he can’t do this anymore. can anyone really expect him to? sometimes, he thinks the effort alone will shatter him — not the gunshots, not the nightmares, not the questions in strangers’ eyes, but the simple act of existing in this world. ever since he clawed himself into self-awareness, ever since hydra’s shackles finally broke and cold, harsh reality flooded in like icy water, everything around him has been a goddamn whirlwind of chaos and confusion. it’s all too much, too fucking much, all the time. events just sweep in — brutal, relentless, unforgiving, a hurricane with no eye to rest in. there’s no adapting, not fast enough, never fast enough. he’s always a step behind, breathless, the weight of history crushing his chest.

of course, he knows when it all began to spiral. the collapse of the avengers. the world’s so-called greatest defenders, falling apart like a fragile toy. technically, it wasn’t his fault. no, the root causes — the politics, the betrayals, the secrets and the scars — those weren’t because of him. but that doesn’t matter. guilt coils inside him anyway, wraps around his ribcage until he can’t draw a full breath, until he wonders if he’ll ever be clean. his actions — no, not his, the Winter Soldier’s, but the difference blurs in the darkness — stole Steve’s family, shattered what they’d all just barely built. Steve never blamed him, not once. in fact, rogers only smiled that stubborn smile, picked up the pieces, and found ways to help Bucky through it all. but that only makes it worse. Bucky feels filthy. ruined.

then there was Wakanda. he was finally free of the programming, a threat no longer. for a few moments, peace actually seemed possible, hope flickering in the distance. then it’s all ripped away: a purple maniac snaps his fingers and Bucky is gone, erased, dust on the wind, absent from a world that doesn’t slow down for lost souls. the world moves on, but he has no part in it. then, another snap, and he’s yanked back, thrown forward into a future that makes less sense with every passing day. no memory loss this time, not like before, but the confusion is even worse. he wishes, so desperately, that he could forget it all.

everything. the way Zemo looked at him with cold calculation, the terror in Bucky’s own chest as he hammered against the glass, desperate to escape before the trigger words made him a monster again. the horror in strangers’ faces, people flinching at the sight of him, as if evil still clung to his skin. the victims that haunt him. their screams echo in his skull, mixing with the metallic taste of his own terror, the suffocating chill of metal restraints and pain, always the pain. the nights are the worst; senseless, empty screams that echo in the dark, stealing sleep, stealing peace.

forget, oh, how he wishes to forget. to let it all dissolve, just this once. to lose the precise memory of Steve’s choice — how, in a world with limitless possibilities, his closest friend chose not him, but the past. Steve went back — left him — traded everything for a woman he’d kissed once, a woman from a different era. Barnes knows, rationally, that rogers deserved happiness, deserved to rest. but why is he the one left behind? why does Bucky have to shoulder this weight, to wake up night after night choking on his own screams, jerking upright, still trapped by the invisible chains of hydra? what had he done that made him so deserving of this afterlife, this endless cycle of guilt and regret? he never asked for any of this; he never wanted it. maybe, sometimes, a part of him wishes he’d died falling off that train, that he’d never been found, never been remade into something cold and broken.

so when Walker smirks and says, «this must be easy for you, isn’t it? all that serum running through your veins…», Bucky’s insides twist, acid burning in his gut. easy. when, exactly, had anything ever been easy? never, not for a single goddamned second; not when he was fighting for his life, not when he couldn’t recognize himself in the mirror, not when every choice either felt stolen or forced.