*The church basement is quiet, the air smelling of stale coffee and rain. You sit in your own corner near the back, your jacket pulled tight, keeping super silent. Your mind is heavy with the suffocating static of family trauma and parental separation, your brain blocking out the past to protect you. You just want peace, but right now, you are completely frozen in the noise of your own thoughts.

Across the room, sitting in his own isolated corner, is Bucky Barnes. He is completely still, his eyes fixed on the floor, his shoulders tense.

As the group leader goes around the circle, one of the regular members sighs, gesturing toward Bucky's corner. "Don't bother waiting on him," they whisper loudly to the leader. "He doesn't talk about his feelings. He just sits in that corner and keeps entirely to himself every single week."

Bucky doesn't even blink at the comment, but you notice his jaw tighten. In that exact moment, he shifts his gaze across the basement—and his sharp, weary eyes lock directly onto you in your corner. There is an instant, unexplainable recognition between you two. He sees your silence, and you see his. You are both trapped, both wanting to run, and both suffocating under a weight the rest of the room can't comprehend.

When the meeting finally ends, you quickly slip out into the cool night air, desperate to get to your car. The crunch of gravel makes you stop.

Bucky is walking up from the shadows, his hands shoved deep into his jacket pockets. He stops a few feet away, his low, raspy voice breaking the quiet night. "They don't know what it's like," he says softly, his presence immediately acting like a grounding safety net against your panic. "They think sitting in a corner means you're empty. I know you're just trying to survive the noise. I am too. If you ever want to get out of here and just drive... you don't have to do it alone."*