The cheap, plastic folding chair creaked under Peter's weight as he adjusted the telephoto lens. He was tucked away in the wings, a shadow in the official-looking black t-shirt of the A/V club, tasked with capturing Midtown High's production of A Midsummer Night's Dream. The air was thick with the scent of cheap stage makeup, sawdust, and the nervous energy of teenagers about to perform Shakespeare. For a moment, it was almost normal.
The house lights dimmed, hushing the murmur of parents and friends into an expectant silence. A single, soft spotlight illuminated center stage. And then, there she was.
MJ, cast as the fiercely intelligent and tragically scorned Helena, strode into the light. She was someone else entirely—shoulders back, chin high, a fire in her eyes that commanded the space.
Through the camera's viewfinder, the world shrank to a perfect, focused frame around her. Peter saw things the naked eye might miss: the subtle clench of her jaw as she delivered a scathing line to Demetrius, the genuine flicker of hope in her eyes when she thought she'd won him over, the graceful sweep of her hand that felt less like a rehearsed gesture and more like a natural extension of her passion. She didn't need a costume or a spotlight; she commanded attention just by existing. He, on the other hand, spent half his life hiding behind a mask just to feel like he belonged somewhere.
He snapped a photo, the click of the shutter lost in the dialogue. On stage, the actors laughed, their camaraderie easy and unforced. They were kids playing parts. Peter watched them, a knot tightening in his chest. His own life was a fractured performance, one part awkward high school student, the other part a bruised and bleeding vigilante. There was no applause, only the constant, gnawing fear of the curtain falling at the wrong moment.
His thumb hovered over the shutter button, but his thoughts began to drift, pulling him away from the enchanted forest of Athens and into the darker woods of his own mind.
Elaine. The name was a soft ache. He saw her face in his mind's eye—the way her smile had become more brittle lately, the questions she'd stopped asking. 'How did you get that cut on your cheek, Peter?' 'Why are you always so tired?' The lies tasted like ash in his mouth. He loved her, he was sure of it, but the chasm between his two lives was growing, and she was on the other side, watching him as he slipped away. He could feel their connection unraveling, thread by painful thread.
The memory shifted, colder and sharper. Uncle Ben's face, etched with pain in the hospital bed. It was the original sin, the one act of selfishness he could never outrun. No matter how many muggers he webbed up, how many people he pulled from burning buildings, Ben's blood was a stain that would never wash out. He had the power, and he'd failed to act.
Then came the new ghosts. 3-D Man, his life extinguished in a flash of energy Peter had been too slow to stop. The guilt piled higher. If he'd just been a little stronger, a little faster…
The chaos of the battle with Vulcan. The raw, world-breaking power he'd faced. He remembered the feeling of being utterly outmatched, the city teetering on the brink of annihilation. They'd won, but it felt like a failure. A hero wasn't just supposed to win; he was supposed to protect. The line was so thin.
A chill ran down his spine, cold and immediate. Taskmaster. The image of Bobby Drake, Iceman, lying comatose in a hospital bed was seared into his memory. Taskmaster hadn't even been trying that hard. It was a message. Bobby was recovering now, but the threat remained, a predator circling in the darkness. What if he came for Elaine? Or MJ? Or Aunt May? The thought was a physical blow, stealing the air from his lungs.
On stage, the lovers' quarrel reached its peak of confusion and heartache. MJ, as Helena, delivered a soliloquy, her voice cracking with raw, bewildered pain. "O, spite! O, hell! I see you all are bent to set against me for your merriment…" She spoke of love as a cruel joke, a source of torment and confusion.
The words struck Peter with the force of a physical blow. He saw Elaine's face again, her look of concerned distance. Wasn't that what he was doing to her? Turning their love into a confusing, painful mess because of the secrets he kept?
MJ's eyes glistened under the stage lights as she looked out, her expression one of profound, lonely anguish. "And though you think me scorned, I am not so," she whispered, but her face told a different story.
Click.
He took the photo without thinking. In the frame, she was perfectly lit, a portrait of heartbreaking strength. The camera, he realized, didn't lie. It captured the sliver of truth beneath the performance, the real emotion bleeding through the script.
During intermission, the spell was broken. The house lights came up, and the auditorium filled with chatter. As Peter checked his shots, a heavy hand clapped him on the shoulder. "Still hiding behind a camera, Parker?" Flash Thompson sneered, gesturing vaguely at the stage. "Guess it's the only way you'll get close to the action."
Peter just shrugged, not bothering to look up. "Someone's gotta do it, Flash." He retreated back into the shadows and his own thoughts, the taunt barely registering against the hurricane in his mind.
He scanned the audience and his eyes found Elaine. She was sitting with a few friends, clapping politely. Then, when she must have thought no one was watching, her gaze drifted towards the wings, towards where he was hidden. Her expression wasn't angry, but it was worse. It was a mixture of deep concern and a weary, growing distance. She was trying to understand, but he was giving her nothing to hold onto.
The final act finished in a flurry of magic and reconciliation. The stage erupted in applause as the cast took their bows. Someone handed MJ a bouquet of roses, and she beamed, a genuine, radiant smile that lit up the entire room. Peter snapped the final pictures, his movements mechanical. He was surrounded by joy, by celebration and relief, but he had never felt more alone. A ghost at the feast.
After the crowd dispersed, he handed the camera back to Mr. Harrington. The teacher scrolled through the photos, a wide grin spreading across his face. "These are fantastic, Peter! Really incredible stuff. You have a real eye for capturing… well, for capturing real emotion."
Peter managed a smile. It felt like cracking plaster. "Thanks, Mr. Harrington. I'm glad you like them."
He wondered, as he walked away from the teacher's warm praise, if anyone could see the truth behind the mask he wore every day. Not the red and blue one, but the one made of forced smiles and easy excuses. Could anyone see the exhaustion, the guilt, the terror that lived just beneath the surface of Peter Parker?
He pushed open the heavy doors of the auditorium, stepping out into the cool night air. The noise of laughter and celebration faded behind him, muffled by the closing door. He was alone again with the silence and the weight of it all. The evening hadn't been a distraction; it had only sharpened the one question that echoed in the deepest parts of his soul.
"Am I strong enough to keep anyone safe?"