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"Hey, I, uh, I know we're not really talking right now. And that's on me, but, uh, in case things go down today, I just wanted to tell you I love you. Always have and always will. Only so much I can say over voicemail, so for now that's it," he softly chuckles. "But I love you. End of sentence."
"You don't have to listen to that voicemail every day, you know?"
You softly chuckle, turning around to face the source of your daily pep talk, "And you don't have to tell me that every day."
"I'll tell you for as long as you need to hear it," Sarah softly replies, gently taking the phone from your hand and putting it down on the kitchen counter.
"You don't know how much I wish I would've answered the phone," you absently mumble, your voice dripping with so much guilt and remorse.
"You couldn't have known," she reminds you like she does most mornings.
"I just wish he would come back. I wish he knew that I miss him too much to be mad anymore."
"He knows that you love him," she offers, so easily speaking of him in the present tense. Only for the brutal reminder to settle in mid-sentence that neither of you can speak about him in the present tense anymore. "He'd want you to move forward."
"I wouldn't even know where to start."
"You could start by going back home?"
"Is this your way of telling me I've overstayed my welcome?" you halfheartedly chuckle.
She smiles softly, placing a comforting hand on your shoulder, "Never. You know I appreciate your help."
"But the world goes on, right?"
"It goes on," Sarah agrees. "Now, go home. It's been five years, you can do it."
"Yeah," you dejectedly sigh, mostly because you know she's right. You'd spent the better part of the last five years running as far away from painful reminders as humanly possible. "Doesn't mean I want to."
It's 2AM when you finally drive into D.C. city limits.
Despite driving all night, you don't immediately go home. You're not sure if it's well disguised procrastination or a genuine longing to see the city you fled five years ago.
You were glad you could help Sarah with the boys and with their family business, you were grateful that you had someone that you could lean on and in return could lean on you. But you'd be lying if you said you went for the sole purpose of helping them.
Sarah knew that, of course.
But when you got that gut-wrenching call that Sam was gone, most reminders felt like a sharp stab in the gut.
The harshest one being your home.
You don't even realize you've been driving all night until the sun is beginning to rise on the horizon, it's blinding rays in your peripheral.
And in the daylight, being back hurts even more. The warm glow of the rising sun can't disguise the ugly reality that the world was now living in nor soften the blow of what society collectively lost. Instead, it makes it all the more apparent that every single person lost that fateful day.
It's a bittersweet, sorrowful trip down memory lane.
Passing the restaurant Sam took you to for your first date.
Intersections of his old running routes.
The park bench where you met Sam.
You remembered that day well, how you were sitting on a park bench going through one of your very first legal cases in D.C. when he tried casually approaching you, but stammered one too many times to be considered smooth.
You were still finding your footing as a brand new lawyer trying to work their way up in the legal world in D.C.. In spite of all of your reservations, you found him charming anyway. He told you that his awkward pick-up lines and proceeding conversation were completely intentional, but you never really believed him. He would laugh and say that it clearly worked out for him anyway.
The beautiful memory fades as you pull up onto the familiar street.
You drive up slowly, noting the many abandoned cars, over grown greenery, and general disarray of the one time beautiful neighborhood.
With bated breath, you pull into the driveway.
Stepping out of the car, your heart breaks at the sight of your home. The over-grown grass and accompanying weeds, withering flowers that you'd grown together, the place that symbolized the future and family you wanted to share with Sam was now depressingly devoid of life.
You pull the lone key from your pocket, carefully walking up the cracked pavement to the door.
And as you enter the home, it's exactly as you left it. But you're not quite sure if that's a relief or absolutely devastating. It means no one's ransacked your home, but also that Sam had not come back since the day he agreed to help Steve Rogers.
"I have to," he replies softly, his forehead pressed against your, fingers tightly intertwined with yours.
"I know," you quietly exhale. "Go."
You didn't know Steve well, but you knew Sam. He was never one to stand aside when he could help. It was part of why you loved him. And the very reason your last words to him were words that you'd never be able to take back. Words you wished you never uttered.
On the small entry way table, you see the first of many burner phones that mysteriously arrived to you in one way or another, and you can't help but remember the very last conversation you ever had with Sam:
"It's too much, Sam! There's cops watching outside of our house, I'm pretty sure they're listening into to my phone, I can't eat, I can't sleep. I'm up every single night worried out of my mind. Wondering if I'm going to get a phone call that you're -" you stop your sentence, too worried that even speaking the words would bring them to fruition.
