Work Text:
Algorithms are a tricky little thing.
Sometimes, it worked well — showing you different posts based on your history of likes and follows.
Sometimes, it didn't.
Today had been a day where the algorithm seemed to lose its sense of logic, as your entire feed looked like it belonged to a teenager who was still stuck in the throes of the past.
Popular Vines from back in the day resurface when you sit down in the late hours of the night after work, lounging on your couch with your legs hanging off the armrest. Giggles tear through the silence of your apartment when you come across a particularly funny one. After five minutes of re-watching the same video, you scroll past it to come across a photo of what looked like a message? Usually, you were the one to not spend a lot of time on such posts in an effort to continue finding hidden gems buried from years ago, but there was just something about it that made you stay.
It was a message addressed to someone named Peter, followed by the text :
'I'm going to show you this site and this post after we get together lol.'
The post belonged to a social media project where people could submit messages of what they wanted to say to someone but couldn't. A form of therapy, really, as the words you wanted to say are out in the world.
The message itself was ordinary, but something irked you about it.
The human brain is the size of two clenched fists placed together. Social media algorithms are based on the biological neural networks intrinsic to the brain. And just like that, something tells you you were the person who was behind this message. Call it a hunch or a sixth sense, something about the post just seemed... You, but you didn't know anyone named Peter, let alone had a crush on one.
Within minutes, you find yourself scrolling backwards in your gallery till you could find the plethora of memories from years ago.
You had always been an over thinker so you were sure that you had taken some evidence if you had submitted anything online.
Among several pictures with your friends at your last prom, you found what you were looking for. There was a slightly blurry picture of the same message on the forum's submission form just before you clicked submit.
Though you were happy that your intuition remained strong throughout the years, it still perplexed you as to how you had no memory of anyone named Peter in your life.
Was your memory really that bad?
You decide only one thing could really answer your questions — your journals. The habit had been ingrained in your brain since you were a child at the age of eight years old after seeing your mother's countless journals depicting her life since she was a teenager. Rushing towards your bedroom, your feet skims against the rug covered floor as you kneel down before your bed. Hovering your hand over the darkness, your fingers finally grip the cardboard edges of a box, dust fluttering in the air as it came to light.
This was your entire life in a box.
It contained several journals, decorated with stickers and labels, spanning from the age of eight to twenty two. After a brief search filled with your throat burning every time you coughed from coming close to the grey fragments, you finally found the journal you had been looking for — eighteen-year-old you's journal.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor, you dust the cover before opening it to the first page.
Dear Diary,
It's my last first day of school ever again. Wohooo!!! No more school, and life is going to be perfect. Cass and I have similar classes, while Steph has only one class in common :( But we will meet during lunch.
I saw him again. He looked so cute today! We have our lockers opposite each other. He has the same classes as Cass and me.
Maybe I will talk to him this time.
xoxo
There was no mention of the boy's name, but you knew it had to be Peter from the earlier evidence. Maybe if you asked your friends, they'd remember the mysterious boy you had a crush on.
"Hey girls, do you remember if I had a crush on someone named Peter in high school?"
The sound of rustling papers drifts across the call, as you could only expect Cass to be working on her grad school applications.
"You did have a crush on someone," Cass emphasizes, her voice sounding softer as if she had kept her phone beside her on the table while the sound of pen against paper returned. "But I don't think his name was Peter."
"Did we even have a Peter in school?" Steph asks, the sound of traffic permeating her voice.
"I don't think so," Cass murmurs.
"Besides, why are we talking about high school?" Stephanie pipes in, her breath laboured from probably running late to work.
"Just looked through some of my old journals."
A brief silence passes, occasionally interrupted by the honks from Steph's background. You were not sure whether what you saw was even true. Perhaps maybe it in fact was someone else. Maybe you did not know a boy named Peter.
"Are you okay?" Cass asks, her voice much louder than before.
"Yeah, I'm good. I just…" You sigh, gripping the edges of your journal. "I just feel like I know this person."
She hums.
"Maybe you should go by our school and ask Mr. Harrington. He'd probably know."
Evening sunlight breezes in through the open window. The curtains ruffle in the air just in time to see flashes of red swing past your apartment.
"Yeah, maybe I should."
Visiting your old high school when you're an adult ignites a sense of dread.
It wasn't that high school had been the worst experience, but it hadn't been kind either.
The walls remain unchanged, notice boards plastered with different yet the same posters. Students breeze through the hallways in groups while some embrace their own presence.
"Mr Harrington."
The man turns, chestnut hair neatly presented without a strand out of place as the similar circular glasses rested on his nose . He hadn't changed much except for a few new grey hairs muffled among the brown and slight permanent creases decorating his forehead.
He repeats your name in surprise before a smile curled on his lips. "What are you doing here, kid?"
"I can't visit my old high school again, Mr Harrington?" you ask, an eyebrow quirked.
"Well, of course not. You are free —"
"I'm joking. How have you been?"
He laughs, the same laugh that you grew up around during several meet-ups as part of being a member of the Academic Decathlon team.
"It's been the same honestly, except the kids — Hey," he replies before turning towards a student fighting with another in the hallway.
"So Mr Harrington, do you remember teaching anyone named Peter in the same class as mine?"
He frowns, his hand pinching at the centre of his glasses as lines formed between his brows.
"Does this Peter have a last name?" He looks at his watch.
