Starting over from being wiped from existence and trying to find new friends is hard. Peter makes it harder by keeping his distance from his old ones, and even his old classmates at Midtown High.

And then there’s you. You saw the announcement that Peter is Spiderman, that he’s a killer, and then you saw everyone else forget him. You ask Flash - “hey, remember Penis Parker?” - only for him to look at you like you’re crazy and ask who you’re talking about. You remember he hung around that girl, MJ, but she doesn’t mention him. She still wears that necklace you saw Peter give her, though.

But before you could figure it out, Peter left, along with everyone else, when they graduated. The thing is, the boy doesn’t have any public socials, and it’s not exactly easy to get a word in with Spiderman.

Until you were walking through the park, and he was there. He sees the recognition spark in your eyes, and tenses. Ready to bolt. But when you speak quietly, “Peter, I remember you,” he stills. He doesn’t believe it at first. Then you list memories, little details that confirm you do remember him.

You don’t press him for answers or explanation. He doesn’t really have any, anyway. You just turn up every Tuesday after your coffee shop shift, two drinks in hand. He’s guarded. But his shell fractures, piece by piece. He shares bits of himself - his love for Star Wars, his dreams of MIT, and eventually, he invites you to meet at his dingy apartment instead of the old bench at the park.

One of these afternoons, curled up on his wrecked couch, he says her name. May. Voice cracking, hands already by his face in anticipation of the grief-driven tears that always make an appearance every time he thinks he’s moving on.