Chapter 1: Awakening
Is it normal to think about dying?
Not in a suicidal way—just… in general. Like, is it weird that death crosses my mind more often than I'd care to admit?
I get that it's not something you're supposed to dwell on, not unless something's wrong. But I'm not spiraling, and I'm not planning anything. It's more of a what if than a when.
What happens after? Does anything happen?
I know how that probably sounds, but no—I'm not religious. Parts of my family are, though… the hardcore kid. Christians who bring up the afterlife like it's a weather forecast. Heaven, hell, angels, fire, and brimstone. Wash, rinse, repeat.
Look, I'm not against believing in a higher power. If it gives someone peace, great. But when a person builds their entire personality around what comes after death, it makes you wonder if they're even paying attention to the life they're actually living.
Then, on the complete opposite end of the spectrum, you've got my alcoholic relatives—the ones who wish they would die. Not because of anything noble or dramatic, but because they've pushed everyone else away and would rather blame the world than take a long, sober look in the mirror.
I get the whole "have a beer after work to relax" thing. I do. But when it turns into double shots of Fireball and screaming threats at your spouse every night—there's gotta be a point where even you realize you're the problem. Right?
Right?
Anyway…
I think about death. More than most people, probably. Not out of fear. Just... curiosity. Is it like a video game where we respawn? Is that why we get déjà vu—leftover save files from a past life? Or is it more like falling asleep—one blink, and then nothing but the dark?
Maybe it's just the way my brain's wired. I've always had an imagination. Since the moment I could hold a pencil, I've been telling stories. It's how I deal—with stress, with life, with everything. Some people meditate. I build worlds.
And maybe, deep down, I always wondered what would happen if I suddenly woke up in one of them.
I didn't grow up like most kids. I was poor, and I was fragile. I don't remember the full name of what I had—juvenile osteo-something. All I know is that I could fall down a single step and break a foot. Not even exaggerating. I was three when it first happened. One stair. Crack. Tiny cast. Congratulations, kid—you're breakable.
So, no sports. No roughhousing. No tag, no football, no wrestling on the trampoline with cousins. I sat on the sidelines with my Game Boy while everyone else played. It's why I fell into stories—video games, books, comic books. Worlds where I could be more than what my bones would let me be.
I was the odd kid. The weird one. Hell, go ahead and call me the quiet kid. It's not like it'd be the first time. I've literally had a false gun threat made against me before. Yeah. That kind of "quiet."
When I hit a growth spurt, my body didn't mess around. Thirty pounds. Every time. Boom—new stretch marks, new t-shirts that didn't fit. I'm not ashamed of my weight, not really, but I do wish I would've moved more as a kid. Maybe it would've softened the bullying. Maybe not. Either way, I would've killed to just walk into a store and find a 2X shirt that fit right.
Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a shirt in my size most days?
I shouldn't have to go to Amazon just to find a damn shirt.
My point is—I spent most of my life leaning away from the world I was in, and burying myself in ones that weren't real. Alternate worlds. Safer worlds. And now I'm twenty-four, and most days I can barely hold a life together outside of work.
I want to write. I want to spend time with my family. But I'm always tired. Doesn't matter if I'm clocked in or on the couch—I never really feel rested.
Mom says I should take a break from my hobbies and just... relax. But it's hard to break old habits, especially the ones that helped keep you sane. Harder still when the thing that exhausts you most is the part you can't walk away from.
Case in point: the drive to work.
I'm crossing the bridge on the interstate, and on paper it all seems simple enough. Just another ten-hour shift. Just another round of dealing with an asshole manager who probably couldn't run a toaster without supervision. Compared to that, going home sounds like a vacation in Bali.
The radio's on, but nothing sounds good. 103.7's blaring country music again, and of course it's that one song. "We're all in the same boat," or whatever the hell it's called. Too chipper. Too fake. I hate every damn second of it.
I flip between 99.7 and 101.3, hoping for something—anything—but it's just more recycled noise. Olivia Rodrigo again. The fifth time this week. I swear the next teenage heartbreak anthem I hear might be the one that breaks me.
Finally, I give up and open Spotify. The second 'Afterlife' by Evanescence kicks in, my brain hits autopilot. Amy Lee's voice drowns the rest of the world out, and for a moment, the weight eases off my shoulders.
The road curves ahead. I lean into it without thinking.
And then the sun disappears—just for a split second—as something massive pulls into the lane ahead.
A semi-truck. Close. Closer than it should be.
I react—foot slamming toward the brake, hands jerking the wheel—but it's like trying to move underwater. I'm too slow. The trailer clips the front of my car, and suddenly I'm not driving anymore—I'm spinning.
The world goes sideways. Colors smear. For a heartbeat, I'm weightless, floating in a tilt-a-whirl of sound and steel.
Then everything hits.
Pain erupts across my chest as the seatbelt tightens like a fist. Tires shriek against asphalt. Metal groans and screams and folds. I'm dimly aware of my own voice, raw and rising in a sound I didn't know I could make.
The car lurches, twists—once, twice—and then something gives.
And then it stops.
I hang there, still strapped in, the world sideways. Blood's in my mouth. The radio's still playing, softly now, as if nothing just happened.
I'm dangling from my seat like a marionette with its strings half-cut.
I can't breathe.
Each inhale feels like trying to pull air through broken glass—sharp, shallow, and wrong. My chest tightens, ribs screaming with every twitch. There's a catch, deep and jagged, like something inside me shifted out of place.
Panic kicks in before logic can. I try again—short breath, sharper pain. Again—worse. My fingers scrabble at the seatbelt like that'll help, like I can claw the pressure off my chest. The strap's digging into my shoulder, holding me like a vise.
Why can't I breathe?
The windshield's a spider web of cracks. Sunlight filters through fractured beams. There's smoke—or maybe steam—rising from somewhere. It smells like metal and engine oil and something burnt.
I think I hear voices. Or maybe it's the ringing in my ears.
Everything's fuzzy. Distant. Like my brain's buffering.
I blink. Once. Twice. But the world stays sideways.
"J-Jonny…" I barely gasp out my brother's name. I promised to take him to a movie this weekend. Another superhero movie that probably wouldn't live up to the hype, but it didn't matter for him. He enjoyed those, and I liked seeing him happy.
I was supposed to take him…
But I can't hear anything now. Not the road. Not the sirens I hope are coming. There's just this high, static hum in my ears, like the world is muting itself.
My hands won't move. My legs feel like they're somewhere else.
