Archive of Our Own ^beta

Whenever Michelle felt poetic, she’d argue that the bustle at Marco’s Diner served as a synecdoche to NYC as a whole. Customers coming and going at record speed bringing the noise from outside with them — cars honking, men spitting on the sidewalk, loud chatter — sliding onto cracked pleather chairs commanding coffee and bagels. All the while her tacky blue diner shirt clung to her sweat-coated skin and her hair frizzed more every second she spent in the hot kitchen. 

Men yelled scummy comments at her, she served bouts of therapy to desperate people alongside espresso, hatred consumed her every few seconds wondering why she couldn’t be a nepotism kid like Flash and then hated herself for wanting that. At least most of the regulars were… bearable. That counted for something, right? 

Turning up the radio after Marco barked at her from the kitchen, waving his spatula around as though that scared her, she ripped a handful of orders from the wall and started preparing them. It was lunch, second rush hour, and Michelle felt like spitting in the man’s coffee that was leering at her. She puffed a stray lock out the way.

Pans clanging, newscasters clamoring crime after crime, New Yorkers yelling and throwing money at her that probably disregarded a dozen human rights, and all Michelle wanted was to sit on the roof of her apartment building and read her well-thumbed copy of Sarah Kay’s No Matter The Wreckage.  

Everyone is looking at you looking at him
everyone can tell. He can tell. So you
spend most of your time not looking at him. 

And then Peter Parker walked in. 

Yeah, she knew his name. Not voluntarily. He literally told her the second he first walked in like a 50s movie character and it was so odd and weird it became a memorable afternoon anecdote. Hey, Michelle, remember that weird dude named Peter Parker? 

Peter Parker. Who even had that name? It sounded fake. 

As spring was approaching, he’d swapped his winter coat for a lighter brown jacket. It draped around his shoulders slightly oversized, like it belonged to a father, or he got it vintage, and it caught her eye. Not because he was attractive or something. She was just observant and he came around often. Whatever. 

Mustering a smile, she nodded at him as she continued preparing orders. He nodded back and sat down in the chair Ned usually sat. 

Her stomach churned, heart beating against her ribs, unsure whether she wanted to flee or fasten her steps to speak to him. She didn’t like that feeling. She didn't like being observant or that her gaze flitted to him every five seconds like he’d disappear. 

Maybe she just had an affinity for weirdos. Like, she befriended Ned Leeds. She knitted with his Lola. She was the Academic Decathlon Team captain until she blipped out of existence for five years. Hell, she drew miserable people for jokes! No wonder puppy-eyed losers interested her. 

“Parker,” she called out. He looked up in wonder. “The usual?” 

He smiled, the rare kind where the cheeks stretched out and a twinkle in the eye appeared, and stuck his thumb up. 

Peter Parker was a certified weirdo and she wanted to know why. No one looked that classically handsome and then not turned out to be some serial killer out of one of her true crime podcasts. 

Or maybe it was her, she considered while brewing his medium Americano. It wasn't his fault his name and face looped over and over again in his head like an annoying jingle from a commercial. Was her subconscious trying to tell her something? Was he a famous person? Did he go to her high school and she somehow never noticed? Whatever! Stop thinking about it! 

“Here you go,” she mumbled and slid the coffee his way. 

“Thanks, Michelle,” he replied. It sounded weird on his tongue, Michelle, like he wasn’t used to it. Which was weird, as her name was probably as common as Peter. 

Her fingers pressed in the sticky counter and she resisted the urge to help another customer that tried to flag her down. 

“How’s, um,” her lips pressed together, “how’s… whatever you do?” 

Peter chuckled. “I work at Delmars. Y’know, that little bodega in Queens? On the corner of—”

“47th and 31st?” MJ finished with a careful grin. “Yeah, he has the best sandwiches in New York.”

The boy leaned in. “I know! Don’t let Marco hear you say that though.” 

A giggle bubbled up in her throat, which she quickly tamped down and backed away to serve that customer. Yikes. She didn’t start liking his terrible humour now, did she? 

“How’s the MIT thing goin’?” he asked before she was able to run. 

The MIT thing allowed her to quit this job in the fall, move out of state and finally meet like-minded people. On a full-ride no less. Sure, she'd probably have to work somewhere similar once she was there, but at least the accent with which people yelled at her would be different. Progress! 

“Uh, still the same as last time,” she uttered. “So…” 

Spider-Man back at it again! the radio host yelled. The two looked up at the speaker. Camera footage just showed that he helped save an elderly home from arson in Brooklyn! Our neighborhood hero is stretching his parameters and we love to see it! More updates in thirty minutes. 

“Crazy, huh,” Peter said. “That Spider-Man guy…” 

Michelle shrugged. “I think he's pretty cool.”

His brows raised. “Yeah?” 

“People are objectively terrible. He’s doing the bare minimum by not being terrible.”

Somehow, her curt comment didn't throw him off. Instead, his lips curled into an amused smile. “Right. Uh, thanks for the coffee. Gotta go.”

That evening, her curiosity got the best of her and she looked him up. Not even her aversion to social media kept her from Instagram to see if he had an account. But nothing. No trace of the Peter Parker that resembled the man of her diner, only millions of others with different faces. Michelle briefly considered identity theft, but then also realised it was not her problem, and left it at that. 

“Who are you, Peter Parker,” she whispered to herself, opening a new tab. The nail of her thumb caught between her mouth to chew — bad habit — her mind rummaged for any details on him. 

Delmar. 

Rapidly typing the name of the diner and tweaking the search results to very recent, she finally caught him. A picture of him and Delmar, the owner, their arms thrown over each other's shoulders as they stood behind the counter. Wide beams, the same mischievous glint. A Facebook post from Delmar. Don’t let him fool ya! He knows Spanish! No tags though. Peter Parker didn’t have a Facebook profile either. 

With pursed lips, she leaned back in her desk chair and stared at the picture. It was like he’s a ghost. How could a guy like him not be on the internet? Was that even possible? Shouldn’t his birth certificate or school details be buried somewhere? 

Ha, maybe he was some latex-wearing Avenger and they wiped his slate clean for privacy reasons! Michelle chuckled. 

Or maybe he was just some well-groomed incel that only put his data on the dark web. She had to expect disappointment at this point, given her track record on life. Figuring that was a good conclusion to her sleuthing, she closed her laptop with a firm thud and collapsed on her bed with a poetry book. It might not be a starry rooftop, but it was the next best thing. 

The next day as she walked into her shift with one minute to spare, she found him sitting at one of the tables bent over a pile of books and a laptop balanced on top. Normally, he only came in for a coffee and never stayed more than ten minutes. Nor was this a place for anyone to study, preferring the library a couple blocks away. Michelle frowned and, before she thought the better of it, marched up to him. 

"What’re you doing here?" she commanded. 

His head shot up in surprise and dropped his pencil on the floor, the clattering loud in the quiet of the afternoon. At a closer inspection, she saw history, maths and science handbooks… as well as an exam committee rulebook. Oh. His laptop showed a Quizlet for Spanish verbs. 

Peter stammered out vowels and his face reddened with each one. “I– uh, I, y’know, I– I– studying! Because, I, y’know, I study.” A hand awkwardly patted a book. “I study. For the exam committee. That’s… that's what I'm doing. What are you do—? Wait, I know that. Never mind. Um—”

Despite their shared embarrassment and her revelation that he wasn’t a ghost skulking the streets, she stood her ground. “But why are you studying here?”

That quieted him down. He looked at her as though the answer was obvious and gestured around. “‘Cause I like it here.”

“Oh.” He liked it here? Because of their mediocre coffee and doughnuts? Because of the funny smell coming from the dumpster out back? (Because of her?) 

He frowned. “Is that okay? I can leave.”

“No!” Michelle rushed and placed a hand on his shoulder to glue him to his chair. His gaze flitted from her face to her hand. It burned. Shaking her head, she added: “No, it's fine.”

When she realised she had held onto him for longer than necessary, she ripped her touch away and wiped her hand off her jeans. “Exam committee,” she noted as cool as possible. “I thought you were in college already.”

The smile he sent let ease wash over her. Most people would’ve been put off by now. She wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea, she’s accepted that (hell, not even her mom liked her; mom loved her because she had to, but she didn’t like her), but it still hurt sometimes. She was just a teenage girl. 

“Uh, no. I’m turning eighteen in a couple months. I had to…” He paused, contemplating, a faraway look in his eye just like when they first met. The clock above the counter told her to put her apron on, but she waited. “I had to drop out of high school. I’m hoping I’ll be able to catch up as quickly as possible.”

It was too clean. Sanitised. She knew there was more to the story, but Marco waved at her in confusion and so she had to move on. Literally. 

Muttering a simple, “good luck”, Michelle walked away, turned on the cappuccino machine and got started. 

And then it kicked in that she admitted that she thought of him. Why the hell did she tell him she believed he was in college?! Gah! Whatever! Sue her for thinking a fit guy like that stopped running laps in P.E. a while ago!

While he studied the hours away in the same spot, every so often asking for a refill or a snack, she mulled on his words. He had to drop out. That meant he didn't have a choice. For financial reasons? Criminal reasons? He seemed like he'd refuse to hurt a fruit fly. Maybe an unforeseen tragedy struck and no one had been there to help. Peter did have a somber edge to him, Michelle found, a je ne sais quoi in a depressing way and not the typical ‘femme fatale’ way. 

He’s never come in with friends. Maybe he didn’t have any. 

And so, the indifferent Michelle made a choice. She sat opposite of him during her half hour break. 

Peter halted in his feverish jotting of notes. Visibly eager, like he hadn’t expected it, and it ached her. She knew that type of loneliness quite well. “Oh, hey.”

“You need help with anything?” she asked. “I'm pretty good at math and science.” 

