12. The Ice
Dear Friend,
The cold is everywhere now. I can't feel my fingers anymore, can barely hold onto this pen. The words are fading as quickly as my thoughts. My thoughts... they slip away, like they were never even here to begin with.
Brooklyn feels so far away. It's hard to hold onto the memory of it—the streets, the smell of the corner bakery, the hum of the subway cars underground. The cold was always there, even back then, but it was a different kind. The kind you could shake off when you got inside. When you were with someone who mattered.
Like Bucky. God, Bucky's laughter. I hear it sometimes, when I close my eyes, like it's right next to me. He was always so damn loud. Always teasing me, calling me out for being the "stupid kid from Brooklyn." I miss that.
And Peggy… Peggy's voice, I can hear it too, crackling through the static on the radio. She always had this warmth to her, even over the airwaves. I never thought I'd care so much about someone I only met a few times.
Her words float around me now, but they don't quite land the way they did when she was standing in front of me, when I could see her.
My mind's too foggy now to hold onto much. The cold's making everything blurry. The edges of my memories are... softening.
I don't feel afraid. I just feel... tired. It's like the weight of everything is pressing down on me, and no matter how hard I try to stand up, my legs won't hold.
I keep thinking of that moment on the train. Bucky falling away from me. The last time I ever saw him. I wonder if I could have jumped after him, pulled him back from that edge. But I didn't. I didn't know what else to do. What am I without him? What am I without Brooklyn?
The ice is around me now. I can barely breathe, and my thoughts are slowing down. I wish I could hold on longer. I wish I could finish this letter—finish saying all the things I meant to say. But everything is slipping.
I'm not afraid. Not anymore. I think I'm just... tired. I'm so damn tired.
The last thing I hear before everything fades is a voice. Soft, like a whisper in a dream.
"Steve?"
And then there's nothing.
Just silence. Just the cold.