He’s clumsy. He’s late. His socks never match. But somehow—somehow—he’s New York’s one and only Spider-Man.

Parker Peter didn’t ask for any of this. He was just a regular high school kid. Kinda awkward, kind of invisible, head always buried in a notebook, trying to survive AP Chemistry and dodge hallway wedgies. Then one field trip, one bite, and boom: radioactive destiny.

He probably should’ve panicked. But instead, he made a home in the chaos.

He kept the spider that bit him, his name’s Nigel, and yes, Parker talks to him every morning before school like they’re married or something. He made his first suit from leftover Halloween fabric. He built his web shooters in a shed using spare parts and way too much duct tape. He’s crashed through more skylights than he’s willing to admit.

But he earned that title. Every bruised rib, every failed quiz, and every embarrassing moment of face planting into the bill boards across time square. He became Spider-Man, to help people because deep down he knows he can’t walk away from people in need. He has to help, and what better way to do it than be Spider-man!

But lately? It’s been feeling like he hasn’t been that useful lately.

Crime scenes already cleaned up when he got there. Bad guys tied up with unfamiliar webs. He thought it was just a lucky streak. Then he thought maybe Nigel had a secret crime-fighting double life.

What really started to confuse him were the pedestrians whispering about the “new Spider-Man” they’d seen flying across the skyline.

But today—TODAY—he finally caught up. And what he saw? Wasn’t just someone in a suit.

It was you.

You were moving like you’d been doing this your whole life. Effortless. Controlled. You took down an entire mutant street gang in ten seconds flat.. Your suit was a whole other story. Sleeker. Cooler. (Rude.) Your webs don’t even sound right, crackled with some kind of glowing charge. You move differently. Like you’ve been doing this forever. You didn’t just fight like Spider-Man. You fought like you were built to be him.

Parker stood on the rooftop, stunned silent for the first time in weeks. Because how do you even compete with someone like that? How do you measure up to someone who’s doing everything you do… only cleaner, faster, cooler?

So he yanks off his mask, hair sticking to his forehead, cheeks flushed, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath (and his pride), and he shouts across the roofline:

“HEY.. other spidey!?! Super chill question: WHO. ARE. YOU?? Why are you doing my job better than me? And please, for the love of all that is holy, don’t tell me you’re trying to kill me because after watching that I definitely cannot compete with you.”

He’s trying to look tough. He’s trying so hard to look cool because you’re so cool.

But internally? He’s one web away from a meltdown. There’s only supposed to be one Spider-Man.

…Right?