And my eyes—God, my eyes—everything's getting dim. Like someone's pulling the curtain down, inch by inch. The light's there, but it's fading, fuzzed at the edges.
It's cold, no… I'm cold.
Shit, am—am I dying?
No, no, no… I don't want to die, not like this.
No matter how much I want to change the fact, the dark was still coming, and I don't know how to stop it.
By the time I see anyone coming down the hill toward me, it's too late. Everything went black.
I should be dead.
That's my first thought—slow and heavy, like my brain's still booting up and fumbling for a keyboard that isn't there. I should be dead. I felt it.
I shouldn't be able to hear anything… but I do.
It's not music, screeching tires, or even screaming. It's… beeping. A steady, rhythmic blip somewhere close by—not frantic or panicked. It's just there, like a metronome refusing to stop, oblivious to the fact that time should have. The sound is practically pounding in my ear drums now, sharp and mechanical—utterly maddening in its steadiness.
I can't open my eyes. It hurts to even try. My eyelids feel like they've been sewn shut with wire, stitched down tight by someone in a hurry, who didn't care about pain.
So, I focus on what I can hear for the moment. There's machinery around me, that's for sure. That damn beeping, the slow, insistent ticking of a clock, and a fluorescent hum buzzing over my head, droning like a fly trapped in a light fixture for days.
None of this makes sense.
I remember the crash. I remember the glass shattering, the seat belt tightening around my ribs like a fist made of steel. The airbag exploding with a deafening thump I felt in my teeth. I remember the sound of my own voice clawing its way out of my throat. I remember not being able to breathe, my chest caving in, my lungs folding like paper. Most of all, I remember everything going dark.
That should have been it.
But this… this isn't the end.
It doesn't feel like the end.
Wherever or whatever this is, it's not dark and certainly not quiet.
I suck in a breath, and my nose wrinkles on instinct. There's chemicals in the air, sharp and synthetic, the kind that cling to your throat. It stings, if I breathe too deep. It's like the aftermath of a deep clean on a Saturday morning.
Everything about it screams sterile, but underneath it… there's something else.
Perfume. Way too much perfume. I recognize it well enough, the kind of overpowering floral cloud that older women weaponize on a daily basis, thick and sweet enough to choke a horse. It cuts through the antiseptic air like it owns the place.
Someone's here.
I force my eyes open. It's slow. They feel crusted over, like I slept for a week with sand packed under my eyelids. The light hits hard—too sharp and white, and for a second, I regret trying to do so. As much as I'd like to close my eyes, the perfume is too much to ignore.
The ceiling, as I blink everything into focus, is covered in plain tiles and flickering fluorescent lights—just like I figured. There's a hairline crack running through the plaster like a half-finished thought, and I can't help but let out a dry, half-laugh. It kind of looks how I feel—barely holding together.
It's only now, really looking around, that it clicks.
I'm in a hospital.
So, I guess I'm not dead. If I am, then the afterlife's got budget issues.
There's movement out of the corner of my eye, just to my left. I barely turn my head and see someone sitting there. Not facing me. Just hunched over, elbows on knees, like they've been camping out for days, waiting.
It's a woman. She's staring down at a table on her lap, eyes flicking between the monitors around me.
I try to speak. My throat fights me on it. Feels like I swallowed a fistful of gravel. I get one sound out—more of a croak than a word.
That's all it takes.
She jerks up, looking at me. Her voice is softer than I expected. She's in her late thirties, maybe? I haven't been good at telling people's ages in a few years—not since twelve year olds suddenly started looking like twenty-four year olds.
"Peter?"
She sounds relieved, but my eyes narrow at the name.
Who the hell is Peter?
I don't say that. I can't. My mouth still isn't playing ball, and my head's spinning too fast to catch up.
She leans in, and I catch a better look. From the white coat, she's definitely a doctor. I've never seen her before, but she's looking at me like she knows me. Poor lady looks wiped. Dark circles, tired eyes, that kind of worry that comes from running on empty. And here I am, taking up her time. Because of course I am. Even lying in a hospital bed, half-dead, I still feel bad for being an inconvenience. I fucking hate being the center of attention.
I shouldn't cuss, it's not like I mean to. It's become a part of who I am, really. Anyway, I don't like the look she's giving me. It's too warm, too familiar.
My chest tightens. I feel my heart begin to race, and sure enough, the monitor beside me starts beeping faster, like it's snitching.
Everything feels wrong, not like a nightmare, or even a dream. It just, it just feels off.
"Wh-who are you?" I ask.
The words scrape out rough, like they had to claw their way up from the bottom of my lungs. My voice doesn't sound right. It's too light, too young.
The woman blinks. Apparently, whatever she expected me to say, it wasn't that.
Her lips part, then press into a thin line like she's choosing her next words with tweezers.
"I'm Dr. Halperin," she says finally. "You're in Queens Medical. Peter, do you remember what happened?"
I open my mouth to answer, but nothing comes out. At least, not at first.
Because yeah, I remember the crash, but Queens Medical? That doesn't make sense… I wasn't even in New York. I was just entering…
Oh god, my head.
My heart's still hammering and the monitor's ratting me out with every beat.
She leans in a little closer.
"Peter… it's okay. You're safe."
There it is again.
Peter.
I swallow hard.
Something's wrong. Really, really wrong.
"C-can I…" I start, then stop. My mouth feels like it's full of cotton and static. "Can I use the bathr—bathroom?"
The words scrape out, brittle and too high-pitched. I sound like I'm trying to sneak out of class, not figure out if I've lost my damn mind.
Dr. Halperin tilts her head, that same sad-eyed concern still plastered across her face like she's trying to keep me calm without showing just how worried she actually is.
"I'm not sure that's a good idea," she says gently. "You've been out of it for a while."
"A while?"
My voice is thinner now. My chest's tightening up like a vise, like someone's pouring cement into my lungs.
"H-how long?"
She hesitates. I catch the flick of her eyes toward the machines—maybe hoping one of them will answer for her. Then she sighs, like the truth tastes bitter in her mouth.
"Three weeks, kiddo."
Suddenly it feels like the crash all over again, unforgiving and heavy.
Three weeks?
That can't be right. That doesn't make any sense.
My head spins again. The hospital room's suddenly colder. Too cold. I glance down at the blanket over me like I just now remembered I have a body. My hands—smaller than they should be. Narrower wrists. Arms that don't feel like mine.
I flex my fingers under the sheet. Slowly. Like I'm checking if they'll obey.
They do. But they still don't look right.
