(POV - Peter Parker)
Breakfast smelled like a safe house: butter melting on the griddle, strong coffee filling the hallway, bread slowly toasting to crispness. Light streamed in through the square window above the sink and cast warm streaks across the plaid tablecloth.
May, my May, moved around that scene with the ease of someone who knows every drawer by sound. Her face was familiar in a way that didn't match the MCU I remembered: it wasn't the Marisa Tomei version of my cinephile memory, too young, almost bohemian.
She looked just like May from the PS5 game, with short, neatly combed gray-red hair, soft cheekbones, a smile that started at the corners of her eyes, a way of tilting her head when she heard something, that came with decades of practice.
And there was something in her hands, in her restrained gestures, in her efficient kindness, that screamed: she was born to care. I don't know how to explain it better, I just know that the difference hit me like a Post-it note stuck to my forehead: "different universe, similar rules."
"Sit down, my love."
She said, placing a plate with two eggs just right between soft and firm, golden toast, and next to it a small bowl of chopped fruit.
"It's going to get cold."
I sat down. The first bite brought butter, salt, and peace.
I saw the differences without even trying. In the MCU, I remembered May as a young, chatty, slightly chaotic force with the energy of a modern aunt.
Here, even when she laughed, there was that serenity that can't be improvised, the same serenity that, on another screen, crossed a community shelter to hug the first stranger of the day. It was funny: older or younger, her heart seemed to be made of the same material.
"How is school?"
She asked, leaning against the counter, coffee cup in hand, warm morning smile.
"Quiet."
I replied, turning the mug over so as not to dirty the notebook open next to it.
"I got some good grades on my last tests. The rest… the same as always."
"Did you make any new friends?"
Gwen Stacy flashed through my mind like light reflected off a bus window: blonde, the focus of attention in class whenever the teachers handed out tests, and with that good-natured competitiveness of someone who doesn't need an audience. Daughter of a police captain. Destiny hanging over a bridge in more than one reality. I smacked my tongue against the roof of my mouth, choosing my words like someone choosing a step on a wet roof.
"There's a smart girl…"
I spoke in the most neutral tone in the world.
"The police captain's daughter. She's nice. We talk sometimes. Not exactly friends… more like a friendly classmate."
May nodded slowly, scratching her chin with the pad of her thumb, an ancient gesture.
"You need to connect with people more, Peter. I'm proud of you for being so intelligent, but you're terrible at... interpersonal relationships."
"Terrible?"
I raised my eyebrows in mock offense and let the humor slide like a knot.
"I'm hurt, May. I'm amazing at interpersonal relationships. People just… don't want to get close. It's different."
She sighed as if trying to scold and laugh at the same time.
"Speaking of girls…"
She began, and the air took on a hint of mischief.
"Anna Watson's niece is moving here. To live with her aunt."
The fork stopped halfway. Mary Jane Watson. The name dropped onto the plate like a cherry pit: small, but with its own weight. In the minds of fans, and in mine, in any life, the "great love", the wrecking ball and reconstruction of Peter's life.
"I want…"
I began, already seeing the web pull itself together.
"Nothing."
She cut in, her index finger in the air and her smile barely hidden.
"I'm just saying she's really sweet. And you could, I don't know, become friends. You don't interact, Peter. Sometimes I think you hide behind books."
"I promise to try to be friends with Anna's niece."
I said, raising my hand as a court witness.
"But you have to stop gossiping with the neighbor and making evil plans to get your nephews together."
"Hm."
She did, pretending not to hear, which, in practice, was "perfect, agreed, thanks for agreeing."
I laughed to myself, chewing another piece of toast, and for a moment, life was just cooking, dishes, people loving each other. My spidey sense said nothing, sometimes its silence was the best sound in the world.
"Finish eating or you'll miss the bus."
She said, already going to get the bag and light coat.
I finished my plate with discipline, rinsed the mug automatically (soap, warm water, circle on the bottom, drain), grabbed my backpack, it weighed down as if it held all my intentions, and stopped to hug May. She smelled of coffee and soap. I wanted to store that scent in a bottle.
