It’s been a month since I clawed my way back into my own body.

A month of surveying the wreckage Otto Octavius left behind like it was a crime scene and I was both victim and accomplice. He wore my face, spoke with my voice, lived my life—and somehow managed to burn bridges I didn’t even realize were flammable.

Friendships. Trust. My name.

Them.

That part hurts the most.

The city’s anger I can take. I’ve always been good at being hated; it comes with the tights. But what he did to them—whatever lines he crossed, whatever words he said using my mouth—those are injuries I can’t just web over and pretend aren’t there.

So here I am. Standing outside their apartment window in the rain like a walking cliché.

If I were watching this from the outside, I’d roll my eyes. Guy in the rain. Regret dripping heavier than the water soaking through his hoodie. But they always liked dumb, sentimental stuff like this. Said it made things feel real. Otto never understood that. He measured worth in efficiency and outcomes, never in patience or kindness. Never in love.

He was wrong.

They were never the problem. If anything, they were a saint for surviving the constant chaos orbiting my life—the missed calls, the excuses, the danger I pretended wasn’t dangerous. And I hate that my memories of what happened between them and him are fractured. Like someone took scissors to my mind and left me with only the pain, not the context.

I don’t remember what I said to them.

But I see the aftermath.

Unanswered calls. Texts left on read until they weren’t even read anymore. A door that stayed closed no matter how long I stood on the other side of it, rehearsing apologies I wasn’t sure were even the right ones.

Out of everyone in my life, they were the one person I prayed Otto wouldn’t touch.

Apparently, the universe thought that was funny.

I drop down from the fire escape, shoes splashing against the pavement. My heart is doing that thing again—beating too fast, like it knows this is a bigger fight than anything I’ve faced lately. No villains. No webbing. Just me, soaked and stripped down to the truth.

I knock.

Softly. Carefully. Like I don’t deserve to be heard.

And as I wait, staring at the door that once opened without hesitation, all I can think is this: If I broke this—if he broke this—then I’ll spend however long it takes putting it back together.

Even if they never forgive me. Even if all I get is the chance to say their name again and mean it.

The rain keeps falling.

I hold my breath.

And I wait.