She's watching me now, but not like I'm crazy—more like she's waiting. Like there's some answer I'm supposed to give her. Some reaction she already has a script for.
I don't give it.
Instead, I whisper, "You're sure?"
Her expression softens, but it's not reassuring. It's more like pity dressed in scrubs.
"I wouldn't lie to you, Peter."
I flinch… actually flinch, because there it is again.
Peter.
Whoever that is… it's not me.
I don't mean to move, it just… happens. Somewhere between the buzzing in my ears and the pressure in my chest, my legs twitch under the blanket, and then I'm shifting, swinging one over the edge of the bed like it's the most natural thing in the world—even though nothing about this feels natural.
Dr. Halperin is up in a flash, fast enough to make the chair behind her rattle against the wall.
"Peter—wait. Stop," she says, but I'm not listening. "You shouldn't—"
I don't stop. I can't. I don't even know if my legs will hold me, but I've got to try. I can't just lie here and pretend this is fine. I can't pretend like this is real. I don't know why she's calling me Peter, but I need to move.
The floor tilts the second my foot touches down, like stepping onto a boat that's already sinking. My knees buckle, and everything aches in a way that's somehow deep and shallow at the same time. It's like my muscles have forgotten everything.
She reaches for me, hands gentle but firm, trying not to spook me. Unfortunately, it's not working.
"Hey–hey," she looks into my eyes, bending down enough to block my path. "You've been in a coma. You can't just—"
"I need to," I whisper.
It comes out cracked and desperate. It hurts my throat, but I barely managed to get it out. I don't know if it was loud enough that she heard me.
But I look at her—really look—and hope that something in my face tells her what my voice can't. I'm not trying to be brave, stupid, or dramatic. I just… I can't lay down anymore.
For a second, she just holds my arm.
Then her grip softens. Her lips press into that same thin line from earlier—calculating, weighing something behind her eyes.
"Okay," she says quietly. "We'll go slow."
She doesn't believe I'm ready, and frankly… she's right.
But she's also not stopping me.
I grip the side of the bed like a lifeline, grounding myself as the room spins just enough to make my stomach threaten mutiny. It's like the whole place just took a lazy tilt to the left, and my insides weren't invited to brace for it.
But I breathe through it—short, shaky pulls of air—jaw clenched, blinking hard to clear the static fuzzing around the edges of my vision.
My hand finds hers—Dr. Halperin's—mostly for balance, partly because letting go of anything feels like a bad idea right now. She tenses under my grip, probably worried I'll eat pavement right here in front of her, but she doesn't pull away.
I reach out with my other hand and grab onto the IV cart I'm still tethered to. The whole thing wobbles under my weight with a nervous squeak. Tubes tug gently at my arm like they're not used to this kind of rebellion, like they'd rather I just laid down and behaved.
Not today. One step, that's all I need.
I just need one step to prove that I'm not dreaming, or if I am… it's the kind of dream that wakes you up when you fall.
I shift my foot forward. The tile's cold under my toes, real in a way nothing else has been since I woke up. My knees shake like they're made of wet cardboard, but I don't drop. Not yet. Not when I'm this close.
Dr. Halperin is right there, her free hand hovering near my back, ready to catch me—or drag me back if I go down.
But I don't go down.
Not yet.
Just one step.
It lands shakily, but solid enough that I'm okay with it. I want to laugh, because it feels and looks like a newborn deer who swears they've got it under control. My legs feel like they're running on thirty-second delays—every muscle answering late, like they forgot the assignment.
Dr. Halperin moves in closer. She doesn't say anything—just slips her arm under mine and takes some of the weight like this is something she's done before. Like she knows better than to argue with someone dangling off the edge of what the hell is happening. I don't thank her. I don't have the breath for it. But I don't shake her off either. Fair trade.
We shuffle forward together, her leading the way like a chaperone for someone who forgot how to human. The IV cart stutters beside me, plastic wheels clicking over the tile in nervous little bursts, like it knows it's not supposed to be part of this trip.
My head feels like it's underwater now. Every step makes the pressure tighten—like there's a balloon inflating behind my eyes and it's just itching to pop. The hallway tilts. I blink, trying to get my bearings, but the walls feel farther away than they should be.
There's pain—but it's not from moving. It's not in my ribs or my limbs or even from the tight pull of the IV. No, it's that heavy, sleep-deprived, bone-deep ache I get when everything's too loud and too bright and my brain's starting to sound like radio static in a fish tank.
Don't tell me I'm getting a migraine.
Seriously.
That's the last damn thing I need.
I grip tighter onto the IV pole, white-knuckled, like that's going to do anything but make my joints pop. I'm breathing through my teeth now—trying to make it slow, trying to notlet her know just how close I am to going limp in her arms.
"You're doing okay," she murmurs. She's trying to be reassuring, but it's just one more thing for my brain to process, and right now that feels like asking a busted computer to run Photoshop on dial-up.
I don't respond. I can't.
But my feet keep moving. Somehow.
We make it to the bathroom, and she pushes the door open with her hip, guiding me inside like I'm some glass figurine she's terrified of dropping. The tiles in here are somehow colder than the hallway, and the lighting? Too damn white. Everything's buzzing, humming, pressing in like the walls are one inch too close to my shoulders.
I stop just inside, gripping the sink to keep from slumping down the wall.
"I'll be right outside," she says softly, letting go of my arm.
I nod. Maybe. Or at least I think I do.
The door clicks shut behind her, and for the first time since I woke up, I'm alone.
Sort of.
The second the door clicks shut, I grip the sink like it's gonna anchor me to something real. Cold porcelain, metal edges, the faint stink of disinfectant and too many panicked hands—it all comes rushing in, too fast and too sharp.
I finally look down at myself. Really look.
My arms are… slender. That's the only word I can think of.
My hands are thinner. Fingers a little longer than I remember.
My sight's still fuzzy, like I've got sleep stuck in the corners of my eyes. I blink a few times, hard, trying to will it away. Nothing clears.
I'm hallucinating. I have to be.
Three weeks in a hospital bed and my arms got this skinny? No. That's not how this works. That's not how anyof this works.
My heart's beating faster now. I feel it, thumping hard against my ribs like it's looking for an exit. I glance down again—and that's when it really starts to hit me.
The hospital gown? It's hanging on me like it was made for someone else. Someone smaller.
There's no looseness, no sag like my body's trying to catch up from weight loss. It's just gone. The softness I carried around like a second skin? Gone. No stretch marks folding in on themselves. No leftover proof of three hundred pounds.
