(tw: mentions of suicide and depression)
Chapter 1
"Thank you for coming, Ms. Martinez." Mrs. Johnson greeted Elena warmly as she stepped into the classroom. Elena's eyes scanned the room anxiously, her gaze landing on her daughter sitting quietly at her desk, hunched over a drawing.
"Maria," she called softly but firmly. Her daughter looked up, a faint, sad smile flickering across her face before she returned her focus to the paper in front of her.
Elena sighed and turned back to Mrs. Johnson. "What's going on? Did something happen?"
Mrs. Johnson gestured toward the hallway. "It's best we discuss this privately. My assistant will stay here with Maria." Her tone was kind but serious, leaving no room for argument.
Reluctantly, Elena followed her down the hall to a small office, where another woman waited.
"Elena, this is Matilda, our school counselor," Mrs. Johnson introduced.
After exchanging polite nods, they all sat down. Mrs. Johnson began, her hands folded neatly on the desk. "Ms. Martinez, I want to assure you first that Maria isn't in any trouble. But… we do have some concerns about her well-being."
"If she's not in trouble, why am I here?" Elena crossed her arms, her voice edged with impatience.
Matilda leaned forward slightly, her expression gentle but probing. "Ms. Martinez, is everything alright at home? Is there a father in the picture?"
Elena's eyes narrowed sharply. "No, there isn't. But we're doing fine. What does this have to do with Maria?"
Matilda exchanged a glance with Mrs. Johnson before sliding a piece of paper across the table. "We'd like you to take a look at this."
Elena picked up the paper, her brow furrowing as she examined the crude drawing. It showed a bridge stretching over a turbulent ocean, a small figure falling from its edge. "I don't understand. What is this supposed to mean?"
"This is one of Maria's drawings," Matilda explained softly. "She was crying as she drew it, and it's not the first time we've seen something like this."
Elena's lips parted slightly, but no words came. She stared down at the drawing, her eyes scanning it again. This time, she noticed details she'd overlooked before—the jagged lines of the bridge, the stormy waves below, and the tiny figure's outstretched arms, as if mid-fall. Her breath caught in her throat.
She looked up sharply, her voice tinged with disbelief. "Maria drew this? But… why? Are you saying this is—" She hesitated, unwilling to say the word, her fingers tightening on the edges of the paper. "You think this is supposed to mean something?"
Matilda nodded gently. "It's not uncommon for children to use art to express feelings they can't put into words."
Elena shook her head, her tone turning defensive. "She's just a kid. Kids draw strange things all the time. It doesn't mean she… she feels like that." Her voice cracked slightly on the last word, but she forced herself to hold her ground. "You're reading too much into this."
"That's what we're trying to understand," Mrs. Johnson said gently, her tone careful but serious. "Maria has been distant lately—keeping to herself, avoiding her classmates, and not participating much in class. But it's the things she's said that worry us."
She glanced at Matilda before continuing. "She's made remarks like, 'None of this matters,' or 'What's the point of any of it?'. At first, we thought she might just be frustrated with schoolwork, but the way she says these things... it feels different. Heavier."
Mrs. Johnson paused, her brows furrowing. "It's as if she's carrying a sense of hopelessness that's unusual for a child her age, and we're worried it might be affecting her more deeply than it seems."
Elena's breathing grew heavier, her chest tightening with each passing moment. How... How could she have missed this? Her little girl, her Maria, carrying such thoughts—thoughts she never even imagined could cross her mind. She clutched the drawing in her hands, her knuckles whitening.
"She never said anything to me," Elena whispered, her voice trembling. "Not once. I didn't— I didn't know she felt like this."
Matilda leaned forward, her tone gentle but firm. "Sometimes, children don't share what they're feeling, especially when they think it might upset the people they love. Maria may not have wanted to burden you."
Elena shook her head, her eyes glassy. "I'm her mother. How could she think that? How could I not see it?"
Mrs. Johnson spoke softly, her expression understanding. "It's not easy to see, Ms. Martinez. Children can be very good at hiding what's inside. What's important now is that we recognize it and take steps to help her."
