1. Dear Friend,

Dear Friend,

I don't know why I'm writing this. Maybe because no one really listens when you're small. You learn to keep things to yourself, and after a while, you start to believe that maybe you don't have anything worth saying. But I want to try. I want to tell someone. Even if it's just you.

I live in Brooklyn, in a cramped apartment that smells like old newspapers and my mother's lavender soap. The ceilings leak when it rains, the walls are too thin, and the radiator knocks like it's got something to say. I've never been anywhere else, but I like to think I could be, someday.

I'm not like other boys. Not just because I'm small, but because I stay small. Some kids shoot up like weeds in the summer, but I just... don't. My body is paper-thin, my lungs work half as well as they should, and my heart's got a mind of its own. Most kids my age are worrying about baseball or girls. I'm just trying to get through the day without coughing up my ribs.

But I have Bucky.

James Buchanan Barnes—Bucky to everyone who knows him. He's got the kind of confidence that fills a room before he even steps into it. He's taller than me, faster than me, and punches like he's got something to prove. But he never turns that punch on me. He'll happily punch someone for me, though.

We met when we were kids, me all bones and bruises, him with scuffed-up shoes and a lopsided grin. He never laughed at me the way the others did. Instead, he threw his arm around my shoulder like I belonged there, like I was his. From that day on, he fought my battles before I even had a chance to throw the first punch.

It's not that I don't fight back. I do. I just don't win.

Today was no different. Some guy—a big guy—thought it'd be funny to knock my books into the gutter. I told him off, and he shoved me so hard my knees scraped against the pavement. The city's always noisy, but for a second, all I could hear was my own breathing, ragged and small.

I got up anyway.

I always get up.

Bucky found me a few blocks over, pressing a handkerchief to my split lip like he was my mother. He shook his head, grinning like I was the funniest thing he'd ever seen. "You just can't help yourself, can you?"

I grumbled something about how I had it handled. He didn't argue. Just handed me a nickel for the trolley and told me to stop bleeding on my shirt.

Tonight, we went to a party. Some girl—one of Bucky's many admirers—invited us. The place was loud, packed shoulder to shoulder with kids who already looked like men, girls with red lips and high heels. I was out of place, drowning in a sea of fast talk and laughter that didn't belong to me.

Bucky fit right in.

I stood in the corner while he danced, all easy confidence, his hands on some blonde girl's waist. She laughed at something he said, leaning close, eyes bright in the dim light. He looked good there, where people could see him. Like he belonged.

And me? I was just there.

I wondered, for the hundredth time, what it would be like to be him—to be seen, to be something.

Instead, I leaned against the wall, feeling small, feeling invisible.

I should be happy for him. I am.

But sometimes, Friend, I wish I didn't feel so much like a ghost.

Yours,
Steve