His mouth opened and closed, brown eyes shining in the yellow overhead lighting, and she wondered if he knew how he looked at people. She felt seen, unnervingly so. 

“Uh… thanks, yeah, I’d like that.” He pushed the maths book her way. “You can quiz me on chapter one and two if you want.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You won’t need your book?”

A silly grin bloomed on his lips as he tapped his finger against his temple. “I think I got it all memorised.”

Yeah, a weirdo indeed. 

(That night, she drew his face in her journal, but only because the golden hour had casted an exceptionally beautiful glow on his right cheekbone while he pondered on an equation. For artistic purposes only. Nothing else.)

A week later, he returned. Temperatures kept rising and he opted to forgo a jacket and just wear a blue sweater. Blue looked good on him, Michelle casually noted, not at all focused on the curve of his shoulders and biceps. He sat in Ned's chair, scrolling on his phone while sipping his regular coffee. Something about him today made her cheeks heat up; hotter than the steam from the panini maker. 

Their eyes met and Michelle's hands clammed up. 

The doorbell jingled and in walked Ned. 

“Hey, MJ,” he greeted.

His bucket hat they thrifted together hid his mop of dark hair, backpack slung over one shoulder as a Lego figure was clutched between his fingers. She couldn’t deduce what character, but she knew it was geeky, and that was why she freaking loved Ned Leeds. He just gave no fucks. 

“Hey, dweeb,” she affectionately called back. Her elbows leaned against the counter. “What’s up?”

He lifted the minifigure and proudly showed her. “Look what I found!”

“On the street?”

“At a vendor, you uncultured maniac,” he chided, retracting the figure and holding it to his chest. “I was going to show you, but—”

“No, it’s okay, Ned! It’s really cool,” she laughed, “I’m glad you found it.”

But Ned wasn’t focused on her anymore. Instead, his eyes were laser-focused on the unassuming Peter. A couple curls had fallen in front of his eyes and it distracted her so much Ned had to repeat his question. Appalled, he said: “Why is he sitting in my chair?”

“Ned—”

“I’m the guy in the chair!”

Michelle’s expression fell flat. “You’re a dungeon master, Ned.”

“Same thing!” Ned exclaimed and then rushed towards Peter. “Sorry, sir, but you’re sitting in my chair.”

Peter looked up, somehow both unsurprised and wide-eyed at the same time, and sputtered, “Oh! Sorry, N-” Cutting himself off like he swallowed his tongue, his gaze dropped and choked out: “Nautolan! That’s an, uh, a Nautolan minifigure. Cool. Is that Kit Fisto? That’s… awesome, man.”

Ned gaped at him. “You’re into Star Wars?!”

Michelle had no clue what she was experiencing, but it almost seemed like the start of a two-star rated bromance movie on LifeTime with actors that vaguely looked like actual movie stars. Just when she thought she’d seen it all, she had to watch Ned go starstruck for a man he was just about to fight.   

Peter seemed stunned as well, though she couldn’t blame him for that. “Uh, yeah.”

“But you’re, like, super hot!” Ned blabbed. 

“Thank… you?”

Michelle rushed to their side of the diner, both wanting to join in on the conversation and save Ned from further embarrassment. “Sorry about my friend,” she stuttered, “he’s excited.”

Peter’s face brightened when he looked at her and he had to stop doing that Jesus Christ but he also had to keep doing that and joked, “I wouldn’t think to put you two as friends.”

“Tell me about it,” Ned lamented and plopped on the chair beside Peter. “She’s so mean.”

“I’m not mean,” MJ bristled. “I’m honest. There’s a difference.”

Peter nodded in agreement, but put his phone down when Ned began to recount the story of tracking down the vendor on Reddit and having to take the train all the way to Lower Manhattan. Michelle followed with one ear as she served other customers, catching slivers of sentences and chimes of chuckles, almost like they were lifelong friends and hadn’t met literally five minutes ago. She envied how easy it was. Here she was, holding awkward small talk with Peter for months, meanwhile Ned managed to create inside jokes and invite him for a game of laser tag MJ always refused. In the span of said five minutes. What the hell.

“Are, uh, you joining us?” Peter asked, hopeful. 

Ned shook his head. “She never goes.”

“Oh, I’ll go,” she cut in. Ned raised his brows. MJ smirked at him and pointedly ignored Peter. This had nothing to do with him. “I wanna beat your ass, Leeds.”

Peter didn’t come. Michelle and Ned waited thirty full minutes on him at the entrance of Laser Tagz Mania, much to her embarrassment and Ned’s disappointment, and then they went in without Peter for a burger and milkshake. Neither felt like playing after being stood up. Michelle exclaimed that he sucked, Ned tried to see the good in the stranger and suggested he might be held up somewhere. They didn’t exchange phone numbers, so they couldn’t contact him. As she wasn’t really a glass half full type of girl, she decided he was just shit. 

The same night, her dad called to ask if she was nearby Marco’s Diner. When she said she wasn’t, he exhaled in relief and uttered with a shaky voice that he had been so scared, as the jewellery store opposite of the diner had been robbed. Or attempted to, at least, as her dad said Spider-Man fortunately passed by right at that moment to sweep in and save the day. Michelle’s hands shook at the idea of being held at gun point, of knowing she was only a couple steps away from that store during her shift. Her voice stayed even as she bid her dad goodnight though, wanting to reassure him.  

“Whoa,” Ned puffed after she relayed the news to him. Seeing as her hands wouldn’t stop shaking, she tucked them under her legs. He took a sip of his shake. “That’s crazy! Do you think you’ll be able to work tomorrow?”

Michelle groaned. “I hope not.”

“What if… what if Peter was caught up in the robbery?” Ned’s hands rubbed together with nerves. “And that’s why he’s not here right now?”

“You can’t speculate,” she chided as she ignored her hammering heart. “That doesn’t help anyone. He probably just forgot. Or doesn’t care.” She hoped she was right, because the lump in her throat at the idea of beaten to pulp Peter nauseated her. Pushing through, she added: “If you expect disappointment, you can’t get disappointed.”

He scowled. “That’s deeply depressing and you know it.”

“And yet it works like a charm. Don’t take a girl’s motto away, Leeds.” MJ shoved the last fry in her mouth. “Let’s go.”

The wallpaper, the floor, there are cracks
in the ceiling. Someone has left a can of
iced tea in the corner, it is half-empty,
I mean half-full. There are four light bulbs
in the standing lamp, there is a fan. You
are counting things to keep from looking
at him. 

Maybe it was childish, but MJ ignored Peter. After the police had cleaned up the crime scene and Marco felt safe enough to open again — her moment of rest lasted all of three days — Peter had immediately returned the day after for his coffee and a chat. But she refused to give him the latter though. It wasn’t in her job description and he stood Ned and her up! If it had just been her, she would’ve dealt with it. Compartmentalising moments and feelings like the stanzas in a poem. But this concerned Ned too, and Ned was her one and only friend, and no one screwed with her friends. Not even cute boys that smiled all dorky and lingered at the door. Like now. 

Peter caught on quick though. After she didn’t meet his gaze the third time, he shot into action and zoomed to the countertop.  

“Hey, Michelle.” His voice was breathy and eager and hopeful, almost painfully so. It held a certain naivité that shouldn’t be charismatic. (But it was.) 

She glanced over her shoulder at him. “Hm.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it to laser tag,” he apologised, hand rubbing his neck in a bashful manner. “I- I really am sorry. But I just- I had a thing. And I couldn’t get out of it.”

“A thing.”

“Yeah.”

Did he owe her an explanation? They weren’t friends, but Ned and her did invite him to an activity. It was a grey area she wasn’t familiar with. Maybe he deserved the benefit of the doubt and a second chance, like Ned suggested. Hadn’t she been in those situations as well, where she had ‘a thing’ (usually involving her parents’ tricky divorce) and couldn’t explain it, or didn’t simply want to? Second chances weren’t Michelle’s style, but she also wasn’t a hypocrite. 

And also, anything was better than the monotonous back and forth she normally had with customers. For her own sanity, she had to let her grudge go.  

“If we ever think of inviting you, don’t do it again,” she warned and he exhaled in relief. “Ned was really upset.”

“Yeah, I know and I already apologised to him,” he said, but before she could ask how, he added, “but how are you?”

She blinked. “What?”

“The jewellery store,” he jabbed his thumb out the window at the closed shop, “it got robbed. You- you knew that, right? And, so, I wanted to, um…” His hands neatly folded on the counter as his gaze locked on hers. MJ felt unmoored. “I wanted to make sure that you were alright.”

No one at school had asked her, even when a handful knew she worked there. Her dad and grandma, sure, but that was their job. Ned had been too focused on speculation and rampant news scrolling and fawning over Spider-Man to ask. Marco only checked out of necessity, to ensure she wouldn’t lose her shit in front of customers.     

But Peter asked her. Still pretty much a stranger, though most people in Michelle’s life were. An acquaintance then? Did it matter when his intent gaze made her skin tingle and her stomach somersaulted all over the place? How was she able to keep her cool during Academic Decathlon championships ever since she thirteen years old, but couldn’t bear the soft look of a guy?

“Why, you think I needed saving?” she snarled. Like an idiot. 

His eyes widened in shock and he started waving his hands around in dismissal. “What? No! No, no, no, that’s not what I meant! I, um—”

A smile cracked. “I’m just messing with you.”

Peter stared at her. Michelle wanted to die on the spot. Then he chuckled. Then she laughed as well. And suddenly she forgot she had been mad at all. 

(She also didn’t understand how she was so comfortable around him. How she allowed Ned to invite him and that she promptly decided to join; how she just teased him as though he was one of the few bearable peers at Midtown Tech; how she could hold his gaze, as unnerving as it was, and not mind the feeling of quicksand sucking her deeper into Peter’s orbit. Michelle didn’t know what to do. She’s never experienced this before.) 

