❝ cause it's tragedy and it'll only bring you down ❞
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
021. the tragedy of spider-man
"𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐃𝐘. What else can I call it? What more need be said? The damage... The destruction... You saw it with your own eyes. When will people wake up, and realize that everywhere Spider-Man goes... chaos and calamity ensue. Everything Spider-Man touches comes to ruin. And we, the innocents, are left to pick up the pieces. J. Jonah Jameson, reporting. Good night. And God help us all."
The words echoed in Ingrid's mind like a relentless drumbeat, each syllable striking a raw nerve. Anger roiled in her chest, sharp and hot, nearly suffocating her. She wanted to scream at the screen, to tear apart the venomous words spewed by that man. But it wouldn’t change anything. The damage was already done.
Somewhere out there, Peter was alone — hurt, scared, grieving. And she didn’t even know where he was. That thought stung the most. She had left him. She had promised herself she’d stay by his side, but the chaos had torn them apart.
After hurried goodbyes to Evelyn, Dylan, and Lucas, Ingrid had no choice but to follow Ned and MJ to Ned's apartment. There was nowhere else to go.
Ned's home was quiet — mercifully so. The dim light of the dining room bathed the table in a muted glow, casting long shadows across the floral-patterned tablecloth. Pictures of Ned, always smiling, filled every surface, each one a stark contrast to the heavy silence that now hung over the room.
Ingrid sat stiffly at the table, her eyes fixed on the wood grain, tracing patterns that her mind couldn't quite hold onto. Beside her, MJ scrolled through her phone, her face pale and tense. Across the table, Ned’s hands rested in his lap, his usually cheerful expression replaced with a quiet worry. The TV behind them droned on, its anchor parroting Jameson’s rhetoric — venomous words branding Peter as a criminal, a murderer. Ingrid refused to look. She couldn’t.
Lola moved around the kitchen, her presence warm but subdued. She’d welcomed them all without hesitation, her smile kind despite the unexpected intrusion. Ingrid didn’t know much about grandmothers, but she imagined this was what they were supposed to be like — gentle, steady, a safe harbor.
Now, Lola placed a small plate of bread on the table, the scent wafting faintly through the air. Ingrid glanced up, meeting her kind eyes for a brief moment. She tried to muster a smile but failed, her lips trembling before she turned her gaze back to her phone.
Still no messages. Still no calls. Still no Peter.
Her leg bounced under the table, the nervous energy barely contained. The ache in her chest grew heavier with every second of silence. She pictured Peter somewhere out there, his face pale with exhaustion, his shoulders weighed down by grief. The thought brought a sting of tears to her eyes, but she blinked them away. She had to hold it together — for Peter, for everyone.
