From: Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes

107th Infantry Regiment

To: Steven Grant Rogers

197 Montague Street

Brooklyn, New York, USA

August 29, 1943

Dear Steve,

I have no idea, how or when this letter will find you. I might post it myself, if I get the chance, or I might give it to someone else for safe keeping. Or maybe it will still be on me, when it's found and brought to you. Maybe someone will have opened it and read it, maybe they'll have kept it sealed out of respect. Anyways, there are no secrets here that have any influence on the war, so there's that, filthy spies! Fuck you!

Okay, so anyway. What I'm trying to say is that I'm writing this because I think I might not make it back. Maybe I'll be caught by the enemy, or I simply don't get out of this alive. I can't exactly tell you, what the cause is, but I'm scared. Now, you know, I'm not a coward. But I've seen men, real men, twice our age, lose their cool, their mind, their limbs and their lives in this war, and it's horrible! I know you wanted to be a part of this and defend your home like a good soldier, but I'm so glad they didn't draft you, Stevie!

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If you were here, I wouldn't be able to go a second without fearing for your life, and not just because I know you'd pull some crazy stunts, you punk! Whereas now, sometimes the only condolence I have is to know you are safe. You're far away from the bullets and the bombs, and even though our flat could be cold as shit, at least you can go to the library and warm up, reading some peaceful fantasy novel. Not out here, fearing every step you take could blow you to bits, or leave you screaming in a puddle of your own blood for hours, because noone can make it out to you and put an end to it. I'm not trying to scare you, Stevie, but I've seen things. I have seen things! And I thank God every night that he's not letting this happen to you.

But, all that aside, I mean, that's just the reason I'm writing this letter in the first place, and I've not even gotten to the hard part. Because, I have a confession to make. There is something I've wanted to get off my chest for years now. And I can already hear you protest: “But Bucky, you know you could always tell me everything!” or “Well, if it was so bad, why didn't you tell the priest after Sunday service?” But, well, thing is, I did try that. And I felt horrible afterwards. Because I can't repent. I can't let go of this sin inside me, no matter how hard I try.

I really wanted to, I prayed, and I reasoned and argued with me, and I tried to drown it out. I even tried beating it out of me, the way my Dad did. I know I never told you that either. I'm sorry. But how could I tell you about it, without telling you the reason? And I feel so ashamed for it, I really do! I never wanted this, I didn't choose this, I tried to stop, but it just doesn't go away. And so, I think, maybe that's just something I can't change. Maybe that's God's way of justice. He gave you all these illnesses, when you never did anything wrong, and made you live with them. And he left me with a healthy body, so I could fight a war. But gave me this mental disease, this sickness in my mind so it would be even.

Whatever the reason is, I want you to know, it's not your fault, okay? None whatsoever! You're a good man, Steve, and that's all I ever saw you as, okay? A good man! This is only my fault, if anyone's. And I tried making up for it. For years. I'm sorry. Okay, are you ready for my big confession? For the horrible truth I just have to unveil before I bite the dust? Because I don't want it to stand between us forever and all eternity. I've wanted to tell you so many times. Okay, here it goes:

Steve, I love you!

🌟