She wasn't supposed to die.
I know how naive that sounds. I know death doesn't ask for permission.
But I wished—
Wished it would wait one more day.
One more week.
One more chance… To save her.
Leah.
A small girl with pale cheeks and wide eyes—eyes that seemed to ask a thousand questions and expect no answers.
She loved Spider-Man.
She drew him, talked about him, dreamed of meeting him.
She didn't know… he was me.
I visited her like a hero would—with a mask, a forced smile, and empty encouragements.
She looked up at me and whispered:
"I'm okay… because you're here."
But I wasn't.
Not really.
Not there, and not anywhere.
I was just a symbol—one she mistook for hope.
I was a beautiful lie… standing at the edge of an ugly truth.
The doctor said her body couldn't handle the cold.
But it wasn't the weather that killed her.
It was the world.
A world that forgets the fragile.
A world too loud to hear a little girl's silence.
And me?
I was part of that world.
When she died, something broke inside me.
Not just because I lost her—
But because I failed her.
I stood just a few steps away.
With strength. Speed. Reflexes that defy physics…
And none of it saved her.
There was no villain to punch.
No tower to climb.
Just a child… and time slipping away.
Leah wasn't just a little girl.
She was my anchor.
The last thing keeping me from sinking in a city that had forgotten how to care.
But I've grown older now.
And so have my regrets.
Leah, with her innocent face, became another name…
Another name on a list I never wanted to write.
I'm not writing this to feel better.
I'm writing this to confess.
I'm not a hero.
I'm Peter.
And I was the reason a little girl never lived to see her dream.
.
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