And my legs. Jesus. My legs are the kind of skinny I used to give Griffin shit for. Even on leg day, the man had NBA player legs—wiry and unfairly functional. There was a reason I called him 'chicken legs' after all.
My legs are shaking, but no longer from fatigue. It's panic now… pure adrenaline.
I look down at the little plastic ID bracelet, somehow knowing what I'm going to see. Despite the fact I know, my stomach still clenches like a fist as I read it:
Parker, Peter B.
Wh-what the hell?
No. No, no, no. That's not my name.
I whip my head up toward the mirror, and just like that—my heart drops out of my throat and swan dives into my stomach, taking every last ounce of oxygen with it.
It's not my face staring back.
The reflection blinking at me looks like he just stepped out of a movie trailer.
Brown hair, tousled and messy but somehow looks good. Big eyes. High cheekbones. A jawline that could make razors jealous.
Holy shit.
It's like I'm looking at Andrew Garfield's face. No, wait… it's not exactly him, it's like I'm looking at a comic book come to life
This can't be real. I'm… I'm in Spider-Man's body. Not as a cosplay, not as a fan film, or even a dream… because I know when I'm dreaming.
I am literally standing in the bathroom of a real-life hospital inside the goddamn body of Peter freaking Parker.
I grab the sink harder. My fingers dig into the ceramic like maybe I can squeeze sanity out of it if I just hold tight enough. I don't know if I'm about to pass out or scream or laugh until I puke all over the tile.
Then it creeps in, the darkness.
I blink hard. Once. Twice. I shake my head, hoping it'll help. It doesn't. The buzzing's back too—high-pitched and buried somewhere deep in my ears, like tinnitus from a concert I don't remember going to.
"C'mon," I whisper to myself, like I've got any say in the matter.
I brace my weight harder into the sink. Try to breathe. But my chest's too tight, and the room won't stop gently tilting like I'm on a ferry and the sea hates me.
I squeeze my eyes shut and open them again, willing the blur to sharpen, but the mirror's already swimming.
My knees buckle, and my hands slip. Whatever grip I had on the sink is gone. The last thing I feel is the floor rushing up to meet me.
Chapter 2: Welcome to the New World
When I finally come to, I'm back in the hospital bed—but this time, the world isn't spinning like a roulette wheel. My head still feels like it's swimming, but at least I feel like I have a life vest on. I have to double-check the wristband again, just to make sure I'm not dreaming. It still says Peter Parker on the tag.
It wasn't a dream. I'm really in the body of my favorite superhero. I've dreamt about being Spider-Man so many nights, but I never thought I'd wake up as him one day. My thoughts are clearer, and accepting this reality feels possible now, even if I don't want to. For all the times I joked about trading lives, I was actually good with mine. Flawed? Yeah. But it was mine. I was tired, occasionally got angry, but that's just par for the course.
This… this body, being so light in comparison to the ME I'm used to, it's weird. I don't even know how to describe it other than I feel weightless. I move easier. I can actually lie on my back without my spine yelling at me. That alone is throwing me. In school, I used to hunch over my desk like a turtle, like maybe shrinking myself would make me disappear. All that did was give me a hunchback and extra back problems. I'd almost gotten that sorted out by the time I hit twenty-four, but this is surreal. No pain, no knots… nothing.
Yes, I feel stiff, but I imagine anyone would after what, a three week coma? That's what Dr…. ugh, what's her name? Halperin? That sounds right. Dr. Halperin said I was out for three weeks, or rather Peter was.
My left hand was bandaged, and based on what I knew about Spider-Man meant only one thing…
The spider bite…
It happened.
And that's the weirdest part. I've seen every version of Peter getting his powers—movies, comics, fan art, you name it.
Sometimes he passes out overnight and wakes up shredded. Sometimes it hits instantly, like flipping a switch. Sometimes it creeps in over a couple days. But a three-week coma? That's new.
And now a darker thought creeps in. One I really don't want to think about.
What if this isn't regular Spider-Man? What if this is one of the horror versions? You know the ones—Peter starts off fine, but the powers warp him. Turn him into something monstrous…
Man-Spider.
In the version of that scenario I've seen, he kills Aunt May and Uncle Ben.
Please tell me that's not where this is going.
Please.
I could spiral into the infinite ways this could go bad, since that's one of the few things I can do while confined to a hospital bed. I don't think I've had a good experience in hospitals. I doubt anyone really has, unless there was a birth involved.
Because of how fragile I was as a kid, I was in and out of the ER more than I'd care to admit. Broken foot, ankle, wrist… ankle again… it was a vicious cycle that lasted up until I was about fourteen.
I even wrinkled a bone in my wrist once. Yeah—wrinkled. The doctor looked at the x-ray and said I'd basically turned the bone into an accordion. Still not sure how that's medically possible, but given my track record, it felt on-brand.
My bones were basically Play-Doh with a grudge.
Only difference? Play-Doh doesn't scream when you move it.
On top of that, I lost my grandma to lung cancer the day before my ninth birthday.
There's nothing to make light of there.
When you watch someone fade away in real time—tubes down her throat just so she can eat, no strength left to even write you a note—it changes something in you.
She couldn't talk. She couldn't even smile near the end.
And when you're that young, you don't fully understand what's happening. But you feel it. You feel the silence. The helplessness. The way grief swallows the room before anyone even says the word.
I was a lot more aware than other kids my age. Because of the fact that I couldn't be as physically active as everyone else could, I absorbed whatever media I could get my hands on. Death came up a lot, even at that age. I'd lost a couple of dogs before, so I knew what it was like to lose someone you cared about. Despite what anyone might say, they were family.
Losing Grandma, though? It hit different.
I don't remember her voice, and that haunts me every day. There's not a day I didn't want her back. When she was there, things were easier. Not financially—we still struggled—but emotionally? She made the hard stuff feel survivable. Nothing seemed impossible when she was there.
So, maybe that's why I hate hospitals. Because the last memory I have of my grandma is her fading away in one.
Self-wallowing won't do any good, though. I need to figure things out. If I really am in some version of the Marvel Universe, then please—please—let it be one with all the players on the field.
I don't want to be stuck in one of those Sony-brand hellscapes where Spidey's the only guy in tights and the biggest threat is a goo monster with emotional issues.
Give me Avengers. Give me X-Men. Give me options.
Because if I'm in a real Marvel world…
Maybe—maybe—there's a way back.
