2024, Delacroix, Louisiana

Ivy—F.O.

The popping of a beer bottle’s cap breaks the comfortable silence, followed by the familiar hiss of the glass. It’s casual, almost lazy, but it slices through the quiet like a hot knife. The sun’s just started to dip beneath the skyline—painting the city in soft orange and pink hues—and you step onto the roof like it’s muscle memory.

You sit down beside your best friend, Bucky, and the silence settles again. He doesn’t look at you. Just hums—low and rough—in acknowledgment of your presence.

Bucky takes a sip of his useless beer, fingers curled loosely around the neck of the bottle, his eyes locked on the horizon with that look you know too well.

Nostalgia.

It creeps in slow, then all at once.

Uninvited. Unrelenting.

You know what he’s thinking about.

Because you’re thinking about it, too.

Dancing in bars with a short, skinny Steve—shouting over the music, the war still far away. Watching Bucky talk about the future like it was some glittering promise, something close enough to reach. He’d speak about it with that boyish grin, like he believed it might love him back. Like he hadn’t already decided it would leave him behind.

That version of him—the one who looked forward—is gone.

Just like he always said he’d be by the time it came.

The Bucky next to you isn’t the same man. This one sits heavy on your left, sipping a lukewarm beer with nothing behind his eyes but ghosts. His metal arm catches the sunset, the gold and copper glinting like it’s trying to pretend it’s part of him.

But you know better.

He’s thinking.

Drowning, even.

In memories. In what-ifs. In the ache of being the one who lived through it all.

“Do you remember the first time you said you loved me?”

His voice comes out hoarse—just strained by everything.

You tilt your head, surprised. You weren’t expecting him to go there. But you don’t shut him down. You nod, eyes still on the skyline.

“Thought that I was dreaming,” he mutters. Not to you. To the memory.

You hum in agreement. That night’s still vivid in your mind—cheap gin, nervous laughter, the way he’d looked at you like maybe something good could still exist.

“We didn’t give a damn back then, did we?”

That gets a short laugh out of you.

A tired, almost bitter sound.

Ain’t that the truth.

You glance over at him. His jaw’s tense. There’s a shadow in his eyes that wasn’t there before—one that’s taken root, deep and unmoving.

“Well, I’m not a kid anymore,” he says, quieter this time.

Silence. But now it’s uncomfortable. Heavier. Like a truth you’ve both known but haven’t dared to say aloud.

You nod slowly.

“You’re not a kid anymore, either,” he continues. “We’ll never be those kids again.”

And that’s what breaks you.

Not loudly. Not visibly.

But something inside you folds in on itself.

Because you know—he’s reliving the same reel of old memories that you are.

A younger, brighter you. Before time started gnawing at the edges.

A happier, lighter Bucky. Before the spark in his chest was doused in water, again and again, until it couldn’t burn anymore.

You remember how he used to dance without thinking. How he’d pull you into the street at midnight just to feel alive. How he kissed you like he didn’t think he’d ever get another chance.

But now?

Now, his shoulders sag beneath the weight of years and guilt and silence.

And you don’t know how to fix it.

Maybe you’re not meant to.

The beer’s warm in your hand. The sun dips lower, leaving streaks of gold across his profile. You want to reach out. Say something.

Anything. But there’s too much unsaid between you.

So you just sit there. Next to the man he’s become.

Next to the boy you once loved.

You don’t tell him that you still love him.

That part of you always will.

Instead, you both watch the sky change colors, the past lingering between you like smoke.

Familiar. Tangled.

Unspoken.