“Right,” he laughed. “Good joke.”

“Your usual?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

After he left, she dug up her phone from her pocket and texted Ned. Apparently, Peter and Ned bumped into each other at a comic book store, made up, and exchanged phone numbers. They already had a long Whatsapp thread and were thinking of a Discord server. Michelle felt like wacking him with one of her books, annoyed he didn’t keep her in the loop and that Peter’s apology now seemed like a propriety. Did he say sorry because he actually felt remorseful or did Ned put him up to it? But Michelle knew Peter months before Ned did! He should’ve come to her first, right? Why did she care so much?! 

She chewed off more of her thumbnail until it was frayed and red and then the soap hurt the ridges when she washed her hands. She ended her shift, picked up Thai food for her dad and her, and took the nearest subway home. She sketched a couple of people on the train — an old man reading the newspaper, a girl sleeping on a boy’s shoulder, a dude with the sickest shoes — and read an excerpt of her poetry book to hide from the unblinking, smug man by the sliding doors. Though her resting bitch face and height was usually an effective turn-off, the man stepped off at the same time and so, she routinely looked over her shoulder for the quick walk from the subway to her front door. 

At the fourth glance, she noted a gangly frame in the shadows on the roof of a clothing store. Red spandex glimmered when a light inside turned on. Spider-Man. Michelle narrowed her eyes and kept walking. Weirdo. 

“Hey, dad,” she sighed as she finally ascended the steep stairs to the fifth floor, shrugging off her jacket and shoes and dropping the plastic Thai bag on the kitchen counter. Her dad sat at the dinner table, bent over his laptop with bills and other letters scattered around him.

He looked up with a tired smile. “Hello, ‘Elle.”

She flicked on more kitchen lights and opened the microwave to heat up the boxes again. “You had a good day?” 

“Mh, yeah. The paint wasn’t working this morning—”

“Wasn’t working?”

“—but then it picked up in the afternoon and my class went well.” He proudly nodded. “One of my students made some great skin tone paints.”  

According to her dad, her birth inspired him to become an artist as he wanted to rival the beauty of his newborn daughter and fatherhood. He quitted his pro bono lawyer job and put all his ambition into painting… something that did not amuse her chemist mother. Michelle agreed the timing hadn’t been ideal, but she loved her dad and wouldn’t change a thing about him, even if his artistic endeavours had been the catalyst for her parents’ divorce. It was hard not to take it personally sometimes. 

But her dad taught her to draw and paint and sculpt and she inherited her mom’s affinity for science and maths and the two interests blended together quite well. When her dad had to sell the tv during a tougher period of their lives, Michelle turned to books. By high school, she only read classics and poetry, she grew a full foot and didn’t enjoy the same things as her old friends and basically became the person she was today. All because her dad wanted to be an artist. At least he taught classes now at LaGuardia High School as well, so the apartment didn’t constantly smell like turpentine.

Michelle smiled. “That’s great, dad.”

Dad paused his typing and assessed her for a beat. “Did you have a good day?”

“Yes,” she rolled her eyes, “no one robbed the diner. I know. Shocking.”

“It’s a scary thing, Michelle.”

“I know. Jokes make it less scary though.” The microwave beeped and she plucked the boxes out. Dad stood up and grabbed plates, cutlery and cups; their routine familiar. “I drew some people on the subway.”

“Good, I’m glad you keep it up.” He perked up. “I bet graphite really compliments their exhaustion!”

“They do!”

They chat some more about the art that ‘didn’t work’ this morning, her classes, their predictions on the cooking show they watched each Saturday and… okay. She loved her dad. To death. But she wished she could talk to someone that wasn’t him or Ned. Ned and her worked together, but in such a disjointed way that neither really understood. They were literal and figurative misfits. Michelle yearned to joke with someone new, to create their own language and get excited about the same things; someone her age. It was such a simple want! Like, just a month ago she wanted to go to a concert but Ned didn’t like the band and her dad had no time and there it ended: her hunt for a concert partner stopped. She could’ve gone alone, but that had sounded too depressing, even for her. 

She wanted someone to lay on top of the rooftop with. To read and talk and maybe kiss. Was that so bad to want? 

Her phone lit up right before bed with the notification that @peterparker2001 wanted to add her on her abandoned Instagram. Michelle smiled, debated the decision for a beat, then figured it was just fucking Instagram and accepted him. He only had a profile picture — his dorky face brightly beaming at the camera, seemingly in  the subway — and a regular picture. She stilled. It was of Marco’s Diner. A picture of his coffee with the little paper napkin of MD tucked underneath. ‘obligatory coffee pic’ was the caption. Michelle locked her phone. 

Wasn’t it suspicious he had no online presence and only created a profile after they became somewhat-friends? Should she be worried about that? Maybe tell her dad? 

Her phone buzzed again. It was him. good to know you’re also bad at social media

Michelle smirked, very much aware she was being baited, and let her thumbs fly across the keyboard anyway. Hey, she couldn’t pass up a conversation with someone that made the distinction between ‘your’ and ‘you’re’! the 5 year blip kind of took the fun away of ‘capturing the moment’, don’t you think?

He hearted her answer. Michelle bit back a smile and flicked off the lights. Burrowing her face in her thick pillow, she could pretend she wasn’t grinning like an idiot or holding her breath in anticipation. 

or reinforced the importance of doing it anyway. like… sticking it to the purple alien, or something he replied. 

A giggle puffed out as she shook her head and decided to table the conversation there. Peter didn’t really seem like the carpe diem type of guy, but maybe talking to him like this would uncover the facets he hadn’t shown. Michelle grimaced. She sounded insane.

When she didn’t respond, he texted again. goodnight, michelle :)

“Goodnight, Peter,” she sighed. Closing Instagram, she set her alarm and put her phone in airplane mode. No boy, not even Ned, was allowed to disturb her at this time. Especially dangerously cute boys like Peter. (Especially since she still had no clue what his deal was and she somehow didn’t mind at the same time, which was probably most frightening of all. She should care, she should follow her head and lead herself to safety, and yet… her heart — her damn gut — said otherwise.) 

Five chairs, two laptops, someone’s
umbrella, a hat. People are talking to you
look at their faces. This is a good trick. They
will think you are listening to them and not
thinking about him. Now he is talking.

“So.” Her arms crossed on the counter and she resisted fiddling with one of the curls hanging loose from her ponytail. Her face fixed itself in her signature steely expression. “What else do you do, Peter Parker?”

Her interrogative stance, as though she was part of some bad cop movie, didn’t deter him. He looked at her openly, like he’d expected it (he always seemed to be expecting something; never truly surprised), but every time she suspected him of being two-faced, his dorky grin bloomed on his face and that accusation faded from her mind. 

A plate of baked goods stood between them, on the house, as a way for Michelle to get a better grasp on his character. Ned might be able to accept someone with open arms without much question, but she needed a little bit (a lot) more. Peter, of course, seemed to know that already. 

His brown eyes sparkled in the midday light, the springtime warming up his cheeks and nose and allowing more of his arms to show. Michelle always considered physical attraction inferior to intellect, but she was now beginning to understand the appeal. But he didn’t just look hot or handsome, he looked sweet, like if he’d ever touch her, it would be with the gentlest, most featherlight touch. Like the first brushstroke. Like the first finger turning the page of a new book. Peter looked at her like she was special. 

Not fragile, which was an important difference to make. He didn’t look at her like she was fragile, but special, and the urge to fiddle with her hair and face and clothes intensified. 

He thought for a moment. “Well, I like reading comics and I, uh, I used to built a lot of Lego sets with my friend.”

“What happened? Lost interest?”

“Something like that.”

“What else?”

“I… I like to watch movies.” His lip twitched, his eyes skating past her like conjuring a memory. “I used to make these travel diaries, kind of. That was fun. Uh…” A breathy chuckle puffed out. An absentminded hand tore a piece of the croissant and plopped it in his mouth. The chewing seemed to collect his thoughts. “I’ve been so focused on passing for my GED, that I haven’t had a lot of time to do, like, fun stuff. Like laser tag!” He shot her an apologetic grin. “I’ll make it up one day, I promise you.”

One day. As in, they’d still be friends in the near or late future, to the point that he could make it up to them. She thought of his messages from a couple nights ago. Michelle didn’t get her hopes up. 

“I won’t hold my breath,” she quipped and his grin widened. Eager. Challenged. Her gaze averted and busied herself tearing a piece off a glazed doughnut.

“Uh, what about you?” he asked. “What do you do besides working here and not liking laser tag?”

Well, shit. She hadn’t thought of that. She’s been so focused on how mysterious Peter Parker was, that she hadn’t considered herself. Sure, there were a handful of articles about her on the school website regarding her placement and leadership on the Academic Decathlon team, but nothing else. Her social media footprint was pretty much a barren wasteland and no friends, aside from Ned, had come in to hang out with her. She was as much as a nobody as him. Damn it. Kind recognised kind, right? 

“I like movies, too,” she settled on, easing into the ordeal of talking about herself. Peter nodded. “Um… I like to read. I read a lot of poetry. And I like to draw. And this is my final year on the Academic Decathlon team of my school, actually.” Her chin raised. “I’m the captain.”

His jaw dropped, impressed, and she felt a tinge of pride. Michelle was cool and sometimes she admittedly needed an outsider to remind her of it. Being captain of a team was cool. 

“Michelle, that’s so cool,” he voiced her thoughts. His Queens accent lilted with excitement. “That’s— wow. Is it hard, leading a group?”

“It’s alright. We’re kind of missing one team member now, so I’m hoping that whoever takes over next year can find someone to fill that spot,” she said, the twitch in his eye when she did not going unnoticed. “It definitely helped me get accepted to MIT.” 