Elena nodded numbly, her gaze falling back to the drawing. "I just… I don't know where to start."
Matilda placed a reassuring hand on the table. "We can help with that. We're here to support both Maria and you. The first step is making sure Maria feels safe enough to open up, even in small ways."
Elena looked up at them, a glimmer of determination breaking through her guilt. "Whatever it takes," she said quietly. "I'll do whatever it takes to help her."
I sighed again, leaning my head against the car window, watching the trees blur past. The booster seat dug into my sides, a constant reminder of just how small and helpless this body was. Seven years old. Technically. My mind groaned louder than I dared to. I'd thought jumping from that damn bridge would be the end of it—the end of everything. But no. Instead of peace, I got this.
Another life. Another meaningless cycle of existence.
I clenched my tiny fists, trying to swallow the bitterness rising in my chest. It didn't matter how many lives I lived or how many times I started over. It was all the same. Pointless.
My gaze drifted toward the rearview mirror, where my mom's eyes briefly met mine. She quickly looked back at the road, but not before I caught the tension in her face. She'd been quiet since the meeting—too quiet. The kind of silence that came from someone trying to process something they didn't want to believe. I didn't need to be a genius to figure out why.
They'd shown her the drawing.
My frown deepened as I turned away from the mirror and stared at the floor. It wasn't like I wanted to freak anyone out. The drawing wasn't even supposed to mean anything—it was just a stupid habit. Something to fill the time when my thoughts got too loud. But now, it was a whole thing.
Great. Another adult trying to "fix" me. Another round of forced conversations where they ask me how I'm feeling like the answer isn't always the same. Tired. Done. Over it.
The car slowed as we pulled into the driveway. Mom turned off the engine and sat there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. I could feel her eyes on me again, even though I kept staring at the floor.
"Maria," she said finally, her voice soft but shaky, like she wasn't sure how to start.
I didn't look up. "Yeah?" I muttered, my tone flat.
There was a pause, heavy and awkward, before she sighed and turned toward me, her eyes softer now. "Sweetheart," she said gently, "why don't we head inside? We'll talk, okay?"
I glanced up at her, hesitant. Her voice wasn't scolding or demanding—it was… warm. Like she was trying not to scare me off.
"Okay," I muttered, sliding out of the booster seat.
As we walked to the door, she reached out and rested a hand lightly on my shoulder. "We'll figure this out, Maria," she said quietly, her voice steady but full of something I couldn't quite place. Hope? Determination? Maybe trying to convince herself as much as she's trying to convince me? "You're not alone, mija. I'm here."
I nodded stiffly, unsure how to respond. The words felt distant, like they weren't meant for me. Or maybe they were meant for the child I was supposed to be. The seven-year-old who could believe in hugs and soothing words. Not me. Not the 25-year-old man trapped in this tiny, tired body.
Still, there was something in her tone, something small but steady, that I clung to as I stepped through the door. Just for a second, I let myself imagine that maybe, just maybe, she meant it.
As we stepped inside, the familiar closeness of the apartment greeted us. The living room and kitchen shared the same cramped space, separated only by a worn-out couch and a small, rickety table with mismatched chairs. The walls were bare except for a single picture of the two of us, taken when I was much younger—or, at least, when this body was younger.
The apartment was quiet, as it always was. It was just the two of us, and it had always been that way. I didn't know my father, and I never cared enough to ask. He wasn't here. That was all I needed to know.
Mom moved around the small kitchen, tidying up absentmindedly, her movements quick and efficient. She was always doing something—anything to fill the silence. I watched her for a moment, noting the way her shoulders hunched slightly, like she was carrying the weight of the world on her back.
We didn't have family here. No aunts or uncles, no cousins, no grandparents. Just her and me. A tiny island of two in a sea of people who probably wouldn't notice if we disappeared.
I shuffled over to the couch and sat down, sinking into the familiar sag of the cushions. It wasn't much, but it was home. Or at least, it was hers. To me, it was just another place I didn't belong.
Mom turned to me, breaking the quiet. "Do you want anything? I can make you a snack." Her voice was light, almost too casual, like she was trying to pretend everything was normal.
