Colombia wasn’t as bad as Natasha had remembered it. At least it was better than most of the other places she had tried. Now, nearly half a year after she had left New York, she still hadn’t found a place where she could stand it to stay longer than just a few weeks. As soon as she developed a daily routine, all she tried to forget was hitting her again. And slowly, she realised that she couldn’t run away from something that was inside of herself.
The longer she was running away, the more her madness turned into sadness. Natasha wasn’t angry anymore. She missed Clint. More than anything else. But she was too scared to go back, scared that he wouldn’t forgive her.
She couldn’t run away, she couldn’t go back. So Natasha stayed in Colombia. And drowned her sadness in alcohol. “If only he’d find me. If he’d forgive me and come to get me back.” She sat in the garden of her little house and played with a bottle of rum between her fingers when she heard a noise on the street.
"I wish Clint would come."