“Yeah!” He leaned in. “And uh— what poetry do you read?”

She frowned. “You want recommendations? No offense, but you don’t look like the Sylvia Plath or Gwendolyn Brooks type of guy.”

Michelle had gone too far. She knew she pushed a button, struck a nerve, questioning his character as his expression fell flat and the light died in his eyes. Not in the self-righteous way either, like he wanted to prove he was ‘cultured’ or something. Like he remembered something devastating and she was the one to blame. He was earnestly upset. Was it really her fault though? Her question had been honest, too!

“Um,” she mumbled. Finally, she fiddled with her hair. “I’m sorry, if I– if I said something…”

“No,” he coughed and mustered a smile. It resembled his usual lightness, but it wasn’t the same. “It’s fine. I, uh, I am actually. That type of guy. So.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

It wasn’t okay though. Nothing about this — him on one side, her on the other — felt right anymore. Chewing away the awkwardness with baked goods didn’t cut it.

And then Michelle’s mind finally shut up and she stopped thinking. Her eyes flitted to the analog clock, figured shit could hit the fan every once and a while, and tossed her apron on the countertop. Peter leaned away in surprise. 

“Wha–?”

“Let’s go, Parker,” she commanded, grabbing her tote bag and jacket and swivelling around the corner. 

“W-where?” She shot him a look. “Yup. Doesn’t matter. I’m shutting up.” 

Texting Ned he had to cover for her at the diner, she yelled at Marco she wouldn’t be back for the day and stomped outside. She didn’t care about the looks from the other customers and she sure as hell didn’t care about Marco barking from the little window of the kitchen, waving his spatula around as though it held the same power as vibranium. Peter looked stunned. He wasn’t the one in trouble and yet he seemed the most remorseful; which was precisely why she just had to stop worrying and start doing.

Not bothering to wait on Peter, she started pounding the pavement. He scrambled up to her. “You’re, ah, not worried you’re gonna get fired?”  

“Nope,” she quipped. “He needs me.” A lie. There were a million Michelle’s who’d gladly take her job. She just couldn’t think of that right now. Shrugging on her jacket and ignoring the fact he’d almost reached out to help with the sleeves, she added, “I’m taking you to the second-hand book store I get all my books from.”

He perked up. “Really?”

“Yeah.” Had it been the weekend, she would’ve taken him to one of the many flea markets in Brooklyn for some more unique treasures, but this would do. Only Bad Books was probably the best spot in all of Queens. “You wanted recommendations, right?”

She looked to her right and there he was, staring straight into her eyes. They hadn’t been this close before and she realised she didn’t have to look up or down. He was right there. “Yeah,” he smiled. “Thanks.”

Only Bad Books was a black-owned second-hand book store that MJ found last year after a frustrated trek around the neighborhood when she couldn’t find any new, compelling books from the regular stores. The sight of the ironic name had made her heart sing. OBB was tucked between two red-brick buildings, consisting of a ground floor, old parquet and millions of framed art and posters tacked on the walls. Rows and rows of wooden books shelves created a labyrinth the second one stepped inside. Nine million people rushed around NYC, yet time stood still here. Cynthia, the owner and an absolute sweetheart, knew her by name and loved to serve tea for free. Had Cynthia needed more help, she would’ve applied for a job in a heartbeat. 

The woman popped up from behind a shelve. “Hello, honey!”

Peter waved at her. “Hey, C— Miss. Ma’am.”

“Hello,” she chuckled. “I’m Cynthia.”

“We’re gonna be looking around, okay?” Michelle said. 

Cynthia eagerly nodded. “I’ll set up a pot of chamomile tea!”

Chatterbox Peter seemed aware he shouldn’t be talking right now. He silently followed her down the aisles until she told him to wander off and that they’d reconvene in ten minutes to discuss their finds. That was what she always did with… 

Michelle frowned. She used to do this, right? But with who? She felt like she used to do this with someone. The girl shrugged it off; she must’ve been getting too lost within the characters of books and thinking they were actually with her. The inkling that something was off faded from her mind and she crouched to brush her fingers against the old spines, cracked and spidery and well-loved. She found her copy of Sarah Kay here, not a particularly old book, but annotated and marked and dog-eared to death. A message had been scribbled on the first page, but the name of the giver and receiver were faded.

“I know you don’t like to be cheesy, but I think you’re my muse. I think you’re everything.”

Her gaze drifted to Peter, the boy’s pensive face fixed on the back of an old, red book. He looked like he belonged here. She still didn’t quite understand how someone with Ned’s interests also liked thumbing books (maybe he wanted to impress her?), but she couldn’t shake off his dreaded expression from earlier.    

The smell of chamomile filled the sweet spring air. Michelle’s eyes closed, content, leaning back on her heels. The padding of feet edged closer, halting beside her, and when she cracked an eye open Peter sat on the floor with a handful of books. Curiosity got the better of her and she wordlessly took it, him picking her short pile.   

To her surprise, Langston Hughes was part of the choices. He was one of her favourite 20th century poets. Muscle memory took over and she flitted to the exact page which held one of his most iconic pieces. Tapping Peter’s forearm, she cleared her throat and murmured: “Here, ‘Dreams’ by Langston Hughes.” And then, when she was sure no one else was closeby, whispered: “Hold fast to dreams/For if dreams die/Life is a broken-winged bird/That cannot fly./Hold fast to dreams/For when dreams go/Life is a barren field/Frozen with snow.” 

She looked up and found his eyes already on her. Her hands tightened around the book. Her heart hammered in her throat, ribcage too small to contain what she felt or what she almost felt, but it felt akin to being struck by lightning. The incredible urge to kiss him, to drop her book and kiss him, evaded her mind.

Instead, she steeled every nerve in her body and asked, “Have you… heard it before?”

“No,” he uttered. It didn’t sound genuine. “I haven’t.”

Michelle frowned. “It seems like you have.”

“I haven’t,” he reaffirmed. He took the book from her and placed it on his lap. “But it’s really beautiful. It— really. Thanks for reading it to me.” Then he chose a book she picked and opened it on a random page. Her stomach curled inside out at the idea of someone reading to her. Safe for her parents reading the occasional picture book when she was a kid, no one had done that before. His pretty mouth formed into an ‘o’-shape, as though preparing to read, and then he began. “I don’t know how you are so familiar to me—or why it feels less like I am getting to know you and more as though I am remembering who you are. How every smile, every whisper brings me closer to the impossible conclusion that I have known you before, I have loved you before—in another time, a different place, some other existence.” Peter looked up at her. “That’s Lang Leav.”

Was he making fun of her? Was he aware she felt an odd sense of déjà vu around him and now played with her? It sounded too insidious to be true, but hell, she just took him to her favourite bookstore and sat on the floor with their crossed knees a hair away and she wanted to kiss him. Maybe she was being very obvious. Michelle wished she had some girl friends to ask for advice. 

Pressing her lips together to stop herself from blurting out a crude quip, she said instead, “She’s one of my favourite modern poets.” And then she dared— “Do you really like poetry?”

His right knee touched her left. “I like it when you read it to me.”

That hopeful, puppy-eyed demeanour cranked to eleven became too much and she promptly stood up, books sliding off her legs, though wasn’t sure whether to scowl or gawk at him. What did that even mean? Why was he so hard to pinpoint? He scrambled up as well and had the decency to look apologetic for his comment. 

“I didn’t mean to—” He stopped himself. He did mean to. 

“Tell me something that’s actually true, Parker,” she commanded, pressing one of the books in his chest like he had to swear on it. “Because this — you — are weird.”

Peter fumbled with his hands, eyes shy and regrettable and so achingly honest she wondered how no one else had felt the enigmatic pull. That ever-present feeling that she was meant to be around him. It didn’t feel fair though; she deserved a reason as to why she felt it.

His face looked older than seventeen and however many months as he finally mustered the words. “I had to start over. Completely. And that’s not — I’m not trying to gain sympathy, or, or whatever, I’m not trying to— but that’s true. I thought it would be cool to finally be on my own, y’know, after years of parents and guardians and teachers, but… it sucks, man. I’m all alone and I think I got, uh—” he gestured at her bashfully “—too much too quick.”  

Starting over? It sounded like he had lived more than one life. Did the blip take everything from him? But everyone returned nearly two years ago. Shouldn’t he be on his feet by now if the blip was the cause of all his troubles? Michelle believed that what he said was true, but puzzle pieces were still missing to understand the full picture. 

Even so, hearing someone say aloud they thought they were ‘too much too quick’ nauseated her, the feeling rising up her throat and leaving a bitter taste on her tongue. She rather had someone be too much than nothing at all. She rather had dorky smiles than a fake ‘attractive’ one. 

And so, she decided to be honest, too.

“You’re not too much,” she relented. “You’re… you’re not too much. I guess I’m just not used to people being so honest and open with me.” MJ shrugged and inwardly cringed. This conversation was far out of her comfort zone. It felt like the first day of elementary school and her dad turned in his seat to face her in the back, promising her she’d be alright and make tons of friends, only for her shy six year old self to awkwardly trail into the classroom and sit beside the other shy kid; scared that one word would change her world forever. It felt like that. “Thank you.”

Peter bought Hughes and Leav and parted ways with her outside OBB. She watched him go, curious why the spring in his step looked familiar and confused by her own muddled emotions. She felt like he wasn’t the only one with missing puzzle pieces…  

Michelle once knew who wrote the message in her poetry book. And she’d forgotten.  

