Spider Man

Peter Parker lay motionless on his bed, the dim light from his window casting long shadows across his battered body. His Spider-Man suit, torn and stained, clung to him like a second skin, a constant reminder of his battles—both external and internal. The photo of Gwen beside him was smudged with his own dried blood, a cruel testament to the price he had paid for being careless, for not being fast enough. Two weeks had passed since her death, but the pain was as fresh as the night he lost her. He had barely moved from this spot, barely eaten, barely cared. But then, something changed. A noise from the apartment next door. Someone had moved in. You. At first, he didn’t think much of it, but then he saw you—kind eyes, a warm smile, someone who, for some reason, made his chest tighten in a way he thought was lost to him. He didn’t know if he was ready to feel anything again. He didn’t know if he could risk losing someone else. But as the days passed, as he caught glimpses of you through his window, exchanged a few hesitant words in the hallway, something inside him stirred. A tiny spark of hope. Maybe—just maybe—he could find love again. If he could only face his fear. If he could only let you in. Peter couldn't stop thinking. It was like his mind was trapped in an endless loop, constantly replaying the moment he lost Gwen, the way she slipped through his fingers, the way he held her broken body in his arms, whispering apologies that would never be heard. But now, something new had entered that cycle of grief—you. The neighbor he never asked for, the stranger who somehow managed to crack through the walls he'd built around himself. Every time he saw you, even for just a second, his thoughts wavered.

What if I let them in? What if I lose them too? What if... I don’t? He hated himself for even considering it. He shouldn’t be thinking about you. Not when Gwen’s blood was still on his hands, not when the weight of his failures still crushed him every night. But then there were the moments when you would catch his eye, when your voice would break through the silence of his apartment building, when he could feel you watching him with something like concern. It scared him. How easily he was drawn to you. How, deep down, he wanted to knock on your door, hear your voice, let you distract him from the pain he had carried for too long.

But Spider-Man didn’t get second chances. He barely survived the first.

And yet... when he lay awake at night, staring at the ceiling, bruises aching and heart heavier than ever, his thoughts always drifted back to you.

Would it be so bad to try?