It was only then that Peter realized Aunt May, once so young, vibrant, and full of life, had grown old.
She no longer danced around the kitchen with joy. Her energy had faded, her voice had grown hoarse, and even her eyesight was starting to fail.
The sting in Peter's nose told him everything. The person he loved most more than even his own parents had aged so much, while he still felt like a child, still giving her reasons to worry.
"Are you okay, Aunt May?"
"I'm fine," she replied softly. "You should head home now. It's already past nine, and you've still got an hour's ride."
After a short nap, Aunt May seemed a little more refreshed. She straightened the napkins on the table and glanced up at Peter's tender expression.
"Be careful. I really don't like you riding that motorcycle. It's just too dangerous. You're flesh and blood, wrapped around a machine made of steel."
Peter didn't move. He just sat there, watching her hands fold napkins one by one.
"I worry about you," he said at last. "Uncle Ben works late a lot, and you're always home alone. What if something happens? No one would even know."
Aunt May gave a slight shrug.
"I'm just an old woman. What could possibly happen to me? Even a thief would look for someone with more money. Your Uncle Ben's whole paycheck goes to the mortgage and insurance. There's barely anything left. You, on the other hand, should start saving up so you can find yourself a nice girl."
She placed the last napkin down carefully.
"Anyway, I'm tired. You should head home."
Then, reaching into her small purse, she pulled out a folded fifty-dollar bill and slipped it into Peter's hand.
"Here. Happy birthday, sweetheart. You need it more than I do."
Peter stared at her hand, unmoving.
"I can't take this."
"Yes, you can. You have to. It's not much, but still please, just hold onto it."
"…Alright. I'll take it."
Peter saw the emotion in Aunt May's eyes. He couldn't bear to turn her down.
Tears welled up in hers, as if something deep inside had been stirred. As she gently fixed the collar of his coat, her voice trembled.
"I love you, Peter. You weren't born to me, but Uncle Ben and I have always treated you as our own. Your parents may be gone, but you still have us. But now, you've grown up. It's time you face the world on your own. Uncle Ben and we're getting old. We can't help you much anymore. All I can do is give you everything I have left. Sometimes... I don't even know what else I can do."
Her tears finally spilled over. She pulled Peter into her arms and kissed his cheeks over and over again, reluctant to let go.
"Come visit me and your Uncle Ben more often, will you? It's been nearly half a year…"
Peter took a deep breath, forcing down the lump in his throat. He hadn't cried when staring down a criminal's gun. Not when knives slashed his skin. Not even when his web snapped and he fell ten stories to the ground.
But now, in front of Aunt May, the floodgates nearly burst. Everything welled up—grief, love, guilt—screaming to be released.
A man doesn't cry easily, only because the pain hasn't cut deep enough.
But he couldn't let her worry. He swallowed it all back—the bitter tears, the ache.
He didn't let Aunt May walk him out. Carrying a plastic bag with leftover cake, the little spider stepped into the cold night.
The New York winter wind pierced through his coat. Even with a body eight times stronger than the average man, Peter had to tug his jacket tighter.
In the stillness of night, distant dog barks echoed through Brooklyn, making the streets feel even more empty and quiet.
"Hey!"
A sweet voice called out.
Peter's heart lifted. He turned around quickly—it was Mary Jane, sitting on the steps of her house.
She wore a thick mink coat, bundled up against the cold.
"Hey," Peter said, voice still raspy from holding back tears. "What are you doing out here?"
"I saw your poster," she said with a casual shrug. Her silhouette stood proudly in the wind like a plum blossom in winter. A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips.
"So? Wasn't it ridiculous? I was a little embarrassed."
"No," Peter said honestly. "It was beautiful. Seeing you every day makes me really happy."
His breath came out in warm clouds, every word sincere.
Mary Jane's gaze softened.
"I'm glad I saw you tonight, Peter."
Her breath danced through the space between them, brushing softly across his face like a breeze clearing away storm clouds.
Peter looked at her skin glowing under the dim streetlight, cheeks gently pink from the cold, her eyes like spring blossoms whispering hidden meanings.
Her brows arched slightly, delicate as wisps of mist.
"Oh, God."
Peter couldn't help blurting it out.
"What did you say?"
Mary Jane stepped closer. From here, Peter could even see her long lashes trembling faintly.
She had seen everything, yet in the end, it was Peter who loved her most.
And if a woman couldn't have the one she loved, then being truly loved by someone was still something beautiful.
"Do you want to say something to me?" she asked.
Peter's breath quickened.
"I… I wanted to know if you still live here."
The words twisted at the last moment, the truth veering off course.
Disappointment flickered across Mary Jane's face. Her full lips quivered slightly, then tightened. She stared at Peter in silence.
"You're really impossible to figure out," she said.
Raising her hand, she gently touched Peter's cheek.
"Peter."
"What?"
"Happy birthday."
Then, turning quickly, she walked away with light, swift steps.
Inside Peter, two voices erupted in chaos.
One screamed at him to chase her, grab her, confess everything—damn the consequences.
The other, calm and righteous, preached restraint and selflessness. If she were with you, would she feel safe? Would she be able to live without fear?
Peter stood frozen, torn between the two.
And just then, Mary Jane paused. With a hint of mischief and a touch of frustration, she called back:
"Hey, Peter! I'm seeing someone!"
(End of Chapter)
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