Spider-Man:The Web I Weave

What’s Left of Me

The mask sat on his desk, untouched, folded like a dried-out shell. Dust clung to the lenses. Outside, the city buzzed with the usual noise—sirens, car horns, a life that moved forward.

Peter Parker hadn’t.

For nearly a month, he barely left his room. School came and went. Midtown's emails piled up. His phone stayed off, and Spider-Man stayed silent.

He sat on the edge of his bed now, hoodie wrapped around him like armor, eyes fixed on the scuff mark on the floor from when he kicked his desk after the funeral. Gwen’s funeral. That word still sounded foreign. Wrong.

She was supposed to live. He was supposed to save her.

The door creaked gently.

"Peter?" Aunt May’s voice broke the silence. She hesitated in the doorway, holding a mug of tea she knew he wouldn’t drink. Her eyes were soft. Tired. Worried.

He didn’t turn to her.

"You okay, sweetheart?" she asked.

Peter blinked. His throat tightened, but no words came. Just the ache. The weight.

"I’m fine," he lied, barely audible.

May stepped closer, set the mug down on the nightstand. Her hand brushed his shoulder, warm and grounding.

"You haven’t said more than two words in weeks," she whispered. "You don’t have to talk now. Just… don’t get lost in whatever you’re carrying, okay?"

Peter nodded stiffly, but inside, he was already sinking. Whatever was left of him—it didn’t feel like enough to come back.

Outside, the city moved on.

Inside, Peter Parker stayed still—stuck in the moment the web snapped.

The apartment was too quiet again.

Sunlight crept through the blinds in strips, cutting across the living room like ribbons of truth Peter didn’t want to face. He sat on the couch, hood up, legs curled beneath him, staring at the same blank TV screen he had the last three mornings.

Outside, the city moved on. Inside, he stayed still.

Aunt May shuffled into the room, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She paused at the doorway, watching him with that same mix of love and concern that had etched itself into every wrinkle around her eyes.

“Pete?” she said softly.

He didn’t look at her.

“I found something in the mail,” she continued, walking closer. “Actually… it came a few days ago, but I wanted to wait. Thought you should be the one to open it.”

She held out a white envelope with a blue-gold seal. His name printed neatly across the front:
Peter Benjamin Parker.

His fingers curled tighter around the sleeve of his hoodie. “What is it?”

May sat down beside him. “It’s from the Midtown Institute of Knowledge. You applied back in February, remember? Before…”

She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t have to.

Peter stared at the envelope. A part of him wanted to pretend it didn’t matter. Another part—deep down—felt that flicker of curiosity. The one that always sparked when he thought about possibility.

He took it slowly, tore the edge open.

Dear Mr. Parker,
We are pleased to inform you of your acceptance into the Midtown Institute of Knowledge's Early Scholars Program…