Dream's Never Came True

The night was darker than usual.

The city of New York lay under a thick, oppressive cloud cover, trapping the sounds of distant sirens and the hum of the restless city within its concrete walls. Somewhere between the streets and the shadows, Peter Parker moved, but barely. His suit, once a symbol of hope and justice, clung to his bruised, bleeding body like a second skin, torn in places where the fabric couldn’t hold against the jagged blows he’d taken.

He wasn’t winning this fight. He wasn’t even close.

The villain—a monstrous being born of chaos and anger, with tendrils of black smoke curling from its body—loomed over him. Its eyes glowed with malicious intent as it swung a massive, clawed arm in his direction. Peter dodged, but his body was sluggish, barely responding to the desperate commands of his mind.

Each movement felt like a thousand knives piercing his muscles.

His vision blurred from exhaustion, and every breath rattled in his chest, sharp and shallow. But it wasn’t just the pain that was killing him; it was the suffocating weight of loneliness, of being forgotten. No one cared if he won this battle or not. He knew it. He felt it.

Not long ago, people had called him a hero. They had relied on him, cheered for him, believed in him. Now, they didn’t even know his name. No one did. Peter Parker no longer existed. He was just another masked figure, faceless and forsaken, left to bear the weight of a burden too heavy for one person to carry.

In the distance, the faint sound of people screaming pierced through his haze of pain. They were fleeing the destruction caused by the creature he was fighting, but none of them were thinking about him.

Why would they?

It’s your fault. You should’ve known better. The words were like acid in his mind, an echo from the nightmares that haunted him every time he closed his eyes. Aunt May. Tony. Ned. MJ. Their faces flashed in his mind, twisted by fear, by disappointment. You failed them.

A searing punch to his ribs sent him crashing into the side of a building, the impact reverberating through his skull. The world spun. He coughed, blood filling his mouth, but he didn’t care enough to wipe it away. It was just one more drop in the ocean of suffering.

He lay there, crumpled on the cold, cracked asphalt, staring up at the sky as his chest rose and fell erratically. The villain was approaching, and Peter could hear the menacing growl that rumbled from its throat. He should get up. He should fight. But what was the point?

Even if he won, even if by some miracle he managed to defeat this monster, what then? Would the city cheer? Would they rally behind him, thank him for saving their lives?

No. They wouldn’t. They never did. And it would hurt less if they had never known him, but it wasn’t just that. It was the memories of how they used to smile, how MJ used to smile at him, eyes warm with something he couldn’t even remember the feel of anymore.

He was exhausted. More than that—he was done.

The villain’s hulking form loomed over him, its breath rancid, its claws ready to strike. Peter stared up at it, not even bothering to defend himself. His body felt like it was dissolving under the weight of everything he had lost, everything he had failed to protect.

What’s the point of saving a world that doesn’t care if you’re gone?

The first blow landed, tearing into his shoulder. Pain, sharp and blinding, exploded in his senses, but Peter barely reacted. It was almost a relief. Finally, something tangible to match the torment inside.

"Spider-Man," the villain’s voice was low, mocking. "You’re nothing."

Peter’s head lolled to the side, his body limp on the ground, blood pooling beneath him. The words hit harder than the physical pain, because they were the truth. He was nothing now. Just a ghost in a city that didn’t even remember he existed. He had no friends, no family, no home. His nights were spent on park benches, in alleyways, in places where no one would ever think to look for him.

How ironic. He had spent his life trying to protect people, and now he was dying alone, forgotten, like the countless nameless faces he had saved.

The villain’s claws struck again, this time across his chest. Peter’s vision flickered, his breathing ragged. He could feel the warmth of blood spreading, soaking into his tattered suit, but still, he didn’t move. Why should he?

They’re better off without you.

A flash of Aunt May’s face—her kind eyes filled with pride—flickered in his mind, followed by Tony’s voice, so clear, so alive in his memories. "You’re gonna do great things, kid."

But what great things had he done? All he had managed to do was bring suffering to the people he loved. They were gone now because of him, because of the decisions he had made.

You killed them. The voice in his head was relentless, cruel. You don’t deserve to live.

The villain raised its arm for one final strike, and Peter’s mind raced, flashing through memories like a film reel spinning out of control. He saw himself as a kid, laughing with Uncle Ben, sitting in the warmth of Aunt May’s kitchen, sharing a meal with Ned and MJ at the diner. And then he saw the end of it all, the moment they slipped from his life, leaving him alone in a world that no longer wanted him.

The tears came unbidden, trailing down his dirt-smeared face. He had tried so hard. He had given everything, everything for this city, for the people in it, and yet he was leaving the world just as he had entered it—alone, with nothing to show for it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, but he wasn’t sure who he was apologizing to. Aunt May? Tony? MJ? Himself?

The villain’s claws descended, but Peter didn’t feel them. His body was already too numb, too far gone. His eyelids grew heavy, and the sounds of the city—of the sirens, the screams, the chaos—faded into the background. All that remained was the quiet, the suffocating silence of his own mind.

His life flashed before his eyes—everything he had fought for, everything he had lost, and the small, fleeting moments of happiness he had managed to hold onto. For a moment, he was back in high school, standing with MJ and Ned, laughing over some stupid joke. They were alive, and so was he, back then. So full of hope, so full of life.

His lips curled into the faintest of smiles, but it was bittersweet. Those days were long gone, lost to the cruel passage of time.

As the darkness closed in, Peter let out one final, shuddering breath. A single tear slipped down his cheek, falling to the cracked asphalt beneath him, just as the world around him faded into nothingness.