"Go with God, my love."
"See you later, Aunt May."
The street greeted me with the typical chill that bites your nose, and I arrived at the stop at the exact moment the bus was turning the corner, letting out a sigh of engine and diesel.
I climbed the steps with the care of someone trying to be invisible in a predator's habitat, but invisibility had never been my strength.
The high school universe had its own maps, and I knew them all: archipelagos of chairs where each tribe planted its flag.
Straight away, on the left, were the quarterbacks and jerks: the realm of the "tough guys" with too much testosterone and not enough imagination.
Flash Thompson, the Andrew Garfield version: tall, strong, with the smile of someone who finds it funny when someone falls, he drummed his knuckles on the back of the chair in front of him like a personal war drum.
Beside him, Kenny Kong, broad shoulders, that "I'm going to lock you in a closet, idiot" look that appears in the dictionary as an illustration.
Brad Davis, the same guy from the movie "Far From Home", the good looking guy who, in another timeline, decided to complicate things in Europe.
Brian "Tiny" McKeever, ironically big enough to earn the nickname, and Randy Robertson, the most decent of the group, son of Robbie Robertson from the Bugle, the only one there who, in my mental files, had a heart without an instruction manual and, every now and then, a sense of justice.
On the opposite wing, the principality of the popular: cheerleaders with expensive perfume and simple problems that turned into a storm.
Liz Allan reigned supreme, and in this world, she looked exactly like the singer Madison Beer I remembered from my past life, which made that entire bus corridor a somewhat meta experience. Flash's girlfriend, of course, the trophy he flaunted as if it were humanly acceptable.
At least here she was Liz Allan, period. No "Toomes" or family secrets. Behind her paraded her entourage: Sally Avril, irritatingly proficient in the art of mocking others, Glory Grant, Sha Shan Nguyen, and a handful of other "influences" from the Midtown microcosm.
In the middle, scattered like spare parts, were the stereotypical nerds in their reference t-shirts and backpacks loaded beyond the column syndicate's recommended weight: Charles Murphy (or Charlie, when he was in cool mode), Abe Brown, Seymour O'Reilly, and Jason Lonello, eyes downcast, laughter that alternated between knowing and cruel depending on who was the target.
The best part? I didn't belong to any of these archipelagos. And, by one of those cosmic injustices life calls adolescence, I was still the butt of all their jokes, with a special bonus from the nerd club, because even the tribe that was supposed to welcome me found a way to leave me out.
I knew what was coming before it came. Flash lifted his head, sniffed my discomfort like a shark smells blood, and smiled the smile of someone who'd practiced in the mirror.
"Just look."
He sang, loud enough for the driver to hear.
"Penis Parker has appeared!"
Laughter. Sincere, idiotic, cascading.
I breathed through my nose and let the wheels of nonsense roll. My senses, already trained to act as a compass on a crowded bus, vibrated slightly. Kenny Kong stuck out his foot like someone setting a trap in the forest.
I shifted my weight a centimeter early, without looking, and my sneaker hit the ground exactly where there was no trap. No trip, no scene. Just Kenny looking at his foot as if the shoe had betrayed him.
I ignored the mouths, the laughter. I trained my eyes on a row further back, where there was an empty seat next to someone who seemed to want the same thing I did: to cross that bus like someone crossing the rain, without talking to it.
I sat down. It took me half a second to understand why a recognition alarm rang in a specific corner of my memory.
Jessica Campbell.
This hit me in the side: I remembered her from the comics as "the girl who later became Jessica Jones", same school, same class sometimes, her life already heading for a curveball that no one sees coming when they're sitting on a bus.
In my internal catalog, "Campbell" was the name before "Jones." Someone discreet, with the kind of beauty that in another reality would have pushed her into Liz Allan's group, but here she went unnoticed because that's how she wanted it.
She looked, in an almost cinematic way, like the actress Mikey Madison from my other life, seriously, the resemblance was one of those that makes your brain stumble.
"Is anyone sitting here?"
I asked, my voice at just the right volume so as not to attract anyone's attention other than her.
