In the winter of his fourth year of university, Steve Rogers sits at the last table in the back of the on-campus coffee house and plucks at a loose string on the arm of the empty chair beside him. When the tiny string finally comes loose, bringing a piece of cloth from the chair along with it, Steve feels the tendrils of guilt curling in his stomach. He hadn't meant to pull it hard enough to rip the chair, but as he throws the string on the floor and raises his cup to take a sip of his now cold hot chocolate, he can't help but think that a lot of things he didn't intend have been happening lately.
Sam is gone. Moved back to Harlem to be closer to his parents because his mother was getting a little too frail for his liking, and while Steve completely understands, it doesn't make him feel any less lonely. Since Sam is gone and Tony Stark doesn't take too kindly to frail asthmatics publically calling him out for talking down to people, Steve finds himself sitting in the coffee house alone and friendless. He lets his head fall against the table as he sighs wishing that he had someone to talk to, so it wouldn't feel like he was such an outcast. He muffles a scoff against the table at how pathetic it must be to have spent four years at a university and only have made one friend and one sort-of friend, now turned enemy. With his forehead pressed against the cool stone of the table he looks down at the floor long enough to catch a glimpse of the bright yellow piece of paper stuck to the floorboards just behind the leg of his chair. He reaches back blindly and runs his fingers along the dusty floor before they catch on something solid, and Steve grins triumphantly as he picks up the paper and brings it up to the table. The yellow post-it note is slightly dirty from being on the floor, and after blowing off the excess dust, no need for a public asthma attack, Steve notices that there is some kind of collection of tally marks running along the bottom and gently traces over the messy printing before starting to read.
This note has been on the floor for however many days there are tally marks. I come here every day and add an extra tally for each day it stays on the floor. Isn't that funny? A university this big and you think someone would eventually pick up a note and read it. Maybe expecting a reply was a little too much for me to ask for, but you think at least one person would have the time anyways, I don't know what I'm looking for. I tried this once before, but it didn't work. I don't know, I think I just wanted to do something different. Put myself out there, I guess. Anyways, have a good day.
Steve stares at the note for a few seconds counting up the tally marks before putting it back down on the table. There are 22 neat marks lining the bottom of the post it note, each one as long as the one before it. Whoever wrote this note has been coming to the coffee shop for three weeks waiting for a reply from anyone. Something stirs in Steve's gut as he thinks of the possibility that there's another student out there just like him. Someone so painfully lonely that they're willing to leave an anonymous note in a coffee shop, in the hopes that someone replies. He briefly gives thought to the idea of ignoring the note, before the guilt starts seeping into his bones again and he reaches into his discarded backpack on the floor to find a post- it note. After all, now that Sam's gone, and Tony's refusing to come down from his high horse, it's not like Steve has anyone else to talk to.
The bright orange of his post-it clashes horribly with the ink of the blue pen he found in his bag, but he figures it's better than nothing; hopefully whoever wrote the note won't mind too much. He presses the post it down against the floor where he found the original note, and tosses that one into his backpack beside his criminal law textbook. When he goes to take a sip of his drink and finds the cup empty, Steve decides that God must be telling him he's rapidly reaching new levels of pathetic, and it's time to go home. He picks up his backpack, and throws the cup in the garbage before sparing one last look at his post-it on the floor before stepping out of the café into the cold November air, and vowing to come back tomorrow sometime between Community Policing and Restorative Justice to see if he has a reply. Back on the floor of the coffee shop, a singular post it note lies among the dust under the furthest table at the back.
Hi,
Sorry it took so long for someone to reply to your note. I'm not a very interesting person, so I won't really blame you if you don't reply back. I'm getting pretty used to being lonely, so I can definitely understand how much it must suck to not get a reply. Not that I'm saying you're lonely or anything! You probably have lots of people to talk to. I've I don't really know what to say. I'm not very good at this. I'll leave this on the floor where yours was, so you can definitely write back if you want me to see it. I'll read it!
Alright, I guess I'll talk to you later. If you want?
Ps: Oh! I'm Steve by the way. Steve Ro just Steve.