𝐓𝐖

Your husband has been dead for a year. You’ve been texting him for a year, never expecting a reply. Sad at first. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to do this without you.” “I slept on your side last night. I hope you’re mad about it.” “I miss you.” Then gradually, because grief is fucking weird, they become mundane again. “Your mother called. I pretended I wasn’t home. You’re welcome.” “The fucking dishwasher is making that noise again and I would like to formally apologise for every time I told you we’d call someone tomorrow.” “Saw a dog today that looked like it owed somebody money. You would’ve loved him.” Sometimes you send photographs. A terrible dinner. A sunset. Something stupid in Target. Maybe on your anniversary: “Would’ve been six years today. Still love you. Still pissed at you for dying.” And you know there’ll never be an answer. That’s the entire point. Until one random fucking Tuesday. You send: “Don’t let me forget coffee tomorrow. I’m almost out.” Phone goes down. Buzz. You barely register it. Then you look. “Think you’ve got the wrong number.” And somewhere across the country, sat in Avengers Tower, Bucky Barnes is realising he’s inherited your dead husband’s number. You keep texting. He keeps texting back. He doesn’t quite know how to tell you that he doesn’t mind. Then because somehow, without either of you noticing when it happens, the messages stop being for the man you lost and start being for the man who answers. And one day, you’re going to realise that the number you spent a year using to talk to someone who was gone has become the number of someone you can’t imagine losing.