If I'm not officially dead, maybe I can find some universe-hopping wizard, tech genius, or multiversal GPS to get me home.
Even if I can't go back… I just want to make sure everyone is okay.
It's weird to think that, for once, those impossible escapes from reality—those comic book "what ifs" and multiverse plot twists—might actually be possible.
I used to read those stories to escape the feeling of being stuck. Now I'm in one, and somehow, I still feel it. I still feel stuck, though now it's between two worlds. It honestly feels like a dream I can't wake from. I should be terrified, worried, or even possibly just a tad bit cautious about this. Right now, though… despite all the darker possibilities running through my head, I'm in a world of superheroes. Superpowers are real… and if I really am Peter Parker now, then I should be getting powers of my own.
It's wishful thinking, but if I don't try to think about the possibility of going home right now, I might just lose it.
By the time I finally come out of my thoughts, Dr. Halperin is back and knocking on the door. I feel bad for making her help me to the bathroom. I shouldn't have been up so quickly, not right after coming out of a coma.
New body or not, it was a bad decision on my part. I'm just glad I'm a lot lighter than I used to be, because I can't imagine she would have been able to help by herself if it'd been my original body.
She's got two people with her. An older man with salt and peppered hair— Uncle Ben I assume—and an older woman with faded reddish-brown hair wearing glasses— Aunt May.
That's going to be weird to get used to, but it's not like I've got much of a choice in the matter. They're Peter's relatives, or I guess they're now mine. It's going to be weird, calling them Uncle Ben and Aunt May. Weirder still, thinking of them as family.
This isn't a game. I can't just treat them like NPCs in a well-scripted cutscene. They've got lives, emotions, and a history of their own. I can't just pull up a codex and see their biographies.
They look tired. I recognize the look well enough. It's the kind of the tired where sleep doesn't help, because it's not a physical thing. They're emotionally drained.
"Hey Peter," Dr. Halperin smiles softly, stepping aside so I can properly see them. "Your aunt and uncle are here."
Uncle Ben gives a cautious smile, walking around to my right. He places a hand on my shoulder, squeezing softly. Even through the hospital gown fabric, I can feel the callous on his hand as it wraps around my shoulder. Despite the fact I know this is someone else, I can't help but see my grandfather in him. I've always seen my grandpa in Ben.
"You gave us quite the scare, Pete." Ben says, and despite the fact he's trying to put on a brave face, I can hear the shake in his voice. This terrified him…
From the moment I watched the first Spider-Man with Tobey Maguire, Uncle Ben always reminded me of my grandpa. He played a similar role to my grandpa… I didn't have my dad around. I was lucky that he was even there for my conception, but beyond that… the closest thing I had to a dad was my grandpa. For Peter, Ben acted as his father figure.
Despite the fact this wasn't my grandpa, I can't lie and say that I didn't feel a bit better with Ben here. It made it a little easier for me to pretend that everything was okay.
"I-I'm sorry," I croak out, my voice straining as I try to answer. It's an awful combination of cottonmouth and this scratchy, burning sensation that even bothers me when I try to swallow. "I didn't mean to sc-scare you."
Ben's hand gives my shoulder one more reassuring squeeze before pulling back. There's something quiet about the way he moves—like he doesn't want to risk startling me, or worse, hurting me.
It's the way you approach someone fragile.
"I know you didn't, kiddo," he says, smile softening just a little. "But when the hospital calls and says your nephew collapsed during a school trip… and he doesn't wake up for weeks, it comes with the territory."
Aunt May steps forward next. She doesn't say anything at first. She just looks at me, like she's trying to memorize every line of my face before I can disappear again. Her eyes are puffy, like she's cried more than once recently, and her lips tremble just a bit before she bites them together.
I'm so busy taking in her appearance that I didn't realize she was leaning down to hug me.
It's awkward with the wires and the IV in my hand and the god-awful stiffness in my back, but I don't move. I just let her hug me, because something about the way she was holding me—tight, but cautiously as though I might crack—hit me way harder than I expected.
Her voice is muffled in my shoulder, but I can hear her clearly.
"Don't ever do that again, Peter. Please."
I don't know what to say.
I'm not him, but… I am.
So I do the only thing I can: I hug her back.
It's a shaky gesture. Weak. But it's enough.
"I'll try," I whisper, because anything more would be a lie.
May pulls back slowly, brushing at her eyes like she's blaming the hospital lights for the tears. She forces a small laugh, and it's brittle around the edges.
"You must be starving. Dr. Halperin said you might be able to start on solid food today. Should I run and grab you something? Or do you still hate hospital pudding?"
The question catches me off-guard.
Does Peter hate hospital pudding? What if I say the wrong thing?
I stall with a smile.
"I think I could eat just about anything right now. Even the pudding."
She laughs again—genuinely this time, though still fragile.
"Well, we'll take that as a sign you're on the mend."
Ben chuckles too, but I catch that flicker in his eyes again. The worry hasn't left, and I don't think it will for a long time.
I nod, playing along like I'm just another kid trying to reassure his family. Inside though, I'm spinning. If I'm going to stay in this world… if I'm going to be Peter now… I have to do more than remember my own past.
I'm going to have to learn his.
Dr. Halperin checks her tablet again but doesn't interrupt, giving us a moment. Her eyes flick from me to May, then to Ben, like she's silently measuring something less clinical than vitals—grief levels, maybe. Shock. Emotional strain.
"Well," she finally says, "if you're up for food, we'll start slow. Pudding first, then real solids if that sits okay. I'll go put in the request."
May looks like she's about to offer to grab something from the cafeteria anyway, but Ben gently tugs at her sleeve.
"Let them do their job, hon. Why don't we take a second to breathe?"
May hesitates, then nods, pressing her lips into a tight line. She brushes her fingers through my hair—just a little—before turning toward the door with Dr. Halperin.
And just like that, it's just me and Ben.
The silence stretches for a beat. It's not uncomfortable, exactly. Just… heavy.
Ben stays by my side, but his hand drifts from my shoulder to the rail of the hospital bed. He runs his thumb along it, absentmindedly. Like he needs to keep touching something—maybe just to prove to both of us that I'm still here.
"How are you feeling?" he asks after a moment, voice low but steady.
"Tired." I reply, managing a dry chuckle that sounds more like sandpaper on cement. "I k-know I shouldn't, but…"
I trail off, because honestly? I don't even know how to finish that sentence. I shouldn't feel tired after three weeks of unconsciousness? I shouldn't still feel like a stranger in this skin? I shouldn't be here?
