The rain visits, occasionally.
      Like a rude acquaintance, it barges in unexpectedly. And without
     warning, it washes away any evidence that summer was even there.
     Peter Parker marched forward, his boots sputtering through the mud.
     Heâs surrounded by the sound of bitter rain and the crunch of dead
     leaves beneath wet dirt and gravel. Heâs shivering like a stray puppy,
     coldness cracking the defenses of his coat and invading his body.
     Once he enters the diner, the warmth was a welcome relief that drove
     the cold out of his body. He folds his umbrella closed, scraping his boots
     against the doormat before taking a step on a sky-blue tile, then white,
     then red, and sky-blue once more.
     He looks around, finding empty seats everywhere without a soul to house
     the area, before eyes land on a head of GOLDEN HAIR behind a counter-top.
     He blinks, eyes filtering to pale green hues as she notices him and stares
     back, offering a warm smile.
        â   Hi, um â
           Itâs just me.
           Table for ONE?  â
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You're 19 when she dies. It's a house-fire; something red, ugly, ravenous enough that it consumes and takes everything from the inside out. It's so furious and angry that it makes the sun cry, and invites devils to dance in the living room. He thrashes at night, his skin becoming charcoal and his lungs reduced to breathing smoke. He cries a torrent to put the flames out but it is never enough, never enough, it will never be enough. Leave him in his bedroom, lock the door and throw away the key for this is where he will purge her from his system. Prepare the eulogies, practice the prayer, because no one comes out alive from this. This is how a sinner turns water into wine.
You're 21 and the gash still throbs. Throw yourself into your work, become a slave to the mine. Gold holds no meaning, and neither does emerald. It is only a reminder of hair and eyes. Hair and eyes. Take from which you want to remember. Her hair is too curly. Her smile too thin. Her nose too slanted. Her jaw not right. Her teeth too straight. She would never have that laugh. She isn't her. She isn't her. Where is she? You won't find her here. You're still digging for gold and emeralds, but the pickaxe broke a long time ago and now you're just clawing at dirt. What are you trying to find?
You're 25 and you stopped leaving flowers everyday. Maybe once a week. Then once a month. Then once a year. It's hard to believe how many years has gone by without her. You wonder if the world would be better with an angel still residing in it. You wonder how God makes his plans. You wonder where the silver lining is. Where God's plan for you is hiding. You stopped digging for her a long time ago. You prayed every night. Maybe if you found her skeleton, you could dance with her until her teeth grew back and her hair billowed in the wind. You don't know why you stopped. That's the scary part. You looked for a skeleton and found a ghost instead.
You're 30 and you met someone else. She doesn't smile like her, she doesn't think like her, most of all she isn't her, but she's someone else. You repeat after yourself. It's someone else. You fell in love with someone else. You never tell her. Not until the throb is a gentle heartbeat. Not until you feel obligated. Not until the ghost is the only one standing in the way. Someone who meant everything was suddenly the one person stopping you. It hurts, knowing you you have to move on, but so did her death. You get up, you fall in love with someone else, and you love her like mad. But you will always wonder if Adam ever cried when Eve perished and left him alone.
You wonder if you could plant your own rib, if she would be able to grow from it, and love you again.
You're 40 and she's 10. She's wide-eyed gazes and sweet dispositions. She has the most dangerous combination between you and someone else, the innocent smiles and unquenchable eyes. She asks you, "Daddy, who's this?" when she shows you a photo of flaxen hair and eyes to drown the world for. And you can feel the bluest tinge of sadness. It's not fire anymore. It can't hurt you. But it's still a reminder of your first.
You look at it and relive the memories, the broken heart and then broken head; the bleeding, the bruising, the nights spent reliving a nightmare.
But you relive the moment when you loved her. Meeting her family for the first time. The days spent at her fire escape. Nights when you kissed her until the stars went out. Recounting all the times you saved her. Recounting the one time you didn't. But remember the sum of happiness that one person could bring. Remember the dry, early burn of dawn when you promised her forever, but gave her only 3 years.
She kissed you regardless, because she chose to spend those years with you.
Prophets loved the world from which they were taken from, and she loved you no less.
A tragedy to grow old with. (written by amazingarachnid)
MEME | Closed! (bc this ruined me too much  and I donât want to go through this again)
The worst part is the waiting; the slow, monotonous secondsuntil impact, watching listlessly as the world goes on and on while you are trapped untilsomething gives or breaks.