When Spider-Man whizzed by her window of chemistry class, she knew some shit was about to go down. And it did. It only took a minute of worried, excited murmurs floating around the classroom for a faraway explosion to shake the beakers on the tables. Everyone immediately stood up and flooded outside, the teacher’s screams to form proper lines a fruitless pursuit. Michelle didn’t listen either, nor did she run. The world had gone through hell and back and she figured a small explosion a couple blocks away wouldn’t nick her skin. Her phone began to buzz and she knew it was her dad. Instead, she lifted her head when her group burst through the front doors, piling onto the quad, and obscured the harsh sunlight with her hand. There. Flitting from rooftop to rooftop, lithe and inhuman, was Spider-Man. How did he get to a crime scene so quickly? Could he feel it happen before it happened? 

Another group jostled her, pushing her further down the quad, but her annoyed quips didn’t deter them. 

Michelle remembered the superhero’s shadow on her way home. Had that also been coincidental? Had she unknowingly been closeby criminals? She figured that by living in New York, she was de facto always close to crime. It was a packaged deal.

Blasts of weapons rumbled the ground, windows and floors of the skyrise building crashing and slamming to the ground, screams and collateral damage following. Everyone mimicked her position and scowled at the sun, wanting a proper view of the scene like always with disaster. Had she been Spider-Man, she’d be annoyed no one did anything but watched. The superhero disappeared for a beat and then shattered through the top floor holding the webbed-up bad guys in his superstrength grasp. Flash cheered like a little kid on the other side of the quad. 

Spider-Man jumped down to the ground, the school unable to see anything else, and then the show was over. Teachers ushered everyone back inside and Michelle texted her dad she was alright. And if she saw a flash of red and blue in the corner of her eye right before, then that was only for her to know. She wasn’t exactly afraid of the man. Sure, no one knew what he actually wanted out of this, helping the working class without credit while wearing a ridiculous suit, but she figured he had no insidious intentions. If he did, he would’ve acted on those intentions by now, right? 

Which was why she didn’t flinch when she saw him again after school on her way to work, or after work (Peter hadn’t come in…), and around the flower shop a block from her home as an experiment on her part. It confirmed her suspicion: Spider-Man knew her. She knew him. 

Exiting the flower shop, she looked up at the roof she presumed he hid and, since no one else was around, called out: “I know you’re there, Spider-Man. I don’t know why you’re following me, but I can take care of myself, so…” She made a dismissive gesture. “You can go and fight bad guys, or something.”

His bug-eyed head popped up from the roof (ha! she was right!) and he shot her a thumbs up, other arm shooting a perfectly straight web and flitting away. From up close, he was smaller than she thought. Like, he didn’t seem like a man in his thirties or something, which was what she thought, but rather someone closer to her age. A guy in college or something. Maybe their friendly neighbourhood vigilante attended NYU. The idea made her chuckle. 

If only he had said something, anything, like “sorry”, so she could deduce who he was. The list of people that Michelle knew (and that bothered to check in on her), was small, so it would be easy to pinpoint the exact person. Like a game of ‘Guess Who’, she ticked off all the women and everyone over thirty and under fourteen. (Damn, she hoped he wasn’t fourteen. The wellbeing of NYC on the shoulders of a literal child violated so many laws.) It had to be someone from Queens, as he reduced crime the most in this borough. 

Michelle pursed her lips as she ascended the stairs to her apartment. This was silly. It couldn’t be someone like Ned. Maybe Spider-Man shadowing her had been coincidental and they didn’t know each other in real life. Maybe he had some weird protocol where he followed everyday citizens to see how they avoided crime, or something. The universe was so expansive and confusing, she probably wasn’t able to understand what his thought process was. A hero like that had to be messed in the head. Severely, so. How many times had he been knocked up to bits anyway?

Passing the apartment door, she made the trek to the roof and sighed in relief as no one else occupied it. Up high, the sounds below quieted to a hum. Nothing could hurt her here. She grabbed one of the rusted lawn chairs next to the thick exit door and pushed it open, cringing at the shrieky sound it made, and then set down. Logically, she knew studying for her upcoming chem test and helping her dad with dinner was a better use of her time, but unearthing a sketch pad and pencils felt more ideal. 

The brush and scratch of pencil against grained paper calmed her mind. Cityscapes and coffee cups and profiles of faces she didn’t know appeared. A straight, strong nose pressed down. A wayward curl. A kind smile. Maybe—

“Hey!”

Michelle shrieked and jumped up from her chair, lifting her pencil in the air like a weapon at the sudden intruder.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Spider-Man yelled, holding his hands in front of his face. “It’s just me! Don’t— you don’t have to attack me!”

Michelle scowled. “I can defend myself however i want!” Especially when she made a fool of herself screeching like that! “What the hell are you doing here? I thought I asked you to leave!”

Spider-Man standing mere feet from her felt surreal. From further away, he looked otherworldly, but up close she noticed the puckers in his suit and slight fogging in his bug eyes, the fingertips greyed and browned from scaling buildings every day. How often did he remade his suit? The thicker part around his wrists probably allowed him to shoot webs. Huh. She thought it came out of his body.

But also— this solidified it. He knew her.  

Narrowing her eyes, she took a cautious step closer and huffed, “Who are you?”

He coughed and shook his head. “I, uh, that doesn’t matter.” His voice sounded disfigured. Not quite right. “I just wanted to make sure you were alright, miss.”

“I thought I made myself clear before.”

“You did.”

“So?”

The hero faltered. Michelle hadn’t dropped her pencil. Then, he mustered with failed enthusiasm: “Regular procedure!”

“I wasn’t part of the explosion today.” Her head tilted, clocking all the bullshit. “Do you check on everyone in a two mile radius?” When he didn’t respond, she asked again: “Who are you?”

His shoulders sagged and so did her pencil, the girl’s sense of dread rising as it did. Did that really work? Would he tell her even when she hadn’t guessed? It had really only been a hunch. The breeze picked up, her curls dancing in the wind, and she crossed her arms across her chest for comfort. He seemed in dubio; tapping his finger against his chin, head moving from the other rooftops as though crafting an escape plan and settling on her, like escaping was impossible, as though she had any legitimate power over him. He knew her. She knew him. She had to know him all too well.

But just as his fingers trailed up and edged the hem of his mask, he froze and staggered back. “I–I’m sorry, I can’t. Duty calls.” A second later sirens went off. Another beat and he was gone in a flash. And there she then stood, unmoored. 

So
you look away. The cracks in the ceiling are
in the shape of a whale or maybe an elephant
with a fat trunk. If he ever falls in love with
you, you will lie on your backs in a field

“Huh,” Ned remarked after Peter left the diner with that typical spring in his step. “I never thought you’d be into the Fred Astaire type of guy.”

Michelle scowled. “I don’t have a type. When did I ever insinuate I have a ‘type’?”

“Just now,” he deadpanned, “when you flirted with Peter. I was here. Literally right here.” 

Scoffing, she pulled her hair out of her ponytail and rolled it into a bun instead. Her eyes averted from the imploring, knowing Ned and grabbed a rag. Even if Ned knew she only wiped tables to busy herself and ignore him, she didn’t care; admitting she flirted with Peter was like waving a white flag. Over her dead body. So what if they animatedly discussed a movie they both liked and her smile had matched his? So what if she felt warm and fuzzy all over by the time he checked his phone and apologised for needing to leave? So what if her stoic heart melted when he was around? It was none of Ned’s business! 

Michelle rarely had crushes, but it wasn’t ‘breaking news’. Ned had to calm down.

“I wasn’t flirting.”

Ned puffed. “I think he’d beg to differ. That dude was glowing, MJ.”

“Then he can’t differentiate between someone being nice and someone flirting.” She pointed the rag at him. “That’s his problem.”

“Okay,” he chuckled. “Sure.”

“Don’t you think it’s weird how little we know of him?” Her arms crossed, thinking back of instances where he had the opportunity to fill in the blanks and then decided not to. He for sure had a lot of baggage, no question about that, but it didn’t all tie together in a way that made sense. She hated not understanding mathematical proof and this felt similar; the axioms not adding up. Ned shrugged. MJ rolled her eyes. “Of course, you don’t care about that.”

“Hey, I do care about that! I just don’t think it’s as important.” He looked at where Peter sat. “He’s a good guy. Isn’t that what matters most?”

Michelle wished she saw the good in people the way Ned did. For Ned, building a Lego set with someone meant eternal friendship and devotion and it simply didn’t work for her like that. Peter seemed patient with her though. A smile tugged on her lips. It was like he saw right through her, but never commented on it, going along with the ruse she only tolerated him. (Their afternoon at OBB begged to differ. Their film discussion just now told a whole other story. He knew and he didn’t say anything. And she knew he felt something too, ‘cause yeah: they had been flirting. Tentatively, so.)

Maybe she’d show more of herself if he showed more of himself. If he was honest with her. If Peter Parker was even his real name.

Seeing as his question was obviously rhetorical, she shrugged. 

“Oh,” Ned quipped, “then have you heard anything from Spider-Man again?”

After her brief altercation with the hero on her roof, she had to tell someone. Ned was a big fan and he would never say no to try and identify who the masked person was. But her details — ‘red-blue suit, bug eyes, athletic built, my height’ — hadn’t been of much help. Ned also believed her theory that it was someone she knew personally (much to his jealousy) and hoped that if Spider-Man and her bumped into each other again, he could help with the reveal. It wasn’t like either wanted to exploit his identity to the tabloids, but Michelle felt she deserved knowing who shadowed her. Who felt the need to protect her. That was within her right — especially if he turned out to be some obsessive stalker.

MJ shook her head. “No. I think he took the hint to leave me alone after I threatened him with a pencil.” For dramatics, she double-clicked her pen. 

“Damn,” he sighed. “Bummer.”

“He showed up after something bad happened. The robbery across the street and the explosion in the skyscraper near the school.” The cogs were turning. “We just have to wait until another New Yorker goes insane closeby and he’ll show up.”  

