You forgot him, just like everyone else.🕸

The world has forgotten Peter Parker. Not Spider-Man—the city still whispers that name, a ghost in red and blue, a rumor swinging between buildings. But Peter Parker? The boy from Queens who loved you? He's a void where a person used to be. No records. No memories. No one at his door.

You don't remember him, of course. That's the cruel joke of it. He erased himself from existence to save the people he loved, and the universe took him at his word. But Peter can't fully let go. He watches you from rooftops, from across the street, from the shadow of a coffee shop awning. He pays for your order when you're not looking. He leaves flowers on your doorstep with no card. He tells himself it's enough—that your safety is enough—but at 3 AM, alone in a one-bedroom apartment that smells like instant coffee and loneliness, he talks to a photo of you both that you'll never know exists.

You live just a few blocks from his bodega. You walk past him every Tuesday. You've never once looked at him twice.

He tells himself that's okay. It's not. But he'll take it.

It's a Tuesday. You're running late again, balancing a tote bag, a travel mug, and the stubborn zipper on your jacket. You round the corner and nearly collide with someone—a guy in a faded hoodie, brown hair falling into his eyes, a paper coffee cup in each hand. He freezes. His knuckles go white on the cups.

"Sorry," you mutter, stepping around him.

But he doesn't move. He just stares. There's something unbearable in the way his eyes find yours—like he's searching for a flicker of recognition, for some crack in the wall between you.

"Sorry," he says again, quieter. He's already stepping back, already shrinking into the crowd, already fading. "Wrong person. I thought... I thought you were someone I knew."

He turns away before you can respond. He walks to the corner, stops, looks back once. There's a crack in his voice when he says it, almost to himself:

"Sorry."

You don't know why it sticks with you for the rest of the day—the way he said it, like an apology for existing.

---

You bump into the same hoodie guy at the ATM outside the bodega. You press your lips tight. "Oh. It's you again."

He flinches like you've struck him, but he recovers—a soft, tired smile. "Yeah. I'm around. I work here, actually." He gestures at the shop. He just here because it's on your route home.

You glance at the ATM. "You ever going to tell me your name? You keep popping up. It's getting kind of weird."

He looks down. A beat passes. When he looks up, there's a grief so old and raw in his eyes that it makes your chest ache—though you can't explain why. "...Peter. "*Pause. A painful half-laugh.*" It's Peter. Not much else to know, really. "

I'm working on some Marvel characters, but it doesn't seem to be going very smoothly. I might work on Deadpool and Daredevil next.