"I promise you I'm going to be okay, I gonna to come home."
"And you know as well as I do that you can't promise me that," you heartbrokenly refute.
"I'm sorry," he sighs. "I know this is hard and I'm sorry."
"I can't do this anymore, Sam."
"Don't say that. Please don't."
"I just need time. It's been over a year with you gone and I can't- I can't do this."
"Baby-"
You hung up the phone before he could say anything else.
You'd never realized how big of a mistake that was. You wished so many times that you could go back and tell yourself to tell him you loved him one last time. You desperately wished that your last words were anything except telling him that you couldn't do this anymore. You wished that you never hung up the phone like you did.
They always said hindsight was 20/20. And in retrospect, you wished more than anything that you would've held on a little longer.
And now you were faced with a house that looked as vacant as you felt.
It all served as a reminder that he was gone. He was gone and his last year and a half of life was absolute chaos, and even now, the guilt weighed like lead in your bones.
Part of you desperately wished you'd never let him go in the first place.
Your bones ache as you watch your phone. You're both paralyzed with fear and restless with anxiety. You just keep waiting to hear something, anything. He didn't come home the night before and it leaves you sick with worry. After almost an entire day of waiting, you look down at your phone lighting up from an unknown number. "Hello?"
"Hi," Sam exhales deeply.
You jolt up out of the seat you'd been planted. But even just hearing his tone, the deep exhale, the pit in your stomach doesn't subside even a little bit. "Sam? Where the hell are you?"
"I'm not going to make it home tonight."
"No shit! What happened?"
"Things got a whole lot more complicated. And I'm-" he trails off.
"You're?" you urge.
"It's not good," he remorsefully admits. "The less you know the better."
"What does that mean? If you're in trouble, I don't care about any of that. I just want you safe, back home with me."
"It means that's not an option right now."
"Not an option? Sam?"
"I have to go. I love you."
"I-" but the line goes dead before you can even reciprocate the sentiment.
You continue the unwitting trip down memory lane as you pad through the house. The kitchen where you'd danced with him and shared so many laughs. The couch you'd spent many lazy Sunday afternoons. Your bedroom where you two would lie in bed and he'd confided in you his stories of service, his struggles when returning back to civilian life, and everything in between.
You shakily exhale as your fingers run across the cold glass of the picture frame resting on your nightstand. It hurt how much you missed him. And you remain certain that the part of you that was him would never be recovered.
You learned a lot about grief in the last five years, and one thing that was certain was that it would never leave. You could move forward with your grief as your loyal companion, but you'd never move on, you'd never forget him as long as you lived.
The insurmountable grief never seemed any less daunting, all that changed was your ability to walk along side it.
You sadly smile at the engagement picture. It was suppose to be one of those staged candids, the kind with a forced laugh at the instruction of the photographer. You couldn't remember what corny joke Sam made right before this one was taken, but you do remember the way a real laugh bubbled out of your mouth. The mutual adoration as you looked up at him, your left hand playfully pushing his shoulder.
It was your favorite.
It was also the last picture you had of him.
You never could bring yourself to take off the ring.
You jolt out of your reminisce at the loud, frantic knocking at the door. The frame almost slips out of your grasp in shock, but your fingers catch it before it can clatter against the floor. With bated breath, you gently place the frame back down on the mantle.
With slow, cautious steps, you tiptoe to the white, unassuming door, wondering who exactly would be knocking on a door of a house that was effectively abandoned for the last five years. It can't be anything good, you're certain.
You scan the room for something to arm yourself with and your eyes land on the small firearm safe that once belonged to Sam. Remorse twists in the very pit of your stomach as you punch in the numbers: your anniversary.
It's been years and Sam's many lectures on gun safety are blurry and almost all but forgotten, so all you can do is hope that some survival instinct will kick in. Or better, the gun will scare off any would be intruders.
The knocking echoes through the house again. Each loud thump fervent and laced with desperation.
You steel yourself, reaching with your other hand to turn the doorknob. With the last of your courage, you fling the door open. Gasping when you see the person that you'd mourned for five years, "Sam?"
"Baby-"
"I love you," you blurt, your heart beating out of your chest as you finally get to fulfill what you thought was a hopeless wish, but a wish you'd clung to nevertheless.
"I'm-"
You cut him off by practically lunging in his arms, in an embrace you'd never thought you'd feel again. Though he's confused, he tightly winds his arms around you, holding you steady just like you wished he would, "It's all good."