Ned pouted. “I don’t like that pattern.”

“Yup. Me neither.” She preferred to still have all her limbs by the time she moved to Boston in August. “Nothing beats the blip though.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better, MJ!” As Ned kept rattling on about his worries, her phone buzzed in her pocket and she inconspicuously took it, hiding her grin with her hand when she saw it was Peter.

He’d only been gone for minutes, but he already asked her to hang out, promising he’d show up this time. And that they could do something other than laser tag. She ducked to the back room with the lame excuse that she had to grab more boxes of coffee beans, but instead sat on top of them to text Peter back. Their conversations mostly consisted of links to music and books and films they presumed the other would like, sometimes interspersed with him asking how her Academic Decathlon team was going, with her asking if he needed help with GED prep. More pictures had popped up on his feed too: sunsets on rooftops, the shelves of a comic book store, a video of a busker on the subway. 

She replied that she didn’t like going to busy places. He replied he didn’t mind. She replied she liked sitting on her roof to read or draw. He replied he’d do that, if they watched a movie as well. She replied he could choose the movie and that she’d be in charge of snacks. It oddly felt like arranging a date, even though she’s never done that before. It came too easy.

Had she done this before? Has she forgotten that she’d gone on a date? Because the feeling was familiar, but the act itself wasn’t. 

He sent a picture. His cute face holding a thumbs up pressed against his cheek. Michelle shook her head, fond, and almost sent a picture herself. Instead, she hearted his picture, put her phone on air plane mode as she instantly regretted the decision and rushed to the front. Marco still held a grudge from her one-time rebellion. 

This wasn’t a date, she reminded herself. This was her and Peter hanging out, just like she and Ned hung out. Ned had been on her roof before with his telescope. This was no different. Her dad would be home and he would make it so undate-like that she had nothing to worry about. This wasn’t a date. This wasn’t a date. 

She practically ran home though. Catching an earlier train, not bothering to crack open a book, jogging up the stairs ‘til her face was flushed and her armpits sweaty. It surprised her dad so much that it prompted him to say he thought she didn’t believe in sports.

Her index finger raised in defense. “I don’t believe in the institution of sports in school and their suggested privileges. There’s a difference.”

“Keep the fight going, sweetheart.”

She showered and fiddled with her hair, forgetting every hairstyle that ever existed, and settled on letting it hang loose. Loose was fine. Loose was chill. She was chill. Super chill. She stared at the make-up her mom bought her every Christmas and closed the cabinet again; experimentation would be hazardous at this point. Her diner clothes got thrown in the hamper and she wore her favourite striped v-neck sweater. It wasn’t a date. 

But then dad raised his brows at her, shining with curiosity in the afternoon light, and knew exactly how to push her buttons. “Someone’s coming over?”  

“A friend.”

He blinked. “A friend.”

She paused. “Yes.”

“So, not Ned.”

“It could be Ned.”

“If it was Ned, you would’ve said ‘Ned’, because it’s just Ned. But you didn’t.” His hands raised when she stalked forward with irritation, though his grin didn’t dissipate. “Just an observation, ‘Elle. You know it runs in the family. Also, I’m a dad. In case you forgot.”

For the first time in forever, she wished her dad had evening plans. She didn’t know how to do this non-date thing and he wasn’t helping by acting all smug!

“It’s not… Ned,” she slowly admitted. “But it really is just a new friend I made.”

Dad nodded, conceding. “Okay. Okay, that’s cool. Does the friend have a name?”

Michelle rolled her eyes. “Peter.”

The same Peter that came by just twenty minutes later as she opened the door and he shot her such a dreamy smile with a rented movie in his hand she felt freaking butterflies, because it wasn’t a date but she wished it sort of was. Not the cheesy Hallmark-way, but her way… whatever that meant. Luckily, her dad had his act together by then and greeted Peter like a normal person. Hanging his coat on the free hanger, he walked into the living room like he’d done it before. No faltering or lingering or turning on his heels to look at a picture or painting up close; he just went in. Which said a lot, given the constant eclectic state of the apartment.  

He rented Singin’ in the Rain — which was simultaneously endearing and eye roll-inducing.

“It was either this or E.T. , but I figured everyone’s tired of aliens,” he argued when he saw her expression. 

But when she walked into her room to grab her stuff for the roof, him on her heels, did he finally slow down. He stood on her threshold. Hesitant. 

Michelle sat down on her bed. “It’s just a room, Peter. It won’t explode.”

“Uh, y-yeah.” His feet moved forward. His jovial behaviour from seconds ago faded to something quieter, gentler, as he took in her piles of books on every surface, the fairy lights lining her windows, her closet overflowing with thrifted clothes and the mixture of handwritten summaries and textbooks on her desk. He smiled at her. “Your room is nice.”

His fingers brushed the quilt at the end of her bed, thoughtful, and her arm twitched to pull him beside her on the bed, sit side by side. And then she just did that. Her hand wrapped around his forearm and gently coaxed him on the mattress. He let out an ‘oomph’ and looked at her like she just confessed her biggest secrets. So close, she smelled sandalwood and something typically boyish and Peter-ish and she felt silly. So, so silly.  

“Michelle—”

“You know you can call me MJ, right?” she cut in. “My friends call me MJ.”

His shoulder bumped hers, teasing. “So, that’s what? Ned and your dad?”

“Yes, actually.” She stuck her chin up, playing along. “A very elite group. You should be honoured.”

“I am.” His voice held nothing but sincerity.   

Kiss me. Her tense smile averted to her lap, unsure where to go from there. The idea of having to stand up and find her sketchpad and pencils sounded impossible, grounded to his sturdy frame. MJ never wanted to be coddled, or whatever, bu she bet his hand was warm and comfortable. Her room felt warm as well.

“Um…” She forced herself to look at him agan. Did she give herself away with one single look? “What did you want to say?”

He scratched the back of his head, shy. “Noting. Just that if you don’t wanna watch the movie, we can—”

“The movie’s fine, Peter.” And then, before she lost her wits— “Let’s go to the roof.”

Since the days were getting longer, they enjoyed the sun for longer as well. MJ liked the springtime. People saw her as ‘cold’ person and presumed she preferred the winter, but nothing beat the feeling of pounding the pavement with warm breeze caressing her skin, right before the wave of tourism hit, and lounging in the park while reading a good book. Or if she wanted to treat herself, she’d get an iced tea and people watch.  

Very rarely did she invite Ned on those excursions. Peter stretched his arms above his head as he took in the cityscape, his silhouette carved out from the afternoon shadows and buildings, and it made MJ pause. He looked… really familiar. Peter was Peter, but he also looked like someone else entirely. She couldn’t pinpoint it. 

Glancing over his shoulder, he looked at her in question and it spurred her into action. Grabbing the crusty chairs, she commanded him to sit down and then asked if she could draw him, no bashfulness detected in her voice. She could dwell on her emotions and speculations another time; now, she wanted to enjoy this. Simmer in the pleasant feeling of having him smile at her and making her laugh. 

“I think I have a good face,” Peter babbled whenever she focused on particular details in her sketches. “Like, when I was younger, I wanted to be in the Toys ‘R Us commercials, or Ikea or Pizza Hut — and I got scouted, like once, at a store, but it turned out it was a scam. Like, a full-on human trafficking thing. Crazy.” 

“I think that’s part of the New York experience,” MJ mused. “Get scammed by a so-called agent. Stop moving.”

“Okay,” he chuckled. “My aunt was happy it was a scam though. She’s– she was way too busy for that mess.”

She caught it: was. Considering her own messy history with her family, she didn’t push. Either his aunt used to be busy, or she’s not in the picture anymore. Her pencil pushed harder into the paper as she realised he hasn’t mentioned his parents yet. Peter told her he had to start over completely. With school. With life. He was alone. Did that mean… his family was gone? Michelle would do anything for her dad. Who did Peter have to do anything for? No wonder he never mentioned something about his personal life. As an introvert, that was usually Michelle’s role, but now it seemed like she was the more open one. 

Unable to suppress her curiosity though, she forced a casual tone and asked, “What’s her name?”

“What?”

“Of your aunt.” She looked up and gauged his expression. Not guarded, not pleased either. Just… sad. The dreaded feeling in her stomach intensified. 

“May,” he said, “May Parker.” It held a sense of reverence and finality. She didn’t push again.

Instead, she sketched the furrow of his brow and his downturned lip and even so, it didn’t deter his handsome features.

She made an off-hand joke about how he needed to work on his ‘sad face’, which got him to laugh (she got him to laugh), which emboldened her to show the drawings. He marvelled at them, cradling the sketchbook as though in the presence of the Mona Lisa. They talked about his GED prep, how they were both considered ‘losers’ in school (to which MJ remarked he would’ve been a good fit in Midtown Tech alongside her and Ned), about her upcoming move to Boston. Her dad had been taking it well, but she knew he’d miss her a lot. Not many could say their dad was one of their best friends and confidantes, but she could, and she knew she’d call him a lot. He daydreamed aloud about his own college aspirations — NYU, MIT, or any SUNY for that matter, aware a GED didn’t look as good on his record as opposed to a normal high school diploma. 

“Or it’ll make you stand out,” she half-heartedly proposed, knowing the system was fucked. 

Peter entertained her goodwill with a hopeful smile. “Who knows.”

Then he asked her why she worked at Marco’s Diner and she explained through her synecdoche analogy — cherishing the way his face broke into utter delight — that sure, while the tips sucked and Marco could kiss her ass, she liked seeing every type of New Yorker trickle by. Like Peter: a certified NYC weirdo. 

He gawked at her. “I’m not a weirdo!”

“You are,” she deadpanned. “But in a good way!”