He can feel the gravel beneath his sneakers and the cold windbite at his cheeks. He has both limbs tucked inside his coat as he walks,stopping only until she has acknowledged he has arrived.
âYou came.âÂ
 There is the saddest tinge of surprise, sparingenough of a glance that she almost regrets doing so.  Her smoke-stung eyes meet his, hazel hues being the only undamaged thing left about him.  Her cracked lips part to say hello, before closingup again, face growing dim with sorrow as if she expected any other version of him to show up.
It would make it easier that way.
Peter is the first to say hello, since she wonât do it. There is exhaustion in hisvoice, a tired whisper that is barely audible over the wind when he approachesher. He barely offers a smile, let alone any conversation pieces. Small talk is off the table, because they both knowwhy she invited him here.
âI leave for England tomorrow.â Gwen says quietly, offering only this unchanged fact.
His lips remain sedated, but everything else betrays him.Eyes shut down for a second, head tilts forward in unnerved instinct, lungsclinging to the last remnants of oxygen that is escaping him. It takeshim a moment before he can finally open his eyes again and gaze back at her.
âPeterâplease,â her voice cracks, and it scares her morethan it scares him.
â If thereâs anything you want to tell me, just tell me now.âShe wonât admit it but sheâs pleading, begging for him to give her a reason tostay, to prove to her that people are worth holdingonto.
He licks his lips, a ghost wrapping its hand around his throat. Her expression grows distraught as the sand falls down the hourglass. She wraps shaking arms around herself, Â fear creepingup her spine when Peter remains silent, her mouth trembling to speak to at least dampen the air.
His voice feels too small to fill the void thatâs leftbetween them. He looks away, eyes fixated on the artificial lamplight pouringits entire soul all over the roof, falling on golden hair and bending aroundhim like a shadow.
â I canât be with you, Gwen. â
Something inside her rib-cage shatters, tiny pieces decoratingthe bones in her body. Explosions are supposed to be loud, ear-splitting andtremendous. But it is a quiet crack, gentle and sad but no less destructive.
She bows her head and inhales slowly, wiping away ashen kohlfrom her eyes, smeared makeup painting the insides of her palm.
âI have loved you, Peter ParkerâI have loved you with everything Iâve had.So why do you keep doing this to me? â
Her words are raw, no less frailer than the first time sheadmitted how much she adored him. Both of them are at the end of their frayed ropes, all energy spent in this little game of tug-of-war they had.
Itâs evident how exhausted he is to say these three little words, stated almost as many times as he has exhaled â I love you. â
â Gwen, I promisedââ
â Why canât you be SELFISH for once!âShe takes a dangerousstep towards him, shouting so recklessly that it feels like the echo is bouncing off the surrounding buildings.
She doesnât mean it. She knows that. She knows that it isnât in him to be selfish. Not even for her.Her tone is a dissonant slam that cuts him offso abruptly that all he can manage to do is shout back.
â I canât do that you! Â â
He stops himself, her hands unknowingly silencing him like a choke-chain. He draws a ragged breath, preparing himself for the cold callous his words will inflict. His face is unraveling now, scorn and lust emptying out into his throat, hollowing it and leaving nothing but madness. His words spill out ofhim, a self-deprecating voice that is so reminiscent of the last time he everfelt so hopeless.
â You know I canât do that to you. âLeast of all you âI canât hold you back, and I canât  â I canât let you get hurt, either. If anything ever happened to you because ofme, Iâd â I canât lose you, Gwen.  â
He can feel his guilt churn, burning up his soul like ahouse-fire when he lets everything out. Once itâs all said and done, all that isleft is ashes and bones from the people trapped inside.
His begging shouts hollow her body so perfectly that it becomes an echo chamber for her prayers.
â Â Then stop letting go. â
They stay quiet for a long time, the sound of a lonely wind accompanying them.
Somewhere below them, a traffic light has switched green as cab drivers honk their horns, and somewhere above them, God is crying for his creations.
Sheâs the first to do something, like always, taking acareful step toward him. He doesnât flinch this time, his feet grounded to where he stands in despair.
âPeterâ â her voice is carrying the last contingent of hopeshe has left. Her mouth is numb, eyes stinging with countless years of stolen first times.
