Dearest Clint,
I would like to be able to tell you this in person, but unforeseen circumstances forbid me. I would like to be able to hold your hand as I say this, but I am forced to write it down at best. It's four in the morning and I haven't slept a wink lately. I'm in my sleeping quarters writing by candlelight for the power has gone out.
And I'm alone.
S.H.E.I.L.D. has sent me to Greenland and, unfortunately, that is all that I'm allowed to tell you. If this letter is checked and I have included valuable information, it could be the death of me. I must change subject now and tell you what I am trying to tell you.
Four years ago, we worked together on our last mission. I remember it like it was yesterday. We called ourselves, or more like Fury called us, the Avengers. That was such a long time ago. I have never been called an Avenger since. Anyway, there was Loki. His treacherous doings caused such havoc amongst the world and even more to you. Clint, when Loki took over your mind, I was scared. And I'm not scared easily. I covered it up though and did my job. But those were sleepless nights.
I'm struggling for words now. My eyes are heavy and my fingers tired. But I know that I will not be able to sleep until I've finished this.
Three years ago, we decided to split up. We stopped working together and went our own ways for career purposes. Why am I sugar-coating this, it's not as if you don't already know. We grew tired of everyday being the same. Eventually we grew tired of each other. We started to bicker and fight and it only ever got worse. Living together didn't seem to work anymore. After a huge argument involving lost keys, ripped work and spilt milk, we ended it. We stopped living and working together and all that could have been was not to be.
It's cold here. The tips of my fingers are numb and the writing process is slow. Dear God help me through this.
We have barely talked since. No more than a polite hello or thank you when we are around others. Fury asked us to go on a mission together, but you found out first. You talked to him and asked instead if you could go with S. Rogers. And he let you. I was ok with that on the outside. On the inside, it hurt a dull, cold, icy hurt. I thought if we had a mission together at last we could sort things out. I eventually faced that we had no more relationship between us than a rock does to the twig next to it.
My metaphors are shocking but it is early and I am tired. I am surprised I have gotten this far. The boy I paid to take this letter is here, waiting in the next room. There are only two rooms where I am staying. I told him to help himself if he wanted food but I know I shouldn't have. I barely have enough food as it is. But that has not been my worry of late.
Clint. Every day I have missed you. Even when I am sick with rage and anger towards you I still miss you longingly. There are times when I can't eat or sleep from missing you. I am beside myself with regret at not seeking after you. Whenever I am alone I imagine where I could be, what I could be, if I was still with you. And I know we never had anything more than a good friendship between us. I know that we never ventured further. Rumours surrounded us, playful jokes from the rest of the team ensured that we felt awkward. But I'm glad we stayed friends and I'm sick at the thought that we broke it off over simple matters. I am so sorry I lost your keys, Clint.
I remember everything we did together. I remember the times we flew and fought and shared victory and the times we simply ate and watched TV and stayed up late. Out of everything, though, my strongest memory is of you saving me. Our first encounter and you saved me from death. Our first encounter and I already owed you the world. I'm sorry I never paid you back for that. Clint, I want more than anything to be back by your side. Actually, I wouldn't mind being anywhere but here, but your side seems like a good place to be right now.
It's only now that I can say this, write this. Only when I am dead tired and all my proud defensive walls are down that I can muster courage to tell you this. You know, knew, that I am a very proud person and I don't say things like this light-heartedly. I have meant every word that I have written down.
I desperately hope that this letter reaches you, that the boy is not killed and that you find the letter tasteful. I desperately hope that this means something to you, that you have maybe slightly sometimes found yourself thinking about me, unintentionally.
I am so thankful to have written this down, to have at least tried to send it to you. I am now at peace with myself and with my past. This is so important to me. Simply because I have little chance of living through what is to come.
Dearest Clint,
I love you.
~Natasha Romanov