The first crush Michelle ever had was Cory Moore. They were five years old and she’d been envious of the freckles on his skin and he shared his grapes with her. Cory moved back to Chicago before the school year ended and she promptly forgot about him.

Thomas Freeman was her second crush: they shared the top math scores in her fifth grade class and he played the bass while she attempted the clarinet. He had windswept brown hair and a gap between his teeth and he skateboarded outside music class and he was probably the coolest boy she’d ever seen. The infatuation ended after she quit music.

She briefly obsessed over Tupac at thirteen (and had the vintage posters to prove it) and fawned over Brad Davis from afar at sixteen for a split second until she realised what an entitled asshole he was. The latter shouldn’t even be called a crush — more so her boredom and loneliness manifesting something to fixate on.

Michelle has always liked sweet, talented guys with even sweeter smiles. But she’s never crushed on anyone the way she crushed on Peter Parker. Never as hard, never as warm, never like this. She hardly contained a giddy smile from blooming to full volume. Her dad could see and he could see, but at least the food was a good distraction and the darkened living room hid her cheeks by the time they put on Singin’ in the Rain. She sat in between her dad and Peter, but she was so much more aware of the boy’s body than her father’s.

His hand a breath away from hers. His laugh reverberating in his chest. 

Dad fell asleep by the third act. Which wasn’t a surprise, but it did leave her heart stammering as his hand edged closer, mere millimeters, and brushed his pinky finger against hers. She resisted the urge to pull away, to recoil and hide within herself, and kept her gaze fixed on Gene Kelly and Debbie Reynolds as she curled her hand into his. His hold tightened. She felt it again: that first day of school, that her world could change with one move, one word.

They stayed like that the remainder of the movie. 

The credits rolled, she dreaded letting go of his hand, quietly laughed and turned towards him— and he kissed her. 

For just a second. Chaste and barely any pressure, but he did. Peter kissed her. 

“Is that okay?” he whispered. “Should’ve asked first, but—”

“Yeah,” she whispered back, dazed. “That’s okay.”

Then he kissed her again. This time, he reached up to clutch her cheek and hold her close. It felt familiar yet new. Maybe because she’s had a whiff of his cologne before, maybe because she’s been anticipating it, but something about this kiss felt so innately right. Michelle had no clue where to place her hands, but the shoulders seemed like a safe bet. 

(Names wiped from poetry books, persons missing from pictures, his kiss like a bas-relief on her lips, like he’d done it countless times before. But this was their first kiss. Why did déjà vu haunt her every direction she turned?) 

When he pulled away, she exhaled: “You, uh, taste like green curry.”

“Oh.” He perked up and held a hand in front of his mouth to smell it. A grimace. “Is it bad?”

“No, you’re good.”

“So, it’s bad.”

Their noses bumped. “It’s okay, Peter.”

The boy’s features softened in the evening light, his pale skin and dark hair and eyes a sudden replica of Gene Kelly. She didn’t have a type, but she sure as hell liked the classic movie star type now. A gentle hand tucked a curl behind her ear. His thumb pressed in her cheek. “Can I do it again?”

“Yes.”

somewhere and look up at the sky and he will
say, Baby, look at that silly cloud, it is a whale!
and you will say, Baby, that is an elephant
with a fat trunk, and you will argue for a bit,
but he will love you anyway.

Her dream world came crashing down not even twenty-four hours later. 

Expect disappointment and she wouldn’t get disappointed but Peter had distracted her for a beat too long, her eyes straying from her motto to the point that it slipped from beneath her feet and she fell on her ass like an idiot. 

He’d been sitting at one of the tables in the diner, studying, and both were pretending to not periodically catch each other’s eye for the last hour. Michelle busied herself with serving other customers and helping Marco in the kitchen, but her thoughts had been dialled to a brown-haired, sweet boy who kissed her last night. Who was her first kiss. He had left quickly after that, the two still needing to have a conversation about what it all exactly meant, but she’s been… cautiously hopeful. 

Peter jumped up from his chair, alarmed. Her mouth opened to ask what was up, but three seconds later a loud crash erupted a block away. And then everything fell into place. He didn’t even wait another beat to curb her suspicions, instead leaving his supplies as he sprinted out the diner, the sunlight sketching out his broad frame and skittish moves. Marco yelled at her to keep the customers in check, that they were safe, but white noise flooded her ears. 

Ignoring the man, she ran out the diner after Peter and saw he disappeared. To her left, she noted five cars rammed into each other, glass shattered and people hurt and sirens blaring, but before any ambulances arrived, Spider-Man already landed on top of one of the trunks to inspect the situation. Too quick. Too soon. 

Michelle felt nauseous. Peter had been shadowing her. Peter had been on her roof before. Peter had known about her perhaps before she did about him. Peter… was Spider-Man. And he wasn’t even trying to be fucking subtle about it. 

Marco’s greasy hand curled around her shoulder and pulled her back inside, ordering her to keep the flow of customers moving and not act like a ‘disaster groupie’. Michelle nodded, mute, and tried to stop her hands from shaking. 

Intellectually, she knew why he had kept it a secret. No one in their right mind would spout out their secret identity at the drop of a hat — even to friends or someone more than friends. She got that.

But this felt different. Because they weren’t just close, he followed her. He didn’t follow Ned. Just her. It left an insidious, bitter taste in her mouth. What if his intentions weren’t as pure as she believed them to? What if his plan all along had been to ‘get’ her, through Peter or through Spider-Man, whatever means necessary? Would he have kept playing her like a fool had she not been as observant as she was?      

Working on auto-pilot for the rest of her shift, she texted a thumbs up at Peter when he asked if she could keep his supplies safe until he had a chance to get them back not even bothering with an excuse as to why he ran out like a maniac. God, she’s been so dumb allowing him to get away with paperthin lies.

At the end of the day, she realised three things: 

One: She was one step ahead of Peter and could use that to her advantage now that she knew his identity. (It all made sense. All the secrecy. It all made sense now.) 

Two: He’d come find her soon as Spider-Man to check if she was okay. 

Three: Infatuation was made for fools and she was done being a fool. 

She saw Spider-Man before he saw her. The superhero was pacing the roof of a building nearby the diner and she didn’t slow down her walk. He couldn’t suspect her of knowing. A light thwip was heard and suddenly he stood in the shadows in between two buildings. Michelle crossed her arms, steeling herself, holding herself back from throwing her fists in his face. 

“I’m fine, Spider-Man. I wasn’t in the car.”

“Yup.” He held his thumb up. “Just checkin’.”

“Maybe check up on the people that were actually hurt,” she icily suggested. “As protocol.”

“Yeah,” he drawled. A string of web shot up to the ledge of a building. “Yeah, I should. Thanks!”

Her teeth bit down on her tongue. Blood boiled beneath her skin like a simmering pot of hot water, ready to boil over and explode. She decided something right there. 

If Peter thought he could shadow her, she could shadow him. Instead of going home, she’d wait until he transformed back into Peter and follow him to his place. Was that kind of fucked up and unethical? Yes, but she felt righteous and angry and, frankly, scared. MJ deserved to know to truth — the whole truth. 

Her quick eyes followed as Peter jumped from building to building, scaling windows and flipping with the ease of someone that had been doing this for years. With the map of Queens memorised like the back of her hand, she began the steady trek. Sometimes he disappeared and she had to guess a direction, but she always found him again by flashes of red and blue or the surprised gasps of pedestrians. Watching as he dropped down a shady alleyway, waiting twenty seconds to ensure he didn’t look over his shoulder, peeking around the corner, the brick pricking her skin, to see him shrug on a blue sweater and pry his backpack from the wall, web residu clinging to the edges. 

The alleyway continued to the other side and there he unlocked the door of an old apartment building. Michelle swallowed back the fear and waited a minute to compose herself. She could do this. She could do this. She could do this. 

Buzzing the doorbell of the person beneath Parker’s name on the sheet, she feigned she was a friend of Peter and claimed he wasn’t opening the door. The person muttered a string of curse words and a beat later unlocked it for her. Easy. Swinging it open, it clicked shut behind her.  

Had Michelle expected an ‘Architectural Digest’ type place when Peter spoke about his studio apartment? No. Not at all. The fact that he was probably an orphan and had to do it all on his own suggested he didn’t live somewhere with a marble backsplash and glossy mid-century furniture. She expected the basics… and yet, she was still surprised by how barren he lived. 

If the doorbells were correct, then he lived in apartment 6B. The sign was coppery and rusted, the door having seen better days, and all she could do was straighten her back and firmly knock three times. One for every time her heart tripled in speed. 

The door opened and there he stood: a busted, windswept, flushed Peter Parker. She wanted to scream. 

“MJ!” he gasped. “What’re you doing here? How did you—?”

Pushing past him with an easy shove against the shoulder, her gaze travelled across the small apartment for the proof she was looking for — his suit had been tucked away — but faltered when she noticed… well, everything else. Everything that showed she didn’t have a single clue about who he truly was. 

Books she read and planned to read lined his shelves and Lego minifigures Ned liked decorated his desk and there, above his bed, maps of NYC and school accomplishments from Midtown Tech and pictures. Pictures of them. Pictures they hadn’t taken. Pictures she couldn’t remember. 

A claustrophobic feeling closed in on her, the beige walls thick and imploring and dangerous, his frame lingering behind her a threat and not a support. What did this mean? How could this be possible? 

How could she not remember? Who the hell was he?! 

She didn’t dare to look at him. Agonisingly slow, she took a breath and asked in terror: “Why do I get the feeling you’ve known me in a different life?”

“Because…” His voice was raw, not even trying to deny it, not even allowing her to live in the fantasy that everything was alright for a second longer. She hated it. Peter gently grabbed her arm and turned her around so she’d face him. And then he said it: “Because Doctor Strange wiped your memory.”

