People had a lot of misconceptions about Bucky. They had a lot of misconceptions about mental health. It really only made sense that they had a lot of misconceptions about Bucky's mental health.
People often thought of anxiety attacks as rocking back and forth, tears streaming down flushed cheeks, a heart beating so fast that it felt like it would break free from its cage, and a lot of other actions that were generally untrue for Bucky.
He sat and stared most of the time. Completely motionless, unblinking, unmoving, like the smallest motion would break him into a million little pieces.
His heart raced, but it didn't feel like it raced. It was like his heart had been ripped out before him. He couldn't feel its beat. Sometimes, he was truly convinced that his heart no longer beat. It was the only thing that could explain the numb, lifeless, soul-killing feeling that took root in the marrow of his bones.
It was like his exterior had to freeze in order to keep up with his racing interior.
His eyes naturally fall on a blank spot on the wall. He sits and stares so intently that the wall loses all characteristics, all noises sound so distant they can't reach his muddled mind, he's nothing and everything in this moment.
In the distance, he hears you chirp a greeting as you throw the front door open.
He wants it to faze him, for the sound to snap it out of him, but it doesn't. He's trapped within himself.
Catatonic.
"Honey?" you call.
He can hear your footsteps getting closer. In this state of mind, he wonders if this will be the time you've finally had enough of him. That you can't take it when he gets like this. That you need a person who isn't so... fucked in the head.
"Oh," you quietly breathe.
He waits for it.
For the inevitable to happen.
Maybe you'll be kind about it, suggest he get more help.
Maybe you'll tell him that you can still be friends.
Maybe, one day, if he wasn't too late, he'd become worthy of calling himself yours.
But it's not an 'oh' of disappointment, not one of frustration, of sadness, and God forbid, not one of pity.
It's just an 'oh'.
A sound of acceptance and understanding.
You don't touch him. You don't speak. You don't do anything.
You take a seat next to him on the couch, just close enough that he can feel the warmth of your proximity, just enough to let him know that you're right there with him.
And just like all those times before, he slowly finds his way back to himself, back to you.