Quiet Treads

The second Gwen snuck back into her room, she slammed the door shut, pressed her back against it, and exhaled like she had just sprinted a marathon.

Peace. Silence. Maybe if she just stayed still—

"Nice landing," Peter Parker said, lounging upside down midair like gravity didn’t apply to dead people. "Real stealthy. A for effort."

Gwen groaned. "Please, not tonight."

From the corner near her desk, Aaron Davis snorted. "Yeah, Pete, give the kid a break. She’s already twitchier than a cat near a dog park."

Peter floated upright, mock offended. "I'm just saying, she could use some... finesse. Y'know, Spidey standards."

"I’m not Spider-Man," Gwen hissed under her breath, grabbing the nearest thing—her hairbrush—and pretending to fiddle with it in case her dad walked by and heard her talking to, well, nobody.

Aaron threw his hands up. "Relax, Drumbeats. We’re invisible to the boring people."

"Still doesn't help me look less insane," she muttered, crossing to her bed and flopping onto it face-first. Her phone buzzed near her pillow.

Sketchshade: Don’t let the voices win.

Gwen barked a laugh into the mattress before flipping over and texting back.

Drumbeats: Too late. I’m a lost cause.

Peter peered over her shoulder like a nosy big brother. "Who's Sketchshade? Boyfriend? Girlfriend? Mysterious secret admirer?"

Aaron elbowed him—or tried to. His arm phased right through. "Give the girl some privacy, man."

Gwen waved them off like they were annoying flies. "Not your business."

Peter winked. "That's a yes."

"No!" Gwen sat up, cheeks burning. "It’s just... he's a friend. I think. Kinda new. We vent to each other, that's it."

Aaron smirked. "Sounds suspicious. Sketchy, even."

Gwen tossed a pillow through his transparent chest.

Peter spun in lazy circles in the air. "Hey, at least you're making friends. Beats screaming into the void."

"You are the void," Gwen grumbled, thumb hovering over her keyboard before setting her phone down.

The room dimmed as she switched off her lamp, the blue light of her phone screen the only thing illuminating the mess. Posters half-ripped off the walls, textbooks abandoned mid-study, an old cracked cymbal from band practice leaning against the closet.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She wasn’t supposed to see ghosts at all hours of the day. Or pretend she was fine at school when she was being haunted by two separate dead guys with endless commentary.

"You're doing good, kid," Aaron said, a rare flicker of genuine warmth slipping into his voice.

"Yeah," Peter added, softer. "Better than you think."

Gwen rolled onto her side, tucking her hands under her cheek. "I just want it to stop," she whispered into the dark.

Neither of them had an answer for that.

Her phone buzzed again.

Sketchshade: Lost causes make the best heroes.

She smiled, small and tired.

Maybe he was right.

Maybe.

Across the room, Peter started humming something suspiciously like a bad pop song, off-key. Aaron joined in, beatboxing terribly.

Gwen groaned into her pillow. "If you two don’t shut up, I’m getting sage and burning this place down."

Peter grinned. "Joke’s on you. Sage smells like feet."

Aaron doubled over laughing, soundless but vibrating like a bad signal. "You’re stuck with us, Gwenda."

Gwen squeezed her eyes shut, clutching the pillow tighter, the ghostly symphony of terrible singing carrying her, somehow, into uneasy sleep.

It started with coffee.

Gwen wasn’t even supposed to be at Jitters that morning. But after Peter spent the entire night floating over her bed arguing with Aaron about the merits of different bagel toppings, she was running on two hours of sleep and pure spite.

She dragged herself in, ordered the strongest thing on the menu (double espresso, triple shot, make it lethal), and spun around straight into someone’s chest.

"Ow!" Gwen yelped, hot coffee sloshing dangerously.

"Whoa, sorry—!" the guy caught her by the elbows before she could tip over.

Gwen looked up and froze.

Dark eyes. Faded jean jacket. Curly hair under a beanie. Cute.

Way too cute for this hour.

"It’s fine," Gwen muttered, wrestling her dignity back into place. "My fault. I wasn’t looking."

He gave her a small, sheepish grin. "Yeah... me neither. Guess we're both guilty."

Her heart did a weird double-thump. She immediately blamed the caffeine.

She mumbled something incoherent and escaped to the corner table, cheeks burning.

Behind her, Peter whispered, "Smooth."

Aaron whistled low. "Girl's got a type."

Gwen thumped her forehead against the table.

It happened again that afternoon.

She was in Midtown Comics, flipping through old Spider-Woman issues, when someone bumped into the same rack she was browsing.
Comics rained down like colorful snow.

"Oh, come on—" Gwen muttered, scrambling to catch a falling issue before it crumpled.

And there he was again.

The coffee guy. Crouching next to her, laughing under his breath.

"Starting to think you're following me," he said, handing her a comic.

Gwen snorted. "You're the one crashing into me, dude."

He held up his hands, mock innocent. "Hey, maybe we’re both cursed."

"You don't know the half of it," Gwen muttered, glancing over her shoulder where Peter and Aaron were bickering about the best fictional superheroes.

Peter was making hand puppets with a Batman action figure. Aaron kept trying to grab a plastic lightsaber.

Normal people problems, Gwen thought. Must be nice.