I bite back the spiral, because it doesn't matter. I can't say any of that out loud without sounding insane.
From Peter's perspective, he's been asleep for weeks. But from mine? It feels like I just got here. Like I blinked and the world changed—like dying hit pause on my life and someone else's hit play.
And yet… all things considered, I feel good for a dead man. Not great advertising for reincarnation, but hey—no flaming pits of torment, so I'll take that as a win.
"It's to be expected." Ben says with that calm reassurance that he seems to carry in his back pocket. Even as he offers the words, I can tell he doesn't believe them, not fully. "Lord knows hospitals'll do that to you."
He smiles, soft and crooked, like he's trying to sell the idea that all of this is just a really bad nap in a really uncomfortable bed. I almost want to believe him. It's easier than trying to unpack the existential hell I've fallen into.
I look at him—really look at him—and see the lines around his eyes, the gray creeping into his beard, the tired kindness he wears like armor. I remember this version of Uncle Ben. From movies. Comics. Stories. But this one's different, somehow. Realer. He breathes. He worries. His hand's still resting on the bed rail like it might anchor both of us.
"I'm glad you're okay," he says quietly, like he's afraid to jinx it.
And I almost tell him the truth—that I'm not okay, not really. That I don't even know what "okay" means anymore. But instead, I just nod. Because sometimes, pretending is all you've got.
And right now? I need the pretend to hold a little longer.
"Me too," I chuff lowly, unsure whether he can hear me.
When May and Dr. Halperin returned with the pudding, I learned something very quickly. I don't like hospital pudding.
In fact, I might fucking hate it.
The first spoonful hits my tongue with all the appeal of chalk paste pretending to be chocolate. There's this weird, slimy texture that clings to my mouth like it's trying to stake a claim, and the taste? Somehow both bland and bitter, like someone tried to simulate flavor using only despair and expired cocoa powder.
But I already committed. So, I swallow it.
Barely.
My face twists immediately. Eyebrows pulling together, nose scrunching like I just licked a tire iron, and my jaw sort of seizes like it's staging a protest. I look like someone just told me Jar Jar Binks is canonically a Sith Lord and I have to accept it.
May doesn't say anything at first. Just watches. Her lips twitch. Then she lets out this breathy little laugh—not quite surprised, not quite smug. Just quietly delighted.
"So… I'm taking that as a no?"
I blink at her, still trying to scrape the taste out of my mouth with nothing but willpower and betrayal.
"It tastes like sadness," I croak, reaching for the little plastic cup of water like it's holy. "Was this supposed to be chocolate? Because I think chocolate should sue."
I haven't been this disturbed since I drank that one "space" flavored Coca-Cola. I shiver at the memory, but the worst part is I can't decide which tasted worse.
May grins, trying—and failing—to look sympathetic.
"I'm sorry," she giggles, and I don't hide my displeasure.
Dr. Halperin hides a smile behind her tablet, clearly enjoying the show.
"You're not the first patient to say that. Unfortunately, the pudding stays until we're sure your stomach can handle more than IV fluids and sarcasm."
"I'd rather eat the sarcasm," I mutter, swishing the water around like it might exorcise the taste.
Ben chuckles softly from his corner.
"He hasn't lost his sense of humor."
May pats my arm gently, trying not to laugh harder.
"Alright, smartmouth. I'll see what I can do about sneaking in something edible."
"If you smuggle in a Cherry Pop-Tart, I'll love you forever," I say without hesitation.
May raises an eyebrow like she's filing that away.
"Noted."
I lean back against the pillow, relieved the taste is fading and hoping I won't end up dying again from the pudding. I swear, if this is how Peter went out, I'm gonna be pissed.
I need to get a decent meal in me. Something real. Something with weight and grease and seasoning that doesn't taste like it was filtered through medical-grade regret. I'm a fat kid at heart. Always have been. I don't care what this new body looks like—I can feel the craving in my soul. I need a good, home-cooked meal. Or hell, just a halfway decent burger. Something sloppy. Messy. Dripping with cheese and bad decisions.
Maybe it's the stress. Maybe it's the trauma. Or maybe dying really does reset your metabolism. But right now? Right now, I'd punch God in the throat for a Five Guys double with bacon and Cajun fries.
Dr. Halperin's still tapping something into her tablet, probably noting that I'm lucid enough to complain but not lucid enough to avoid swearing at pudding. "We'll keep it light for now," she says. "Maybe broth later, and if that sits okay, we'll try something more substantial tomorrow."
Broth.
Because nothing says "welcome back to life" like hot, salty water pretending it used to be food.
I close my eyes, breathing out through my nose, trying not to get cranky about it. I know they're just doing their jobs. But it's hard to focus on recovery when your taste buds are filing a class-action lawsuit.
Still, May's watching me with that warm, tired smile that moms have when they're trying to be strong for you, and Ben hasn't moved from his spot—still resting a hand on the rail like he's afraid if he lets go, I'll vanish.
So I bite back the snark. Just for a second. I give them the smile they need to see.
Even if all I'm thinking is: Please, someone get me a burger before I lose my damn mind.
"Peter, I'd like to ask you some questions." Dr. Halperin says, breaking me out of my thoughts. May and Ben take seats, their expressions changing to something more serious.
Dr. Halperin says it like she's asking if I've got a minute to talk about my car's extended warranty—calm, rehearsed, but not entirely without compassion. It's the tone doctors use when they're about to gently unpack the part where your life stopped making sense.
May straightens in her chair. Ben shifts forward, fingers lacing together between his knees. Both of them suddenly look like they're bracing for turbulence.
I nod slowly, propping myself up a little higher against the pillows, the cheap plastic rustling like it's protesting the movement.
"Shoot."
Dr. Halperin glances at her tablet, then looks me in the eye.
"What's your name?"
I almost say my real name, but catch myself at the last second. This is going to be a problem, I can already tell.
"Peter… Peter Parker."
"What's your middle name?"
"Benjamin." I say, looking at Ben.
"Good," Dr. Halperin smiles. "How old are you?"
I hadn't considered that to be honest. If it was like most of Spidey's origins, I'd probably be fourteen, fifteen at most. My voice is light enough that I'm willing to bet fourteen.
"F-fourteen?" I ask, the hesitation in my voice more apparent than I intended. Doc looks at me with a raised brow, scanning over me as though I gave the wrong answer. My heart's pounding in my ears as she glares at me. Hell, I half expect to catch on fire based off of how warm my face just became.