She shook her head, a small gesture, the headphones still around her neck, not in her ears.
"Thanks."
I said, slipping into the corner, backpack between my feet, elbow searching for the exact spot where I wouldn't touch her or become a wind-up doll.
The bus pulled away, with that jolt that makes everyone lean forward, and for a moment the silence was comfortable. I didn't know if, like in the comics, she had a crush on me.
I knew, yes, that life wasn't a comic book, and that maybe she just wanted to get to school without becoming a target. Still, being invisible hurts, I knew that well.
"Murphy said Mr. Warren's test is 'impossible' "
I took a risk, opening the dialogue through the safest corridor: the subjects.
"I thought… possible. Boring, but possible."
She gave an almost smile, a little curve at the corner of her mouth, the kind that only appears with a free pass.
"You always do, Parker."
She replied. Her voice was a little husky, beautiful.
"I… got stuck on the last problem. Kinetics."
She made a tiny grimace.
"You can solve it without memorizing the formula."
I whispered, tilting the notebook and scribbling in a free corner:
"disguised rule of three" → arrow → two lines with variables.
"The trick is to see the pattern."
She watched. Her gaze, up close, had a good concentration, the kind you don't realize you have. She nodded.
"Thanks."
"Always."
I said, and felt the bus rock over a pothole in the street. Someone behind me went "oooooh" for no reason, Sally Avril laughed out loud at some private joke, Flash told a training story for the hundredth time as if it were a saga.
"You…"
Jessica started, stopped, as if she had thrown a word out and changed her mind.
"You're always in the lab after class, right?"
"Almost always."
"Do what?"
"Too many things at once."
I replied, laughing.
"Experiments. And… some projects. Nothing headline-worthy."
"Right."
She replied, and some of the tension in her shoulders eased a notch.
"I… sometimes hang out at the library. I can… I don't know, return the favor with English summaries. I'm good at English."
"Deal."
I said, genuinely happy for any bridge that wasn't made of mockery.
The bus continued chewing through avenues: half-open stores, a lady crossing with bags, the sun hitting the glass and transforming faces into silhouettes of brightness and shadow.
From the front, another high school joke rang out, macro-violence in microdoses. I glanced one last time at the popular group and, for a moment, exchanged a barely perceptible wave with Randy.
He responded with a nod, a gesture that, coming from the man he was speaking to, meant, "I see, don't worry." It's curious how, in cartoons and comics, he's always been written with this note of humanity amidst the chaos.
"Do you know the police captain's daughter?"
I asked Jessica, like someone making small talk but, inside, measuring the terrain of a comet about to enter the orbit of life itself.
"Gwen Stacy?"
She wrinkled her nose, thinking.
"I've only heard about her. They say she's…"
"…A living library."
I completed, laughing.
"That."
She smiled for real now, quick and honest.
From then on, the conversation found the rhythm of a patient metronome. We exchanged small details: favorite teachers, the stupidity of some of the team's pranks, the absurdity of lunch prices in the cafeteria.
Jessica laughed with a half-second delay, as if to check with herself if she could, and when she laughed, her eyes followed suit, unbroken.
I discovered that she collected notebooks (not torn pages, notebooks) and that she preferred graphite to pen because "graphite has humility."
She discovered that I made lists with checkboxes ("because clicking the little box is a small victory, but it's a victory"). The bus turned onto the school's avenue, and I understood, with the calm clarity of good beginnings, that a friendship was taking root there, discreetly, without announcement.
The doors opened. The groups moved in the usual choreography: the popular kids leaving first, eager to be seen, the toughs stretching as if they owned the yard, the nerds checking their backpacks. Jessica and I descended with the middle, the territory of those who try not to bump into anyone and still bump into the world.
On the step, I felt that stubborn knocking from inside again, not danger, fate knocking on the table to ask for the bill.
I breathed.
The morning dawned in a hallway, lockers lined up, the sound of books falling. And, for now, being "just" Peter Parker seemed like a perfect plan. Even more perfect with a potential friend walking beside me, pretending she wasn't there.
The rest, I would figure out.