warmth of him, the way he made you feel seen, the way he kept you close, then pushed you away in the same breath.

You tighten your arms around yourself, steadying your voice. “I care about you, Bucky.” The words come easier than you expect. “But I won’t be someone you keep at arm’s length just because you’re scared.”

His jaw tightens. His hands ball into fists at his sides. “I’m not scared of you,” he says too fast, then, softer, “I’m scared of what this means.”

“I get it,” you say carefully. “But fear isn’t an excuse to push a friend away and drown your sorrows in alcohol when I’m here because of you. You wanted me here, Bucky. And everything was going great—until Natalie showed up, and suddenly, it was like you weren’t even the same person anymore.”

Bucky flinches, his lips pressing together in frustration. 

You exhale sharply, shaking your head. “I understand if seeing her brought up a lot for you. If it messed with your head. But why couldn’t you talk to me about it? We’ve traded letters for months, you’ve been open with me in ways I don’t think you’ve been with anyone else. But now, in person, it feels like there’s a part of you you’re hiding on purpose.”

Bucky pinches the bridge of his nose as he responds. “I wasn’t trying to hide. I just… I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to let myself have something good without waiting for it to go wrong.”

Your chest tightens. “That’s the thing, Bucky,” you say softly. “I wasn’t waiting for anything to go wrong. I was just here. I am here”

His breath stutters, and for a second, you see something crack in his expression.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and you believe him. You really do.

But believing him doesn’t change the fact that something in you has shifted.

You let out a slow, steadying breath, feeling the ache of the words before you even say them. “I think it’s time for me to go home.”

Bucky’s head snaps up, his whole body going still. “What?”

You force yourself to meet his gaze, to keep your voice level. “I came here to spend time with you. To figure out how we would be together. And I think I have.”

Something flickers across his face—panic, maybe. Regret. The kind that comes too late.

Bucky’s lips part like he wants to argue, to fight, but no words come out. Because what could he say?

And then, after a long, agonizing beat, he nods. Once. Just enough to let you go.

The morning light filters through the window, casting soft golden streaks across the ceiling. You’ve been awake for hours, staring at the shifting light patterns. Sleep never really came last night—not when your mind kept replaying every moment, every word, every hesitation in Bucky’s voice.

This isn’t how you imagined this trip ending.

You wanted clarity. Connection. A reason to stay.

Instead, you’re left with the stark realization that no matter how much you care about Bucky, no matter how much he might care about you, he’s stuck in a place you can’t reach. And you won’t break yourself trying to pull him out.

The thought sits heavy in your chest as you finally force yourself to move. Each motion feels mechanical—pulling your suitcase from the corner, folding clothes with a numb detachment. You hesitate over the little things he’s given you, the small tokens of your time together—his hoodie draped over the chair, the vinyl from the record store, a book he’d set on your nightstand with a quiet, “Thought you’d like this.”

You trace your fingers over the spine before slipping it into your bag.

Leaving feels wrong. It feels like severing something that was never meant to be broken. But staying? Staying would hurt more.

You reach for your phone, your voice quiet but firm as you reschedule your flight and call Wanda to see if she can be there to pick you up. “Yeah, I’ll be there soon… No, it’s fine. I’m ready to come home.”

The words feel like a lie even as you say them.

Bucky doesn’t mean to eavesdrop.

He was heading to the kitchen when he heard your voice from the guest room. He freezes in place, your words slamming into him like a gut punch.

"I’m ready to come home."

The finality in your tone knocks the breath from his lungs. You’re leaving.

He knew this trip wasn’t permanent, but hearing it like this—knowing you’re leaving now, that you might never come back—makes his insides unravel.

His grip tightens on the edge of the counter, his pulse a frantic rhythm against his ribs. His mind races through every moment—the way you laughed with Sam at the bar, the way you fit so easily into his world, the way your fingers brushed his as you walked around his city. The way you looked at him last night, waiting for something he couldn’t give, and the way he hated himself for it.

He wants to stop you. To tell you not to go. To finally say everything he’s been too afraid to say.

But what if it’s too late?

What if he’s already lost you?

His feet move before he makes the decision. He’s at your door in an instant, his breath uneven, his heart pounding like it’s trying to break free from his chest.

He lifts a hand to knock—hesitates.

Then, before he can talk himself out of it, he pushes the door open.

You turn, startled, eyes wide as you clutch a sweater to your chest. The sight of you mid-pack, standing in the middle of a room that already feels emptier, hits him harder than he expects.

For a moment, neither of you speak.

Bucky swallows hard, his voice rough when he finally finds it. “You don’t have to go.”

Your breath catches, fingers curling into the fabric of your sweater. “Bucky…”

“I know I messed up,” he rushes out, stepping closer. “I know I pushed you away. And I know I don’t deserve to ask you this, but…” He exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. “Stay. Just—stay a little longer.”

You close your eyes briefly, willing yourself to hold firm. “I can’t.”

The words are soft, but they land like a hammer between you.

Bucky’s jaw tightens, his expression crumbling for a fraction of a second. He nods, stepping back as if to brace himself. “Right.”

You watch him, waiting for something—an argument, a plea, anything that might make this easier. But he doesn’t fight you. He just looks at you, and for the first time, you see it clearly.

Bucky doesn’t know how to fight for someone to stay.