"I don't know." You rub the back of your neck, heat crawling over your face.
"I don't remember teaching a Peter, but I can check in with the administrative office and let you know." He tugs his coat before looking at his watch again as his feet move unconscionably. "Nice to see you, kid."
Hours later, you receive a message from Mr Harrington about having found no records of a Peter existing in your class.
Dear Diary,
I spoke to him in the hallway. I was so shy I stuttered when he asked me whether Mr Rogers was coming to class. I'm so embarrassed, but that's okay because we are partners for an upcoming chemistry project!! YAY!!!
We are meeting tomorrow at Blue Token Cafe after school.
I'm nervous.
xoxo
The journal closes with a thud as you lean your head back against the wall. You had so many questions and not one answer to any of them.
Who was Peter? Why couldn't you remember someone from five years ago who clearly impacted you so much? Why was there no record of a Peter in school?
Did you even send the confession?
But you knew you did.
You had proof.
Right now, all you could do was trust yourself and hope you would find the Peter you were so in love with.
The cafe, as the name had suggested, was very Blue.
Blue colored walls paired with light blue chairs and tabletops. It was the same as years ago when you frequented it for coffee.
A high-pitched voice called your name from behind the counter — Ms. Marisol, the owner. She had been kind enough to lend you and many other students free coffee while running on mere pennies for the school year.
"Oh my darling, how have you been?"
"I'm so sorry for not visiting as frequently." You give her a tight hug, her smile lighting up the entire place.
"No worries." She swiftly ushers you to a nearby table. "I know how busy life can get as a young adult. Now, let me get you your favourite coffee and blueberry cheesecake first."
Before you could stop her, Ms. Marisol was already grabbing a coffee cup. A small laugh escapes your lips before you close your eyes, dropping your head down on your hands.
The smell of roasted coffee beans wafts through the air. It makes you ache for a time you wish you could return to. As memories of high school tread past behind your eyelids, a flash of sparkling brown eyes makes you blink.
Those eyes.
So full of life.
You knew them.
The smell of hot coffee and the scent of slight citrus hangs in the air as she brings to you the delicacies.
"So tell me, what have I missed?"
Thirty minutes pass by as you tell her all bout college, your courses and some stuck up professors, finally ending it with your current job. Ms. Marisol's son was now in London, working and engaged to his longtime girlfriend.
"Ms Marisol, do you ever remember a Peter from back then?"
"Peter…Peter…Peter," She repeats, eyebrows scrunched. “No, darling. Did he visit regularly?"
"I….I don't know…" You sigh, rubbing your forehead. "But thank you, Ms. Marisol. I need to get back to work now."
She pats your shoulder, squeezing it slightly with a smile that only ever meant good wishes.
"Don't forget to come to the wedding!"
Dear Diary,
I visited his home and met his aunt,May. She's sooo pretty and kind. And the food was amazing.
Peter's room was messy, but you know the right kind of messy (and nerdy)
We looked at each other at one point, fingers touching.
Does he like me too?
Nah.
After I left his home, there was a huge accident, and Spiderman saved me from being crushed under a car. His voice reminded me of someone.
I hope I see him again.
xoxo
You didn't remember visiting his house or meeting his aunt, but you did remember Spiderman saving you.
It had been your first time meeting the neighborhood's hero. He had swung you that day among crashing debris to a rooftop, miles from the spot.
"Hey, you okay?" Spider-Man asks as he sets you down.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm good," you murmur, holding your head in your hands before a smile breaks out on your face. " That was amazing."
He chuckles, and it reminds you of someone who had uttered the brief sound just hours earlier, but before you could ask anything, he swings across to the next building.
You swear he turns mid-swing.
You wished traffic didn't exist.
It was already close to nine in the morning, and you had missed your regular coffee, which had made you even grumpier than usual. Deciding to take a shortcut that you had never really taken in the past, you run towards your office.
Fifteen minutes from your home, an intersection comes into view — one that you had never really seen before. But something makes you stop.
Delmar's Deli-Grocery
It looked like a regular bodega, but something in you urged you to go in.
The door opens with a clink.
A man in his late fifties stands behind the counter. There aren't a lot of customers as he continues to read the newspaper. You were hungry from not having breakfast; you could use something here, still not sure what had made you visit despite being late. Looking around, you spot a sandwich on the menu.
"Sandwich with pickles, please," you say to the man before the following words slip out like practice, "Can you mush it down real flat? Thank you."
It felt odd, like you were reciting back a suggestion from someone, but you don't remember who it was.
"Reminds me of someone," the man mutters, flicking the newspaper.
Your heart thuds as you ask him, "Yeah, who?"
"I don't remember. But I know he had an Italian Aunt. May something," He pauses, watching you over the borders of the paper, "May... May Parker, I think."
Maybe if you could find aunt May using her last name, you might finally be able to know who this peter was.
Aunt May had passed four years ago.
After a brief amount of research, there was no mention of any relatives of hers. Maybe this was all just a weird, stupid dream you were going to forget about.
Deciding to pay your respects, you buy a bouquet of flowers from the nearby store and take the subway.
The cemetery is pretty empty other than a few people. You look around, trying to find her gravestone, when you see someone already by it.
A man.
Ruffled hair, pale skin, jacket over his hoodie.
But when he turns, you see brown eyes.
The same brown eyes.
"Peter?"