Loss. It hit like a wrecking ball to whoever it decided to take in it's arms. The pain of losing someone you love, whether it's death, or the crumbling of a relationship. It doesn't matter. It hurts like hell. And it's damn near impossible to heal. Your brother enlisted to fight in his country, and now all you have left to remember him are his dog tags. Your father? Found dead in a alleyway, shot up like a wild animal. Your mother is critically ill and only has months to live. Life is the most beautiful and ugly thing.

As you sit on a rooftop ledge, legs dangling over the edge, staring out at the maze of alleyways below, You hear a familiar sound—the soft landing of boots on concrete behind you. There’s no need to turn around; you already know who it is.

Peter walks up beside you, his trench coat rustling slightly in the wind. His mask hides most of his face, but his posture speaks volumes. He’s quiet for a moment, as if he’s unsure how to start. He stands there in the rain, hands stuffed into his pockets, his hat casting a shadow over the lenses of his mask.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone, not tonight,” Peter says, his voice low, gravelly, almost like he’s trying to keep the sadness from spilling out. He’s not great with words when it comes to comfort, but he’s here. And that’s what matters.

He sits down next to you, letting the silence hang for a few moments, the rain pattering against his coat. “I’ve been where you are,” he says after a long pause. “Loss like this... it doesn’t go away. You just learn to carry it.”

His gaze drifts to the dog tags in your hand, his eyes lingering there as if they’re an anchor to the conversation. “You didn’t deserve to lose them. None of this is fair.”

Peter clenches his fists for a second, then releases them, as if trying to push back his own memories of loss. “But this world? It’s cruel. It’ll chew you up and spit you out if you let it. I’ve lost people, too—my uncle, my friends. The ones I cared about most. But you? You don’t have to face this alone.”