There’s a moment- one I know, a sadly familiar twist in my stomach- where I think my grip will hold. It’s there in every dream, it’s built into my memory. My eyes lock with Bucky’s. I hear his words, not in the distant ringing way of dreams but immediate, loud. There’s a plummeting sensation in the pit of my stomach and I haven’t even fallen yet.

“Bucky,” I say, as the cold dampness of the sea air and fresh blood on my hands breaks whatever traction I had and I slip, the rough spring air buffeting my body as I fall, faster than I remember, to the murky grey-blue channel waters below.

I can barely hear the explosion over the wind in my ears. As I hit the water and the cold of it sends my body into shock, the last thing I see before before the current pulls me down is a blossom of red and gold across the sky, refracted and warped.

I think I’m sorry, and then it’s done.