AFTERLIVES. bucky barnes

"Are you writing these yourself?"

My dearest, Jamie,
You're a poet! I always knew it. You can blame it on the French man, all you like, but I can't help but wonder. Are you writing these yourself? I can hear your voice in the prose you sent me in your last letter. Maybe it's all in my head. That's the place I find you most often now.
Thank you for your well wishes about my second job. It's keeping me busy when I'm not at the diner. They always say that the woman's job is to work at the home front. I'm a bonafide Riveter now.
I keep telling you not to worry about what is happening on the home front. We're fine. Better than fine, really. Heating was the second best gift you could've give me. You're always the first.
I worry about you the most, Jamie. Your letters are getting shorter. That's okay with me. Send blank paper if you have to. I just need to know that you're okay.
I'm okay. Rebecca is okay. We are all okay, especially because you are. I love you. Te amo.
Yours,
Teresa.

My dearest, Jamie,
It's been a while. I know the both of us, or at least me, usually linger with these. I do it because I want your words to become a part of me, to seep into the kitchen table and my jacket pocket. Why are you doing it now?
I worry about you. I know you tell me not to, just like I tell you not to worry about me. But I think I have the right, you being at war and all. Would you tell me if you were injured? If you were shot. I'd hope you would.
Please let me know if you're alright, Jamie. I worry. I love you. Te amo.
Yours,
Teresa.