we all wear masks [ p.p ]

→ viii. black eyes and black cats

Seventeen weeks, three days, five hours, and thirty three minutes. That's how long it's been since the first day you met Spiderman. It has been Eighteen weeks, five days, six hours and fifty eight minutes since the first time you swore at Peter Parker for being a showoff.

On any other occasion, those two seemingly random days would have nothing to do with each other. But now, sitting on your bed, crying your eyes out, you realised how simpler your life was–eighteen weeks ago. How much and how drastically your life can change in eighteen simple weeks. Only four months. But oh, what you would give to be back then. Maybe you could convince four months younger Y/N not to yell at Peter Parker. Or even better, maybe you could've convinced seventeen weeks younger Y/N not to go follow that masked stranger–to use what your mother taught you about stranger danger and head home. Then you wouldn't be in this mess.

And this mess–of course–is a direct reference to the shit show that is your love life. Every morning you'd wake up–with a horrible voice in your head recapping the events of the last couple of weeks. You were in love with Spiderman! You loved him with all your heart! But alas, the voice would say, Spiderman has a secret identity! The only person in Midtown Tech you'd rather get eaten by a spider than bitten by one–Peter Parker.

You do not love Peter Parker, the voice would remind you. However, every night you'd dream about him.

Ten days ago, it was simpler. You'd dream about Spiderman, the boy you loved, and he never had a face–not even the blonde identity he picked out for himself. No, he just simply did not have a face. But you always knew it was him. Now, when you'd dream of him, you'd always see the face of Peter Parker. That horrible face you despised.

Yet you longed to see him still. In the hallway, in class, at lunch. Your eyes would never be able to leave him, yet when he looked back, when his brown eyes found yours–you'd always look away. He could not know you still cared for him–because you were firmly of the belief you did not still care for him–because that of course would imply you cared for him at all. And you did not. You did not.

MJ had stopped intervening, had stopped trying to get the pair of you in the same place and talking. She was shocked either one of you had even dared come back to school after your fight. But you'd keep powering through, and Peter would bite down his sadness, and things would keep on as usual.

Or so you thought.

But on this very cold night, with your cheeks soaked in tears–you couldn't help but miss your hero. And the one positive outcome of Flash's stupid party was that now you knew who to call when you wanted to see Spiderman.

You opened your phone, small sobs hiccuping through your chest, and searched the chem lab group chat. Went into contacts. Pressed 'Peter, Parker'.

Changed the name quickly. To 'Spider'. Scoff. You changed it back. Another scoff. You deleted the contact, then pressed the long random number–and sent a message.

'Either say yes or no, this isn't an invitation to talk.'

You sent the message, never thinking clearly before a double text–but before you could think of a way to say 'I'm really sad and it's because of you but can you be the one to comfort me', you saw three dots appear on your screen before a message was received.

'What's the question?'

You took in a deep breath, not imagining a message from an unsaved contact could make your heart flutter so quickly.

'Can I see Spiderman tonight?'

He started typing instantly.

'Just him?'