And you can’t be the one to teach him.

The ride to the airport is quiet.

Bucky insisted on driving you, and despite everything, you let him. Maybe because you weren’t ready to say goodbye back at his place, maybe because a part of you wanted just a little more time with him.

Now, sitting in the passenger seat of his car, watching the city blur past, the silence stretches between you like a thread pulled too tight, on the verge of snapping.

He grips the steering wheel with both hands, knuckles taut. Every so often, he glances over at you, like he wants to say something but doesn’t know how.

Neither of you turn on the radio.

Neither of you break the silence.

Because what is there to say?

You’re leaving. And this time, Bucky isn’t stopping you.

The airport comes into view too soon, a cold reminder that this is real, that in a few minutes, you’ll be walking through those doors and out of his life.

He pulls up to the curb and puts the car in park, exhaling like it physically pains him.

You unbuckle your seatbelt, fingers trembling slightly as you reach for your suitcase in the backseat. When you turn back around, Bucky is already out of the car, stepping around to meet you. The weight in his eyes nearly makes you stumble.

You shift on your feet, gripping the suitcase handle too tightly. “You didn’t have to drive me.”

He tries to swallow the thick sorrowness that’s creeping its way up. “Yeah, I did.”

A pause.

The wind picks up, rustling your hair.

Bucky shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket, his gaze flickering over your face, trying to commit every detail to his memory. “I, uh…” He clears his throat, shifting on his feet. “I know I don’t deserve to ask, but—will you still write to me?”

The words nearly break you.

You exhale sharply, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “I don’t know, Bucky.”

He nods stiffly, looking down as he expected that answer.

You step closer, hesitating just a fraction before reaching for him. Your fingers brush over his forearm first, then move up, slowly wrapping around his back. And Bucky—Bucky doesn’t hesitate at all.

His arms come around you in an instant, pulling you against his chest with an urgency that nearly knocks the breath out of you. His grip is strong, desperate, he’s afraid to let go.

Your face presses against the worn fabric of his jacket, and for a moment, you let yourself breathe him in—his warmth, his quiet strength, the scent of the familiarity and fleetingness of his presence.

You don’t know how long you stand there, wrapped up in each other, neither one of you willing to be the first to pull away.

But then the announcement sounds out over the speakers, a reminder of where you are.

You close your eyes and force yourself to step back. Bucky’s arms drop to his sides, fingers flexing because he wants to reach for you again but knows he can’t.

“Take care of yourself, Bucky,” you whisper, holding back tears threatening to fall. 

His jaw tightens. “You too.”

You grab your suitcase, forcing your feet to move toward the doors, toward the life waiting for you in Oregon.

You don’t look back.

You can’t.

But if you did, you’d see Bucky standing there, unmoving, eyes glued to you as you disappeared from him.

And as he finally drags himself back to his car, gripping the steering wheel like it’s the only thing holding him together, the tears start flowing. .

Bucky unlocks the door to his apartment, stepping inside as silence greets him. He exhales slowly, taking off his boots and jacket and makes his way to the kitchen. His hand hovers over the light switch, hesitating.

His eyes land on the mug you last used. He picked it up for you before you arrived, wanting you to have something of your own while you stayed here. He remembered you writing to him that you always have a mug of tea before bed every night. 

He wanted to make you feel at home or at least like his home could be yours too. 

He walks over to the sink and picks it up, noticing it still full and untouched of dark brown liquid. 

His grip tightens around the ceramic, his jaw clenching as he stares down into the empty sink. The anger isn’t really at the mug, or even at you—it’s at himself. 

With a sharp inhale, he sets the mug back down. Not because he wants to, but because he knows if he doesn’t, it’ll end up shattered in his hands.

Bucky doesn’t think—he just moves.

He grabs his running shoes, shoves his headphones in and steps out into the cold night air. The Brooklyn streets are quieter now. He starts off at a steady pace, his breath coming in measured exhales, his body falling into the familiar rhythm of running.

When the weight of the world gets too heavy, when the noise in his head refuses to settle, this is what he does. He runs until his legs burn, until his lungs ache, until there’s nothing left but the sound of his feet hitting the pavement and the steady pounding of his heart.

But tonight, it doesn’t work.

Because tonight, every step feels like he’s chasing something he already lost.

His mind flashes back to you—the way your shoulders tensed at the airport, like you were holding back everything you really wanted to say. The way you held onto him just a second longer during that last hug before finally letting go.

Bucky pushes himself harder, his feet slamming against the pavement as he takes a sharp turn down a quieter street. His breathing is ragged now, his body screaming for him to slow down, but he doesn’t. He can’t. Because stopping means thinking, and thinking means feeling, and he doesn’t want to feel this.

He runs past the coffee shop and his stomach clenches. He runs past the record store where he  shared such a thoughtful, tough memory with you.

Everywhere he goes, you’re still there.

He finally comes to a stop at the Brooklyn Promenade, hands on his knees, chest heaving as he stares out at the city lights reflecting over the water. He used to love this view. Used to come here when he needed clarity.

But right now, all he sees is the ghost of you standing beside him, a memory he can’t outrun.

The realization crashes over him like a wave, and for the first time in a long time, Bucky feels it all.

The regret. The longing. The emptiness you left behind.

And for the first time, he doesn’t know if running will ever be enough to escape.