"Where do you live?" she continues, not telling me whether I was right or wrong. That's concerning…
"Queens."
That's easy enough to know… especially since she told me that I'm in Queens Medical.
Dr. Halperin nods, jotting something down with a practiced flick of her stylus. The tap-tap against the tablet screen feels way too official for a question that simple. My palms are sweating again.
Ben shifts beside the bed like he wants to say something, but doesn't. May's watching me like I might float away if she blinks too long.
"What's your street address?"
My heart drops into my stomach… FUCK. I don't know Peter's home address.
I freeze.
"What's your street address?" Dr. Halperin repeats, like it's just another checkbox on her clipboard and not the exact question that could blow everything up.
My brain goes into full DEFCON 1 panic. C'mon, man, THINK. You've read Spider-Man comics since you were a kid. You've seen the movies. The cartoons. The memes. Just remember—what street does Aunt May live on? Come on, come on, COME ON—
Nothing.
Blank slate.
The only address floating to the top of my brain is my old one. The one with the bad paint job and the creaky AC unit that sounded like a dying goat every summer.
My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth.
"Uh…"
I can't lie… there's no easy way out of this. Shit… here goes nothing.
"I'm sorry, I don't remember."
"Peter?" May asks, her voice swimming with worry.
"That's okay, how about this… what's your phone number?"
has officially stopped responding.
My face probably looks like someone just asked me to recite the periodic table backwards in Swahili. My brain is spinning its wheels in wet cement, and Dr. Halperin is just watching. Calm. Collected. Ruthless.
She asks again, gentle but unwavering. "Your phone number?"
May leans forward a little, her hand brushing my arm. "Sweetheart, it's okay. Just try."
I want to scream. Not because she's being pushy—she isn't. But because I can't. I have no idea what Peter Parker's phone number is. I never needed to know. What kind of nerd memorizes the fictional cell number of a comic book character?
Okay, actually, probably a few of my friends. But not me.
"I—I don't remember that either," I mutter, and this time, I don't even bother trying to fake a headache. I just look at the ceiling like it might give me divine intervention and a data plan.
Dr. Halperin nods slowly, jotting something down again. That stylus sounds louder than it should. Every tap feels like a judgment.
"Memory loss is common in trauma cases," she says calmly, but her eyes flick toward May and Ben like she's already doing mental calculus. "Especially with a head injury. We'll run some additional scans, just to be safe."
May's face crumples slightly. Not panicked—just worried. That quiet, aching sort of worry that moms wear when they're trying to be a wall but feel like a window.
Ben rubs the back of his neck. "He's been through hell, Doc. Isn't this kind of thing… normal?"
"It can be," Dr. Halperin says. She offers a smile, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "But the inconsistencies are something I want to keep an eye on."
My stomach twists. Inconsistencies. That's a word that sounds way too close to liar for comfort.
She rises from her seat.
"I'm going to give you a little more time to rest. We'll talk again soon."
She walks out, her steps annoyingly soft.
May doesn't say anything right away. Neither does Ben. The silence stretches long enough that I feel like I need to say something before the air pressure in the room crushes me.
"Sorry," I mumble.
May shakes her head gently. "You don't need to be sorry for being hurt."
I nod like that makes sense, but it doesn't. Because I'm not just hurt. I'm an intruder in Peter Parker's life, trying to wear it like a hand-me-down hoodie that's two sizes too tight and smells like someone else's detergent.
Ben finally speaks, voice low.
"We'll figure it out, kiddo. Just rest for now."
I let my head fall back against the pillow and try not to pass out from stress. But, there's one thing I have to know, even if it makes them more uncomfortable.
"Hey May…" I call her name, her eyes meeting mine. "Was I right? Am I fourteen?"
She laughs so softly that it's barely noticeable.
"Yes, dear… you were right."
"Sweet," I chuckle. "I'm disappointed in myself, though… fifty percent on a test?"
Ben pats my shoulder, and I close my eyes, the dark taking me once more.
The next time I come to, the light slanting through the blinds looks different—sharper, more golden. Afternoon, maybe. My body feels a little less like it's been scraped off a New York sidewalk and a little more like… well, like I might survive this mess.
That illusion dies the second Dr. Halperin walks back in with a clipboard and a face that says she's about to serve up another helping of bad news.
More scans. More questions. A memory test where I forget which president is current and answer with Obama.
Spoiler: It wasn't Obama.
By the time she wraps it up, I feel like someone's shaken my brain like a Magic 8-Ball and the only thing floating to the top is try again later.
Dr. Halperin sits down beside my bed.
"Peter… based on the results, I believe you're suffering from retrograde amnesia. That means your brain is having trouble accessing memories from before the accident."
"Great," I mutter, "so I've got Swiss cheese for a brain."
Ben, sitting nearby with a book he hasn't turned a page in for the last twenty minutes, leans forward. "How long does that kind of thing last?"
"It varies," she says gently. "Some patients regain everything within days. For others, it's a slower process. Sometimes memories return in pieces. Other times… not at all."
May's gone still again. She's got that same statue-stillness she had earlier, the one where you know she's screaming inside but refuses to let it show on her face.
Dr. Halperin offers a reassuring smile, but I can see the caution in it. She's hopeful, not confident.
"I'll monitor you closely. For now, just focus on healing. Stress won't help your memory, but rest might."
"So… until further notice, I'm just a soft-reboot Peter Parker." I try for a joke, because what else do you do when someone tells you your brain's rolled a natural one?
May finally lets out a breath, like she'd been holding it for hours.
"You're still you, sweetheart."
"Let's just focus on the bright side. You remember your name, your town, and your age. You recognize your aunt and uncle… that's a good sign."
Dr. Halperin stands.
"I'll let the two of you stay a bit longer. Just don't wear him out too much."
As she leaves, I exhale and stare up at the ceiling tiles like they might hold the answers. They don't give me any. All they provide is dust, fluorescent buzz, and the faint feeling I'm in the worst game of charades ever, and the clue is my entire life.
Still, as weird as it sounds, this retrograde amnesia thing might be the best-case scenario. Well, not for them, obviously. May looks like she's aged a decade in a day, and Ben's pretending that book's got more going on than a blank journal. For me, it works in my favor.
If they think the scrambled mess in my head is just trauma? Then every time I screw up a memory, hesitate on a name, don't know Peter's locker combo or favorite cereal—it all gets swept under the rug. I don't need to pretend to be Peter, I just have to try and remember all the versions of him I grew up with.