"No," I said softly, avoiding her gaze. "I'm fine."
The words felt hollow, even as I said them. My mom didn't push—she never did. Instead, she went back to tidying up the kitchen, her movements more deliberate now, like she was trying to distract herself.
I looked down at my hands, small and delicate, resting in my lap. A lump formed in my throat, heavy and suffocating. She worked so hard for us—for me. Two jobs, long hours, barely any sleep, just to keep this tiny apartment and put food on the table. And on top of that, she was studying to become a nurse, squeezing in late-night classes and study sessions whenever she could. And I'd tried to make it easier for her. I really had.
I never threw tantrums like other kids. I did what I was told, kept my grades up, stayed out of trouble. If she was stressed or tired, I stayed quiet, kept my feelings to myself. That was how I thought I could help—by being good. By not being a burden.
But now, knowing what she'd heard at school today, it felt like I'd failed her.
I swallowed hard, my chest tightening as I thought about the meeting. The looks they must have exchanged. The worry she must have felt. And for what? A daughter who didn't even want to be here.
I glanced up at her, standing by the sink, her back to me. At first, I thought she was still cleaning, but her shoulders were shaking—just slightly. Then I saw her hand come up to her face, wiping at her cheek.
She was crying.
Silently, like she didn't want me to notice.
My stomach twisted, guilt tightening like a noose. She was trying so hard to hold it together, to be strong for me. And here I was, the reason she was breaking.
I bit my lip, looking away, shame washing over me in waves. I didn't want her to see that I'd noticed. Didn't want to make it worse.
But the lump in my throat only grew, and no matter how much I tried to convince myself it didn't matter, the guilt whispered back: It does. It always has.
Dinner was quiet. Rice and beans again. I didn't complain—it wasn't like there was anything else.
"I'm going to take the rest of the week off," my mom said, breaking the silence. Her voice was warm, almost too cheerful, like she was trying to lighten the mood. "I was thinking maybe we could have some fun together. We haven't gone to the park in a while…"
She looked at me hopefully, her smile soft and sweet. I offered her a small smile in return, but it was just that—a smile. My eyes didn't join in.
"How about…" she continued, her tone growing a little brighter, "we have some dessert and watch a movie on TV? I think we have two chocolate cones left in the freezer!"
At that, my ears perked up, and despite myself, I felt a flicker of interest. Chocolate. My one reliable weakness.
She must have noticed the change in my expression because she laughed softly and stood up. "I'll take that as a yes."
She opened the freezer and pulled out the cones, handing one to me as she sat back down. "There you go, mija," she said, ruffling my hair. "Chocolate makes everything better, right?"
I shrugged, unwrapping the cone. "I guess," I murmured, taking a bite. The familiar sweetness spread across my tongue, and for just a moment, it felt like the heaviness in my chest lifted a little.
Mom turned on the TV, flipping through channels until she found a movie. It was some animated one I'd seen before—not that I cared. She settled on the couch next to me, closer than usual, her arm resting on the back of the cushion behind me.
As we watched, I caught her sneaking glances at me out of the corner of my eye. She was trying so hard, and I couldn't decide if it made me feel better or worse.
"Maria," she said softly after a while, her voice careful, almost hesitant. "You know you can talk to me about anything, right?"
I paused mid-bite, my fingers tightening slightly around the cone. "Yeah," I said quietly, staring at the TV. "I know."
She didn't look away, her eyes searching mine. "I mean it, mija. Anything. I'm here for you."
I nodded, forcing myself to meet her gaze for just a moment. "I know, Mom."
She studied me a little longer before nodding, her lips pressing into a thin line. She didn't push any further, just leaned back against the couch and turned her attention back to the movie.
The sweetness of the cone didn't linger as long as it usually did. I finished it quickly, setting the wrapper on the table beside me. I couldn't shake the feeling that my mom was trying to fix something that couldn't be fixed—and I hated that it was my fault she felt like she had to try.
She deserved better. Better than this. Better than me.
