You were on the radio when the Valkyrie went down.

There wasn’t supposed to be silence. Not with Steve. Not with that voice, steady and sure, always cutting through the static like a compass finding north. But this time… nothing. (©TRS0625CAI)

Just the soft, broken crackle of an open line and your own breath echoing in your headset like a ghost.

“Captain Rogers, come in,” you said. Tried to say. Your voice caught halfway through, too ragged to sound like command, too desperate to pretend this wasn’t unraveling. “Steve. Please. Do you copy?”

The comms officer nearby looked at you like he wanted to say something—maybe that they’d lost signal, maybe that it was out of your hands—but you raised one trembling hand to shut him up before he could speak the words that might break you in half.

Your other hand was still on the dial. White-knuckled. Like if you gripped it hard enough, the sheer force of your will would pull his voice back from the void.

But there was nothing.

Just dead air.

“Steve, you promised me,” you whispered. You weren’t even pushing the button anymore. Just speaking into the emptiness. “You said you’d come back.”

You waited.

And waited.

For his voice.

For the sound of him cracking some awful joke to make you breathe again. For a thud of boots through the door or his name shouted down the hall or anything to prove he hadn’t gone and left you with just his shadow.

But the silence just… stretched. Long and cold and merciless.

He never answered.

And you never got over it.

Not the silence—it still rings in your ears sometimes, when the wind hits just right.

Not the waiting—you kept that headset beside your cot for weeks. Just in case. Just in case.

Not him—you especially never got over him.

Because how do you mourn someone who never said goodbye?

How do you let go of a man who never really let go of you?

You didn’t. You just carried him, like a radio frequency only you could hear.