Coffee Boy raised an eyebrow, like he heard her silent scream.

Gwen shoved the comic into her jacket and mumbled a thanks, making a beeline for the door.

Behind her, she heard Aaron cackle, "That's two, baby! Universe is playin’ matchmaker!"

Peter chimed in, "Tangled Threads!"

"No," Gwen hissed under her breath. "No tangled anything."

Then again.

Because of course.

She was hauling her drum kit to a last-minute Mary Janes practice at a crummy rented studio when a skateboard zipped past too close.

She yelped, lost her balance, and her snare drum went rolling into the street.

"Yo, sorry—!" a familiar voice shouted, already sprinting after it.

Gwen blinked. "You again?"

Coffee Guy (who apparently also skated) retrieved her drum, jogging it back over with an apologetic wince.

"I swear I'm not stalking you," he said, breathless. "Maybe... fate?"

Gwen stared at him, sweaty, bright-eyed, looking like he'd just survived a mini tornado, and somehow still managing to smile.

It was dangerously charming. Illegal, probably.

Behind her, Peter howled with laughter. Aaron elbowed him. "Man, if fate keeps tripping them into each other, maybe it’s time for numbers?"

Gwen wanted to crawl into a sewer and stay there forever.

"Thanks," she mumbled, taking the drum and fleeing inside before her face could combust.

That night, Gwen collapsed onto her bed, limbs boneless.
Her phone buzzed.

Sketchshade: Feel like today was cursed?

She stared at the message, feeling the weight of three ridiculous run-ins settle on her like a weird, heavy jacket.

Slowly, she typed back:

Drumbeats: You have no idea.

Aaron appeared above her head, floating upside down and juggling her socks like it was Cirque du Soleil.
Peter sat cross-legged on the ceiling fan, spinning lazily.

"Coincidence," Gwen muttered. "Not fate. Definitely not."

Aaron winked. "Sure, kid."

Peter gave her a knowing look. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"Shut up," Gwen hissed into her pillow.

But even as she buried her head under the covers, she couldn't help smiling.

Just a little.

The door creaked open, and Miles practically fell into the dorm room, backpack sliding off his shoulder and hitting the floor with a thud.

"Rough day?" Ganke asked without looking up from his video game.

"You have no idea," Miles groaned, toeing off his sneakers and collapsing face-first onto his bed.

The room smelled like instant noodles and air freshener. Posters lined the walls—half Ganke’s favorite games, half Miles’ sketches he hadn’t bothered to frame.
The window was cracked open, letting in a breeze that rattled a loose sheet of homework on Ganke’s desk.

"Dude, you missed dinner at the cafeteria," Ganke said, lazily mashing buttons. "I saved you a sandwich, though. Turkey. Not the mystery meat one."

Miles lifted his head an inch. "You're a real one, man."

Ganke smirked. "I know."

Miles pushed himself up and grabbed the sandwich, unwrapping it like it was a national treasure. As he ate, he half-listened to the sounds of Ganke’s game—some battle noises mixed with epic fantasy music—and let his mind wander.

Specifically... to her.

"So..." he said through a mouthful of turkey, "what do you think it means if you keep running into the same girl? Like, a lot?"

Ganke didn’t even pause his game. "Means fate’s trying to tell you something."

Miles frowned. "Or that Brooklyn’s just really small."

"Could be both." Ganke shrugged, laser-focused on the screen. "What’s she like again?"

Miles slouched back against the headboard. "She's got blonde hair, shaved on one side. Wears these boots like she's ready to stomp somebody if they look at her wrong. Kinda punk rock, y'know?"
He paused. "And she carries drumsticks. Real ones, not like, fashion ones."

Ganke finally paused the game and turned around in his chair. "Dude."

Miles raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"You have a type." Ganke grinned.

"No, I don't!" Miles protested immediately.

"Yes, you do!" Ganke pointed at him. "Tough girls who could beat you up but also make you laugh. You’re so obvious."

Miles groaned, pulling a pillow over his head. "I’m not obvious."

Ganke just laughed, spinning in his chair. "Whatever you say, Mr. Totally-Not-Obvious."

Miles peeked out from under the pillow. "You think I should talk to her if I see her again?"

"I think," Ganke said, leaning back dramatically, "you should stop acting like you’re in a soap opera and just say hi like a normal human being."

Miles muttered something about Ganke being no help at all and shoved the rest of the sandwich into his mouth.

Across the room, his phone buzzed.
Miles wiped his hands on his jeans and checked it.

Drumbeats: Today was insane. Feel like I’m losing my mind lol. U good?

Miles smiled a little without even thinking about it.
Sketchshade and Drumbeats.
They had started messaging only a few days ago, but it already felt weirdly easy—venting to someone who didn't know his real name or expect anything from him.

He typed back:

Sketchshade: Long day too. Dorm life’s wild. Got saved by a turkey sandwich tho.

The typing bubble popped up almost immediately.

Drumbeats: Jealous. Cafeteria food here sucks. Id trade my soul for pizza rn.

Miles snorted under his breath.

"Is that her?" Ganke asked slyly, noticing the small grin.

"None of your business," Miles said, flipping his phone over.

Ganke cackled. "It's totally her!"

Miles threw the pillow at his face.