Michelle staggered back in horror. 

Peter rushed, “MJ, I can explain—”

“Why didn’t you tell me?!” she yelled. Oh my God. Oh my fucking God. This was her worst nightmare. An entire chunk of her life: gone. Her agency, her independence: stripped away without her even knowing. She’d been clueless. She’d been staring in the eyes of people she used to intimately know and she couldn’t remember, because he took it from her. 

She was going to throw up.   

An anxious Peter raked his hands through his hair. “I wanted to give you a choice!”

“To what?” spit MJ. 

“To like me again! I didn’t– I didn’t want to force it! Like, I didn’t want you to think you had to be into me, because of– I–”

No. Had every shared moment been manufactured, too? Biting down on her lip, she forced out, “What were we, Peter? Before Strange wiped my memory?”

His head dropped. “Together. And you, um, you said you loved me…” Her heart withered at the words. None of her thoughts and emotions and feelings had been her own, but all from a past version of her she never met. “And you made me promise to tell you as soon I found you, but I– I couldn’t. I couldn’t cause you more pain than I already did.”

That day. That day at the diner when he first walked in. He already knew her then. He had looked at her and had known everything. She’d been distracted by his sweet eyes and pleasing voice and enamoured face and all the while, he had known. He had remembered. He remembered all those pictures, he went to her school, he was friends with Ned (he knew where to find Ned to apologise) — nothing was ever a surprise. Because he knew. 

Tears welled in her eyes, unsure if she stared at a monster or a superhero. “You’re selfish and insane.”

“There was no other way, MJ,” he tried, coming forward but her backing away once more. Desperation coloured his voice. “I had made… so many mistakes. Lost so much. I kept messing up, kept putting everyone I loved in danger and I– I just— making everyone forget about me was the only way to make things right again. So, I took it.”

Michelle pressed her eyes shut. Her head stood on the brink of shattering into a million pieces. “Why didn’t you just— you should’ve told me the truth the second we met. You made a promise to– to a version of me. And you broke it.”

He puffed. “Like you would’ve believed me. You’re not really the ‘believe everything at face value’ type of girl, MJ.”

“I don’t care. You’ve just been lying to my face,” she whispered. “You know everything about me and I know nothing.” But as a final blow— “I know you’re Spider-Man.”

He didn’t even blink. Because he had expected it. All Peter did was sigh. “I–I’m so sorry.”

Michelle left without another word.

Dad didn’t ask about her distraught and tear-stricken face when she came home, one look from her enough to silence him and return to his painting, though he did press his brush harder into the red than usual. She didn’t want to talk. She felt like she’d screamed her lungs out despite the conversation between her and Peter lasting only as long as a subway ride. 

Crawling onto the roof, she sat on her butt and curled her arms around her legs, her chin tucked on her knees. The spring breeze, which so often brought her comfort, left her cold. No solace found in the hum of New York, in the faraway chatter or the honking of cars. She felt violated. The city wasn’t her own anymore. 

The double-cross was hard to comprehend. Him being Spider-Man had been enough of a shocking revelation, but to realise that the universe had tears in them? That another version of herself agreed to such a ridiculous plan? The state of the world must’ve been that dire… or she just really loved him. Maybe both. She didn’t remember.  

The pictures on his wall burned in her mind. One of the three of them in their Academic Decathlon uniforms, the boys smiling cheekily while she mustered a grimace. One of him and Ned posing with a Lego Death Star. One of her, a shy smile gracing her lips as she turned away from the camera. One of her, beaming as she held up her middle finger. One of her at a little breakfast cafe, her outstretched hand out of frame. One of her and Peter, him kissing her red cheek outside Only Bad Books. Her and Peter making a funny face as they sat on this very roof. Her and Peter, kissing in a photobooth. Her and Peter. Her and Peter. Her and Peter. 

Peter had gifted her the poetry book. Peter had known she didn't like cheesy gestures; and then did it anyway. Peter had spent hours on her roof, reading each other excerpts from stories, and she bet that her sketchbooks had pages ripped out that once contained him.  

Would he have gone to MIT too? Had whatever tragedy not happened? She wished she could look it up.

Her eyes settled on the horizon as it slowly coloured to washes of orange and pink and speckled pomegranate red, dipping low and reflecting onto the skyscrapers, lights flicking on as they dimmed in offices, businessmen loosening their ties and students preparing for parties. It was spring, the season of rebirth, yet Michelle felt adrift, spinning out of control, off her axis, in a universe she didn’t understand. 

Her dad settled beside her when it turned dark and she still hadn’t returned downstairs for dinner. He grabbed her hand. 

“I’ll be okay, dad,” she whispered. 

No reply came for a while. And then— “Can I tell you about my new painting?”

A watery laugh puffed out. “Yes, please.” Anything for a snippet of normalcy. Anything to feel like herself. 

Peter didn’t show up to Marco’s Diner anymore. Something Marco himself noticed as well, consequently blaming her for losing a regular, yet for once she didn’t fight him. She didn’t have the energy. Spider-Man still zoomed around New York City, saving people left and right, though traces of Peter Parker faded like smoke in the wind. 

(Despite everything, she hoped his GED exams went well. She knew they were due about now. She wasn’t heartless, though she wished she was sometimes.) 

Ned didn’t see him either. Not at the comic book store, not for a night of building Lego, not for laser tag. She didn’t tell Ned about the why though — that was Peter’s job, not hers — and settled on the idea that Peter probably had enough of them. She hugged him for a long time after that. 

They graduated and her dad cheered and hooted and screamed, “That’s my baby!”, and her picture holding her diploma actually turned out decent. Her mom sent her flowers and a long, sweet email. She’d be closer to her mom once she attended to MIT, so they’d see each other more. Maybe there was something to mend after all these years. She quit her job at Marco’s Diner with a triumphant smile and practically threw her tacky blue shirt in the man’s face. Though she’d use most of the money for college, she put a little aside to travel further east with Ned to Gibson Beach. Tucked in between the ritzy Hampton beaches, it was quiet and cheap and away from everything. They played all the board games he wanted and she read seven books in four days. 

But no books and no college shopping and no art galleries of her dad made her mind stray too far from Peter Parker. It always circled back to him, over and over, like an old cassette on loop. She wondered if that was part of Strange’s curse: remembering nothing and never forgetting at same time. Dad never asked for details, but it seemed like he could spot a broken heart without much prying. Who would bring her favourite soup at MIT when she felt upset? Who would push a book or brush in her hand and urge her to express herself? If only her dad was pocket-sized.

And fuck, she missed him. She missed his stupid, dorky face and perfect voice and smart ideas and wonderously intent gaze. 

(She missed him. She missed his laugh chiming in the diner and she missed his sunkissed face on her roof and his study frame beside her on the couch and she missed the winded discussions over doughnuts and countertops and she missed pouring his medium Americano and she missed quizzing him and she missed teasing him and she missed him teasing her and she missed him watching her watch him and she missed that first kiss and she missed, she missed, she missed. God, she missed every version of him.)   

“Ned,” she sputtered on speaker, holding her phone in front of her mouth, “you know I support you, but maybe try and see your roommate’s perspective? The Death Star takes up a lot of space and a dorm room isn’t that big.”

Her friend scoffed, appalled, and she could imagine him plucking at his MIT hoodie while in a staring match with either the roommate or the Lego. “It is meant to take up space. It’s honourable that way.”

“I know. You know what’s also honourable? Textbooks. Clothes. A life.”

“How are you still able to be rude 200 miles away?”

Michelle smiled. “It’s a talent, I know. And I’ll be able to annoy you even more next week, Leeds.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he mumbled. An unfamiliar voice called his name in the background. “Anyway, MJ, I gotta go. Say hi to your dad, yeah?”

“Will do. Bye, Ned.” She hung up.

The thud of someone landing on her roof was heard.

She didn’t react. She couldn’t react. He didn’t deserve one. If he had the luxury of being unaffected for months as they reacquainted, then she could do so as well. Her gaze stayed fixed on the summery scope of New York as he plopped down beside her and ripped his mask off, brown locks springing free. (His hair still smelled like sandalwood and boy.) 

“I wanted to say goodbye before you left,” he eventually said. He sounded the same.

“I leave in a week.”

“Oh.”   

“I, um, I have a hard time saying goodbye to the city,” she uttered, unsure how much of that statement was true. “To the people.”

A smile cracked on his lips in the periphery of her eye. “You hate the people.”

She shrugged. “Some of them.”

It shouldn’t be this easy to fall back into pleasant conversation with him, not after a summer of radio silence, not with him in his Spider-Man suit as though that was the most normal thing in the world. 

Then his chin swivelled to face her, gaze burning in her profile, and he whispered, “I missed you.”

She sniffed. “Which—”

“—one? Every MJ that exists, I think,” he finished, never this determined. 

Daring to meet his eye, her brows softened their grimace when finding the fond brown of his irises, those that looked her every single second with nothing but respect and admiration and love. Where had he been? Why had he waited until now? 

“What happens now?” she whispered. “Do you know?”

Peter shook his head, but despite that, he looked relieved. “I don’t. And it’s the best thing that’s happened in a while.” A careful grin. “I don’t know.”

Michelle cautiously matched his grin. And then, what had been on her mind since forever — since she realised love surpassed forever — “Do you want to say what you promised me to?”

The boy chuckled, watery and exalted and like he’d been holding his breath, holding the words on his tongue, and could finally let them out. 

“Yeah,” he said, intertwining their hands, “I think it’s time I do.”  

He is asking a question now and no one has
answered it yet. So you lower your eyes from
the plaster and say, The twenty-first, I think,
and he smiles and says, Oh, cool, and you
smile back, and you cannot stop your smiling,
oh, you cannot stop your smile.