I mean, yeah… I am Peter, but I'm also not. I don't need to match his walk, his talk, or nerdy charm like it's some high-stakes impression contest. There's no pressure to suddenly become Midtown High's golden science boy overnight. I get to be a kid with a blank slate.
Which—if I'm being honest—is still better than waking up in a ditch, or y'know… dead.
I let my eyes drift back toward May and Ben. She's smoothing the wrinkles out of her purse strap like she's trying to iron out the chaos. Ben's watching me with this quiet, grounding calm, like he's ready to catch me if I fall again.
They're strangers, technically. But they don't look at me like one. They look at me like they'd carry the weight of the whole damn city if it meant I'd be okay.
So yeah, I might not remember Peter's street address or favorite pizza toppings. But I know this much already: I'm not alone.
The dreams don't come all at once. They drift in like fog—soft and shapeless, full of voices I should know but can't quite place. There's warmth there. Laughter. The scent of something homemade wafting through a kitchen I'll never see again. But when I wake up, it's gone. And in its place is that hollowness. That quiet ache in my chest like someone pressed a thumb into my sternum and never took it away.
I sit up slowly. The room is quiet—too quiet—and empty. May and Ben are gone, probably grabbing coffee or trying not to hover too much. Good. I need a minute to myself.
My eyes land on the bandage wrapped around my left hand. It doesn't itch, but I need to see what the damage is. If this really was from the spider bite, then I want, no, need to see it for myself. It feels like this is somehow going to make it all real for me, but even I know that's not how that works.
It's not going to be a situation where I see a blotchy red spot on my hand, and all my problems are going to get solved. It'd just be nice to know what the hell to expect. Halperin would probably chastise me for removing the bandages, but I don't really care.
Once I get it removed, I pause. I don't know what I was really expecting. Three weeks is plenty of time for a spider bite to disappear, especially a genetically altered spider that grants super powers.
There's nothing dramatic beneath it. No glowing veins or alien mandibles sprouting from my palm. It's just skin—smooth, clean, maybe a little pale, but it's skin. There's a faint, barely-there mark, like a freckle that lost its way. There's nothing else there.
"...Huh," I click my tongue.
Three weeks. That's what she said. That's plenty of time for bruises and a spider bite to vanish.
Despite that, my gut doesn't buy it.
Do I even have powers? Peter should've felt them in the first few days. The wall-crawling, the strength, the danger-sense. That was the lore. But if that's true, then where the hell does that leave me? What if I'm just… some guy in Peter's skin, minus the package deal?
And more importantly—why the hell am I worrying about that now?
I'm still in a hospital bed. Still in someone else's life. Whether or not I can stick to walls or bench-press a Buick doesn't matter if I can't even walk out the front door yet.
I sigh, shake my head, and start wrapping the hand again. This time it's looser, uneven—definitely not up to medical standards. But unless someone's grading my gauze technique, it'll do.
I lean back into the pillows, closing my eyes, trying to let go of the weight in my chest.
I didn't sleep well in my old life, and even if it's just one time, I'd like to have a good night's sleep.
It takes a few more days before they finally clear me for release, and I honestly can't tell if that's good news or just the universe flipping a coin and shrugging. You'd think I'd be excited—getting out of the hospital, moving forward, being able to see something other than bland walls and over-enthusiastic motivational posters. But instead, there's this weird pit in my stomach, like I'm stepping off the edge of something I can't see the bottom of.
The hospital bed sucked—too firm, too sterile, like it was designed to punish spines—but it gave me this illusion that I was just visiting someone else's life. That I could just wake up, watch the story unfold, and pretend I was behind the glass instead of in the frame. Just some weird little interactive drama where I could poke the glass and watch the plot thicken.
But now? Now I'm being fitted back into Peter Parker's life like a replacement bulb. Slipping into a loose gray sweatshirt that still smells faintly of a detergent I don't remember buying, followed by a polo shirt that's seen better, brighter days—probably back when mall kiosks were still selling "Keep Calm" merch unironically. May insisted I stay warm. She kept handing me layers like I was made of glass and this walk to the car was the Iditarod. I didn't argue. Partly because I'm not dumb, and partly because I think it comforts her to fuss.
And honestly… I'm not sure what's worse: pretending to be Peter, or the fact that pretending's starting to feel like less of a stretch.
I could joke. I want to joke. Say it's all just a bad dream. That I'll wake up any second and find out I'm still in my apartment, still behind on bills, still arguing with my reflection. But the truth is, I'm walking out of this hospital not as me, but as Peter Parker.
And I can't tell if that's a blessing, a curse… or just the start of something I'm not ready for.
Maybe all of the above.
There's a knock on the door as I pick up the glasses. I don't turn—I'm too busy debating whether I should put them on. Peter Parker wore glasses before the bite, and afterward, he didn't need them anymore.
Me? I wore glasses. They were mostly reading glasses to help fix an astigmatism, but I could see without them just fine. There were days I needed to wear them to stave off a migraine, but hopefully I won't need to worry about that anymore.
Still, though… this version of Peter wore glasses. So I put them on. A little costume piece to keep the illusion going. My vision doesn't warp, sharpen, or suddenly become HD. If anything, things look a bit clearer—but only in the most disappointing way possible.
Nothing about the spider has been as I expected it to be. No powers, no dramatic awakening, not even a proper scar to brood over. Just silence. Like the universe forgot to finish the job. The doctors said I was lucky, as the spider that bit me was poisonous. They're attributing the amnesia to a combination of the spider's venom and hitting my head on the way down. I was, ugh… Peter was thrown into a seizure, foaming at the mouth, the full nine yards.
I feel bad for Peter's classmates. That kind of thing sticks with you. One second a kid's sitting beside you, the next he's foaming at the mouth like something out of a horror flick. Hard to forget. Harder to explain.
"Hey, Peter… are you okay?" May's voice breaks me out of my thoughts, and I turn to face her. I had almost forgotten she was knocking on the door when I grabbed the glasses.
"Y-yeah." The smile comes easier than it should. "Where's Uncle Ben?"
Did I mention it was weird calling them Aunt May and Uncle Ben? Because it is.
"He's grabbing the car. Are you ready to go home?"
I didn't answer immediately.
Go home? That's a loaded question, May. I want to go home—to my life. The one before the car accident. But the only home I've got now? It belongs to someone else. Someone I used to look up to. Which, yeah… sounds cool on paper. So what am I even complaining about?
Who gets to say that they got a second chance at life as their favorite superhero?
So, am I ready to go home?
Fuck it.
"Yeah, I am."