After the movie ended, my mom excused herself to the bathroom, leaving me sitting on the couch. The TV automatically switched to the news, and I groaned, reaching for the remote. Just as I was about to change the channel, the pretty announcer said something that made my hand freeze mid-air.
"This just in: Stark Industries has announced a new partnership with the U.S. Military."
The screen shifted, showing none other than… Tony Stark? He was standing at a podium, shaking hands with a familiar-looking general sporting a thick mustache.
I blinked, my brow furrowing. Was this some kind of movie promo?
Before I could make sense of it, my mom came back into the room and reached for the remote. "More military spending…" she muttered with a sigh, shaking her head.
I looked up at her, startled. "Wait… this is real?" I pointed at the screen, my voice a mix of disbelief and confusion.
Mom paused, giving me a curious look. "Um… yes, mija, it's real. That's Tony Stark. He's… a genius billionaire, I guess." Her tone wavered, dipping slightly with disdain as she muttered under her breath, "Or just another arrogant—" She stopped herself, letting out a small sigh as she pointed at the screen. "He's… well, him."
Her gaze shifted to the man beside Stark, and she squinted at the screen, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I think that's General, um…" She trailed off, her tone neutral but edged with a hint of disapproval as she tried to recall the name.
I turned back to the screen, my gaze locking onto the general's face. The recognition hit me like a freight train. Of course. "General Ross…" I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
Mom's head tilted as she looked at me, surprised. "How did you—" She cut herself off as her eyes flicked to the screen, catching the new caption under the general's image. "Oh… Ross. Right."
She lowered the remote, her expression shifting to something softer as she sat down beside me. "I've never seen you so interested in something, mija," she said gently, her voice filled with a hint of curiosity—and something else.
It wasn't just curiosity. There was a glimmer of something deeper in her eyes. Pride? Hope? I wasn't sure, but it made my stomach twist uncomfortably.
I turned back to the screen, trying to ignore the knot forming in my chest. General Ross. Tony Stark. If this was real, then… I shook my head, my thoughts swirling with the impossible.
I couldn't sleep that night. I tossed and turned, my mind racing with thoughts I couldn't quiet. There's no way… It's impossible…
With a groan, I sat up, my heart pounding too loudly for the silence of the room. I had to know. Carefully, I slipped out of bed, making sure to avoid the creaky spots in the floor as I tiptoed into the hallway.
We didn't have much, but I knew my mom had a laptop. I pushed her door open slowly, holding my breath as it creaked faintly on its hinges. The room was dark, but I could make out her sleeping form under the covers.
The floor groaned as I stepped inside, and she shifted in her sleep. I froze, my heart leaping into my throat, but after a moment, her breathing evened out again. Letting out a silent sigh of relief, I grabbed the laptop from her desk and slipped back to my room.
Closing the door behind me, I opened the laptop and smirked as I typed in her password—my name. Really, Mom? It was sweet, though. Too sweet for the thoughts pounding through my head.
As the desktop loaded, a few open tabs caught my eye—notes and study guides for her nursing program. A small pang of guilt tugged at my chest, thinking about all the extra work she put in for us. But I shoved it aside, minimizing the windows. I needed answers, and my suspicions couldn't wait.
Once the browser opened, I dove in. My fingers trembled as I typed the first search: Captain America.
Dozens of articles popped up, detailing his battles with Hydra, the Super Soldier program, and the Howling Commandos. My eyes skimmed the headlines—mentions of Bucky Barnes, and Captain America's final stand. My heart raced.
Next: Mutants.
I grimaced as article after article popped up: "Charles Xavier Speaks Out on Mutant Rights." "Mutants: Dangerous Monsters Among Us." The headlines dripped with fear and hatred. Figures...
One headline, however, made me chuckle: "Man Fights with Metal Claws in Bar Brawl." Despite everything weighing on me, a small smirk found its way to my lips. Classic.
I typed in another name: SHIELD.
The results were scarce, vague mentions of government oversight and classified operations. Of course. Nothing surprising there.
I kept going, each search pulling me deeper into a reality I didn't want to believe but couldn't deny. Each headline, each piece of information, made my heart beat faster and faster. The truth hit me like a freight train.