âIf itâs not you, then it wonât ever be anyone else.â
Because if she leaves, then that is it. She will purge him from her system if she ever hopes to survive, burn up whatever home he made in her heart and in the process, leave it in the incinerator.
Because itâs not just the fact heâs a hero. Itâs the browndoe eyes, mud-stained sneakers, stupid jokes and goodness in his heart. Itâseverything about Peter Parker. Everything that has become intertwined with her.
For a moment, shealmost believes he might dip his head forward and kiss away the sadness, to save her life one last time and make all herdreams come true with one simple action.
He does nothing, and it feels like a fate worse than death.
âThatâs it, then?â she swallows once, standing breathless when they both hear police sirens in the distance.
The worst part about waiting is wondering if anything would be different, if you waited a bit longer. He doesnât look away from her, trying to bottle up her being into his memory as fast he can before he must inevitably disappear, one last time.
âYou better go.â She says it slowly, enunciating each line so he understands that she has finally accepted the requiem, the quiet threnody that will sing like a funeral for years to come. She will prepare the rosaries, rip the bandages and start the fire the moment he is gone.
He isnât aware until now of the single tear falling down his face, a quiet witness to the tragedy taking place. He nods, knowing that the city demands a hero, and when he survives the night, she will never be there to heal him again.
He is on his way to jump off the ledge when he stops. It is the first time he ever hesitated from answering the call, and for a second her heart beats with hope. But it is gone, just as fast as he is.
When he goes, she remembers the nights she loved him, when she held him for dear life until the early burn of dawn, a ray of sunlight cleaving through the window-sill to catch their entangled limbs, her head laying so perfectly on his chest that she really did believe she was meant for him from the start.
She walks back to the elevator, letting old memories drip away one by one like a leaking sink. She has a flight in seven hours, and she can barely comprehend a morning when she did not consider herself his and his alone.
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          He hooks the ear-piece up, pulling his mask over the device
          before taking a knee at the edge of the rooftop, a quick tap of
          his fingertip turning it online. He can hear the whir of technology
          occurring, an automated voice asking for ID and a number which
          he spouts off like an automated robot before it connects him to
          his new eye in the sky.
                  â   Hey? Hello? NEW GUY? You there?    â
*AGGRESSIVELY THROWS SELF INTO YOUR ASK* MEG meg mEG!!!! HAPPY BIRTHDAY my honey angel!!!!!! i hope it's great and everything you want it to be ok you deserve only the best :'))))
smooches your face. thANK YOU SWEETHEART. it means a lot ok. youâre too sweet ok. <3
â i'm trying really hard not to get hurt again. â
MEME | Accepting!
   The story begins like this.
   They are 17 and in love, but they donât know it yet. They are late nights   and transit rides, book readings and movie nights, holy water and fervor.   They are happy, until the times when they are not. When they are not,   they are together. Because theirs is a sadness they canât bare without   each other. They play hide and seek with ghosts, run tag with their hearts,   and live without telling a single fib to one another.
   He is the first and last to lie.
   The story ends like this.
   Thin, lanky, long-limbed and graceless from never letting   anyone in. He is pallid skin and lost time, a face in mourning   when she says the first quietly heartbreaking thing she has   told him in almost 7 years.
         â iâm trying really hard not to get hurt again.â
                 â  Iâ I just thoughtâŚI didnât know⌠. â
  He is searching, hazel eyes investigating any clues she might have  left. The folded-over hands, the neutral glance, the forever-lasting scar   he left her with.
   The ring on her finger.
                       â  Sorry.   â
   Itâs all he can muster, his lungs on the verge of sinking   to the water with the rest of the vessel.
   She nods a grimace creasing her porcelain face   He is desperate now, watching the curve of her neck,   the wisp of her hair, the flicker of her eyelashes,   anything for him to hold onto.
            But his gripped slipped a long time ago.
                â   Iâll see you around then.    â
   He bundles up his coat, and she says goodbye amicably enough.   She is the first to walk away from the scene, his heart betraying him   with each step she took.
    He has peace in the fact she seems happy enough. Calm.    Serene. At peace with all the games they played.    Hide and seek with ghosts.    Tag with their hearts.    Love.
   Gwen Stacyâs chapter ends here, with her, alive and well.   But Peter Parkerâs is a different story.
