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@grlslay
( ✉️ → emjay ) : i don’t like valentine’s day without you it doesn’t feel right i know it’s over we’re over it’s done it’s cool it’s chill it’s good we’re good i’m good you’ve moved on i;ve moved on everythin’gs fine but i just really hate the way this feels oh fuck fuck me what if i still love you [UNSENT] ( ✉️ → emjay ) : i saw your show ( ✉️ → emjay ) : got chased off by security at the stage door but you were great
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it wasn’t every day she and her sister got together. michelle liked to pretend that they were both too busy for each other, but she knew it was more one-sided than she let herself believe. mary jane was busy as ever, if not more so than usual, and she had other people who needed - or wanted - her attention, and though she was sure it wasn’t intentional, people fell to the back burner. michelle would always be there, so it was easy to push her off until later. she didn’t really have any hard feelings about it, but she did miss mj.
they decided to meet up at aunt anna’s, always a safe space. they ordered takeout, but in the meantime, michelle had coffee brewing in the french press. “i heard your single on the radio the other day,” she commented, sitting down at the table across from her sister. “how does it feel, all your dreams coming true?” @grlslay
@grlslay
If Peter Parker knew one thing, it was that promising that things would be different this time was a bald-faced lie. He wouldn’t be late this time, he’d said. He’d changed, he’d said. He was responsible, he’d make it up to her, he wouldn’t let her down. It had been a desperate, panicked, Hail Mary sort of play, but he missed her. Every day, as he stood in the wreckage of his life, unable to find pieces large enough to put it back together, he saw her on billboards, on the radio, in the pictures he hadn’t had the strength to take down. He’d found himself reaching for the phone reflexively, not thinking through what calling meant. (Calling! Calling! What century were they living in?)
But if everything was going to shit, he needed to see Mary Jane’s face again.
He’d promised to meet her at the diner on time, for real, he swore on Aunt May. And then, of course, there had been a carjacking in SoHo and a crime ring setting up camp in the Village, and then he was running to meet her, flushed and sweaty and afraid to check his phone. He knew his hair was standing straight up, he knew he was out of breath, and he knew he was out of time. He saw a flash of red hair through the window, and he fought to keep his heart rate down. Get it together, Peter. His last chance, blown. Still, he pushed ahead, straightening his shirt, pushing open the door, walking towards her booth.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m so sorry, I was--” He swallowed. “You know what, it doesn’t matter. I’m late. I’m sorry. Hi. It’s good to see you.”
Things would be different this time, he’d promised. They never were.
@grlslay
( ✉️ → emjay ) : hey.
[ ... peter is typing ... ] [ ... peter is typing ... ]
( ✉️ → emjay ) : just wanted to apologize ( ✉️ → emjay ) : for the other night ( ✉️ → emjay ) : and making things weird ( ✉️ → emjay ) : you were right ( ✉️ → emjay ) : we can totally forget it ever happened and go back to the whole friends thing ( ✉️ → emjay ) : and pretend i wasn’t a moron for like 30 seconds maybe