This is… This is the Marvel universe.
I sat back, the laptop slipping to the side as my hands began to shake. Glee, terror, hope—they all twisted together, churning in my chest until I couldn't tell one from the other.
But there was one last search I needed to make. One name that would seal it.
My fingers hovered over the keyboard before I started typing. Spider-Man.
…There was nothing. No Spider-Man, no Spider-hero of any kind. The search results were a mess—articles about actual spiders, a few costume parties with people dressed as spiders, and one bizarre story about a man who ate nothing but spiders for a year. Okay, ew.
I sighed, leaning back in my chair. Does he just not exist? Or maybe this universe didn't have a Spider-Man. Maybe there was someone else—Ghost-Spider, Silk, even The Bombastic Bag-Man. I typed their names one by one.
Nothing.
My heart sank. He wasn't here. Spider-Man, my favorite hero, the one thing that gave me genuine happiness in my old life, didn't exist in this world. I stared at the screen, my chest tightening as the realization hit. The one thing I could have clung to… gone.
I was about to close the laptop, but a thought stopped me mid-motion. What if… he just doesn't exist... yet?
My heart skipped a beat, a spark of hope flickering to life. My fingers moved quickly over the keyboard, typing out the name: Peter Parker.
Thousands of results. Too many to sift through. My fingers hesitated, then I refined the search: Peter Benjamin Parker.
Still too many.
I frowned, thinking hard. He's from Queens, right? I added the detail, typing: Peter Benjamin Parker, Queens New York.
My eyes widened as the first headline appeared. It was from the Daily Bugle.
Plane crash leaves no survivors. Local residents Richard and Mary Parker among the deceased.
A terrible headline… but one that sparked a glimmer of hope. My fingers trembled as I clicked the link, scanning the article with growing excitement. Each word made my heart race faster until I reached the final paragraph.
"Young 6-year-old Peter Benjamin Parker left under the care of his uncle and aunt, Benjamin and May Parker."
"YES!" I blurted out, unable to contain myself. The sound echoed too loudly in the quiet apartment, and I immediately slapped a hand over my mouth. Crap. I froze, straining my ears for any sign that my mom had woken up. Nothing.
Relieved, I turned back to the screen, rereading the line over and over. Yes, yes, yes! His parents were gone—a tragedy, sure—but holy crap. He was here. He existed. And he was around my age.
That meant…
He hadn't gotten bitten yet.
The realization hit me like a freight train. My mind spun with possibilities. What if… I could…
I quickly deleted my search history, closed the laptop, and sneaked back into my mom's room. I placed the laptop carefully where I found it, my hands still trembling with excitement. As I turned to leave, my eyes landed on the drawing from earlier—the one of the man falling off the bridge.
I hesitated, then grabbed it and tiptoed back to my room.
Sitting on the floor, I stared at the drawing for a long moment. The jagged bridge, the crashing waves below, the figure falling. I grabbed a handful of crayons and began to work.
The bridge became buildings. The waves turned into roads. The man falling? I paused, the crayon hovering over the paper. My chest tightened, and for a moment, I saw myself in the figure—lost, helpless, spiraling into nothingness.
But I wasn't that person anymore.
I brought the crayon down and reshaped the figure. The broad shoulders softened, the lines of the body grew sleek and agile. The falling man transformed into a woman—a Spider-Woman. Me.
I gave her a large spider emblem on her chest, bold and defiant, and added a webline shooting out from her hand, reaching toward the skyline.
I sat back, holding up the drawing. She wasn't falling anymore. She was rising. I was rising.
A grin spread across my face as I climbed into bed, clutching the drawing to my chest. I glanced at it again, running my fingers over the spider symbol. My thoughts raced ahead of me: a suit design… a name… how to convince my mom to move us to Queens…
For the first time in either of my lives, I felt something I hadn't thought possible: I had a purpose.
I set the drawing on my nightstand and closed my eyes, a smile still lingering on my lips. The future was no longer empty—it was a web of possibilities, and I held the threads.
