Chapter Text
The bench was cold, but Lara Jean couldn’t bring herself to care. It had been two weeks since she moved to New York—two weeks of Manhattan feeling far too big, far too loud, and entirely indifferent to the fact that her heart had been crushed into pieces.
She had finally made it to her dream school, NYU, majoring in English literature just as she’d always pictured. So why did it feel so hollow? The city never slept, yet she had never felt more alone.
Oh right. She had broken up with Peter.
They were supposed to make it work. Almost two years together, dozens of written promises, and a love story that felt built to last—all undone by an uncomfortable silence at an airport terminal. The subtle shift in Peter’s eyes had confirmed every quiet fear in her mind, forcing her to accept the painful truth: they weren't going to survive the distance.
She’d read enough books to know about second chances, and a naive part of her hoped they might reconcile years down the road after growing up. But her heart knew better. In the harsh light of reality, someone like Peter Kavinsky—popular, effortlessly charming, grounded in his own world—was never meant to last with someone like her. Or at least, that was the story she kept telling herself.
Lara Jean had expected New York to feel like a fresh start, a city she’d spent years idealizing through romance novels, fashion magazines, and Pinterest boards. Instead, the romantic haze had dissolved into profound isolation. She fell asleep each night clutching her phone, waiting for a text notification that would never come from the person she shared everything with.
College life wasn't clicking either. She felt like an outsider floating along the edges. Sure, she handed out homemade baked goods and exchanged pleasant small talk with classmates, but no one ever stayed. She spent every evening retreating to her tiny, drafty apartment—a cramped little place her landlord mentioned had previously belonged to some college kid. The radiators clanked uselessly, the windows let in every chill, and the quiet inside was deafening. She was entirely missing out on the vibrant, movie-magic New York she had dreamed of.
There are some instances where she spots the hero wearing red and blue spandex swinging around the neighborhood, as if he’s on patrol. When she first saw the hero with her own eyes, she knew she was definitely in New York, but other than that, it was not what she had in mind.
Her chest felt heavy, suffocated by everything left unsaid. Pulling a pen and a blank sheet of paper from her tote bag, her fingers trembled. She needed to write. It was the only way she knew how to survive her own mind.
“Dear Peter,
I know I shouldn’t be writing this to you, but after almost two years of turning to you for everything, I don’t know who else to talk to. I broke up with you because I realized we couldn’t handle the distance. Back at the airport, your voice sounded different—not your usual confident self. I thought it was just fear, but it was actually doubt, wasn’t it?
You begged me to stay close to home, but I couldn't abandon NYU. It breaks my heart that you couldn't trust us enough to even try. I’m sitting here in Manhattan feeling so small, alone in a cold apartment, wondering how we slipped away so fast.
I keep telling myself I deserve someone who actually believes in us, someone who—"
A sharp, sudden gust of wind yanked the paper clean out of her grip before her pen could even finish the letter.
"Wait—no!" Lara Jean gasped, her heart dropping straight into her stomach as the loose sheet spiraled wildly into the autumn air.
Panic surged through her. She scrambled up from the bench, her tote bag nearly spilling over onto the pavement as she gave chase. She could already picture the absolute horror: someone stepping on her private feelings with dirty sneakers, or worse, picking it up and reading her deep-seated heartbreak out loud in the middle of Washington Square Park.
She tracked the paper as it danced on a breeze, staying just out of reach. She darted past a trash bin, reaching out with both hands, her fingers brushing the corner of the page—only for another violent gust to send it soaring straight up toward the rooftops of the brownstones.
Lara Jean skidded to a halt, panting, watching helplessly as her private letter vanished into the concrete sky.
She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her palms against her burning face, leaning her weight against a lamppost. Her mind raced with catastrophic scenarios. What if it lands on someone's windshield? What if a dog chews it? What if a street performer finds it and turns it into a joke? The sheer embarrassment was enough to make her want to catch the next flight back to Oregon.
She took a slow, heavy breath, trying to pull herself together. It was just a piece of paper. The city was massive; nobody would know who "Lara Jean" or "Peter" was anyway. Wrapping her cardigan tightly around herself, she turned back toward the picnic table to pack up her bag and make a quiet retreat.
"I think this belongs to you."
Lara Jean jumped, her eyes snapping open. Crouched casually on the top of a nearby brick wall was Spider-Man, balancing on his sneakers while holding out the slightly crumpled sheet of paper.
Up close, he didn't feel like a high-flying headline or a figure on a news screen. He was just there—all sharp angles, bright red and blue, and far too close for her current state of emotional ruin. For three whole seconds, Lara Jean forgot how to speak. She blinked, her brain struggling to bridge the gap between 'I am currently wallowing over my ex-boyfriend' and 'Spider-Man is handing me my unfinished letter.'
Her cheeks burned a violent shade of pink.
A million thoughts collided in her head at once. On social media posts, people cheered when Spider-Man showed up. They took photos. They asked if he was okay. But all Lara Jean could focus on was the crisp white paper tucked between his gloved fingers—the exact page where she had just poured out her pathetic, unspooling heart.
She raised an eyebrow, confusion temporarily overriding her mortification. "How... how do you even know that’s mine?"
"You're kind of an open book," he said with a light chuckle, shifting his weight on the wall. The white lenses of his mask narrowed slightly, clearly amused by her wide-eyed, animated expression. "You were the only person in the park looking frazzled like you'd just lost a state secret. But, hey—if it's not yours, my bad."
"No! No, it’s mine," Lara Jean blurted out, stepping forward a little too quickly.
She took the letter back, clutching it tightly against her chest as if shielding her exposed soul from the rest of Manhattan. Relief washed over her, swift and cool, quickly followed by a fresh wave of social awkwardness. She was standing in front of a superhero with puffy eyes, windblown hair, and a tote bag full of unused baked goods.
Manners, Margot’s voice chimed in the back of her head. Always show appreciation.
Without thinking, she began frantically digging through her tote bag, past her pencil case and her heavy copy of Classic Love Poems, until her fingers brushed against a small, neatly tied bag of chocolate chip cookies.
She hands it to Spiderman, who tilts their head in confusion. “What’s that?” he asked.
“A token of appreciation”, Lara Jean smiles. “I’d die of embarrassment if someone else read this. It’s chocolate chip cookies by the way. I just baked it yesterday.”
Spider-Man took the small bag of cookies, his eyes dropping briefly to the handwritten sheet in her hand before looking back up at her.
"Chocolate chip? You really didn't have to," he said, his voice softening slightly under the mask. He paused for a beat, hesitating like he was trying to hold his tongue, but couldn't quite help himself.
"And, hey... I know I shouldn't have skimmed it while I was catching it, but... for what it's worth? This Peter guy sounds like an idiot for not believing in you."
Lara Jean froze, her mouth parting in shock.
Before she could utter a single word, Spider-Man shot a thick line of web toward a neighboring rooftop, tugged himself into the air, and swung out of sight—leaving Lara Jean completely speechless that Spider-Man had not only read her private letter, but took a personal shot at her ex.