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He didn’t think anything of it when he scooped the little black notebook off the ground. It was lying on top of a pile of papers and books that were scattered beside the desk where she always used to work. If he had put any thought into it at all, he would have thought it was just something she was using for work, possibly for keeping track of missions.
He wouldn’t have ever known otherwise if his thumb hadn’t brushed against the top of the creased little book, knocking it open slightly as he went to place it on top of desk with all her other stuff. He wasn’t even supposed to have been in the room she’d used as her office in the first place. He’d told the others he needed a few moments — he knew they thought he had gone for a walk, but the ache in his heart had led him here, to the place where she had spent so much time.
He could still feel her, as if she were going to walk into the room at any moment. But of course she wasn’t. But he could still keep everything nice and tidy for her, which was why he had picked up the notebook. It looked like it had fallen off the desk, and he didn’t want it to get trampled by anyone who might come this way.
It was as he was setting it down that he knocked it open slightly. But even then, he wouldn’t ever have given it a second glance if he hadn’t seen his name, written right there in blue ink, like she was calling out to him once more.
He couldn’t help himself. He opened it up fully, flipping pages, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
It wasn’t a notebook for work at all. It was a journal. Or a semblance of one.
He flipped to the beginning, staring down at the first entry. There wasn’t a year marking it,
only the date — May 6 — but he had a feeling he knew when it was written. Just a year ago, when everything between them had been so weird.
He closed his eyes, feeling the book in his hands. He should close it, leave the past alone. It wasn’t his to read.
But she was gone. And he had found this for a reason, hadn’t he?
He opened his eyes and looked down at the journal and, before he could change his mind, began to read.
May 6
I …
No. I can’t do this.
May 9
This is dumb. Why am I doing this? Because Laura once told me I should, that it would help me “process” things. And now Steve is always saying that we should talk about our feelings. Except he never actually wants to talk about his feelings to me. Only to his support group he’s running.
No. This is still dumb. I’m not doing this.
May 12
Fine. I’ll do this. I don’t even know how someone who isn’t here anymore can make me feel guilty about not doing something I don’t want to do. But every night, there is Laura, showing up in my dreams and telling me not to keep it in.
Okay, fine. I’m sure dream Laura actually wants me to talk to Steve. Or sleeping Natasha does. But awake Natasha is not going to do that. That is even dumber than writing this down and hoping it will help.
What would I even say to him? That I’m lonely? That I miss him? That I wish he would stay here? That maybe the next time we have sex he doesn’t have to jump up and run out like there’s a Hydra thug he needs to catch?
No, I can’t do that. I won’t do that.
See, I knew this would be dumb.
Steve stopped reading. Part of him wanted to keep going, but he couldn’t make his hands move. Instead, the words he had read just kept repeating themselves over and over in his mind.
He had known she was lonely. He had known she was unhappy. They both had been. But he’d thought she missed Yelena and Melina and Alexei. He thought she missed Sam and Wanda and everyone else. He thought it was grief.
Had it really been more than that? He almost didn’t want to know, but then his hands were moving, flipping pages, searching for something that would give him clarity, needing to know.
May 27
Okay, fine, maybe this is helping. It still feels dumb, but at least I’m not dreaming about it anymore. I can’t take thinking of this all day and all night too.
But here’s today’s messed up story. (Is that what people say before they talk during a support group? I should ask Steve some time.)
It’s about Steve, of course. He came over tonight. I wasn’t expecting him. He usually stays away for weeks at a time. But he showed up while I was standing in the kitchen, trying to find something to eat.
He was in a different type of mood tonight. It was nice.
We talked, like we haven’t talked in years. Like how we used to talk before everything fell apart. I felt like I had my friend back.
I asked him if he wanted to spend the night. He looked tired, and we were already lounging on the couch. I hadn’t intended it to lead to anything else. But even that was different. The way he touched me, the way he held my hand during it.
It was …
I guess I would say it was unnerving. And I don’t like being unnerved.
I also don’t like feeling things again that I don’t want to be feeling. And I really don’t like feeling things I know he can never return.
Maybe I should ask him again about Sharon. Maybe I should find him a date. Maybe I just shouldn’t let him into my bed.
The entries kept going. Steve’s throat felt dry as he continued flipping, reading over Natasha’s description of days he remembered all too well.
The whole last week of June and into July when they laid on the roof of the compound and watched the few measly fireworks set off by those who wanted to pretend that life could go back to normal.
Or the week in August where he convinced her to take a road trip with him. It had been the first time he could remember laughing since all their friends had disappeared.
And then the holidays. The holiday where she looked at him and her eyes had been so sad and miserable, and he thought he had been reminding her of things she wanted to forget. And when he had asked her about it, she had told him, “It’s nothing, Steve,” and so he had left and stayed away, spending Christmas alone, because it hurt too much to be with her if she didn’t want him to be.
Feeling almost too anxious, Steve flipped through Natasha’s little book, and there it was, right before him, an entry dated for Christmas day.
December 25
I thought he would come today. It was stupid to expect that when I haven’t heard from him in more than two weeks. I texted him after he left that night, but there’s been no response.
But I guess I thought …
It was stupid. I was stupid. I did something or said something that last time to remind him of who I was, and he ran away. He didn’t call or text or anything today.
I have his present, wrapped and waiting for him on the table. I should throw it away. Or maybe take it over to his place and leave it on the door without a card. Or pay someone else to bring it to him.
I’m not sure what to do. I wish Clint were here. He’d tell me I’m being an idiot, but he’d then at least tell me what to do. Or Laura. Laura would know exactly what to do. Though she would also tell me I’m being an idiot.
But what do I do? Do I try and fix this, even if I don’t know exactly what I did? Or do I let it go? Let him go. Maybe it would be better if I did. This course I’m on now, it can only lead to pain. And I don’t need any more pain.
This is stupid. I can’t believe I’m even going to write this. But yet, here I am, writing this:
I love him. He doesn’t love me, and that’s understandable. But I love him, and I’m not sure how I stop.
The book slipped from Steve’s hands, crashing to the floor. Tears filled his eyes. He remembered again how awful he’d felt when she hadn’t reached out to him on the holiday, and how things had felt a little off the next time he’d seen her. But he’d never asked because Scott Lang had shown up and everything had changed and then she was gone.
And she had never known how he’d really felt.
He sank to the floor, tears he hadn’t let himself cry yet breaking loose and flowing down his face. He didn’t even realize Natasha’s journal lay crumpled on the floor beside him.
--
He couldn’t stop staring at her. At her eyes, her lips, her hair, her hands. He didn’t want to look away, in case she disappeared.
But she was real.
Weak and sick, but she was real. She was alive.
“I’m not going anywhere, Steve,” Natasha whispered. Her eyes hadn’t moved away from him either.
“I know,” he said, trying to sound like he really did know that.
He almost stopped there, but then he remembered. The journal he had found, the entries he had read. Long before he had known there was a way to bring her back.
But she was back, and he had a second chance. They had a second chance.
So he opened his mouth to start again.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” he began. “Something I should have told you long ago …”