The days pass by in a blur now.

They are meaningless- they blend together in their routine of eating, sleeping, and going to classes at the local college.

Peter wakes up every morning at four a.m. and goes running. He runs for miles- he doesn't keep track of how many because that's not the point of it. The point is simply to be tired. To be so bone achingly tired that he can't think or feel all day.

Whenever he reaches home again, he changes into a different set of clothes and goes down to breakfast with Aunt May. He eats mechanically; avoiding her eyes, and washes the dishes in the sink afterwards.

At eight thirty-seven, he leaves the house. He takes the subway to campus (he barely remembers what it was like to be Spiderman, flitting from building to building in seconds) and reaches class by nine fifteen.

He is done with classes by two thirty, and on the rare occasion that he has free time, he goes and sits on the library steps, staring up at the sky.

He is home by three.

From then until dinner, Peter does his homework and studies. Then he works out, either running again or lifting until his muscles strain under the weights.

When he goes to bed (no matter what time it is) he cannot fall asleep.

He lies there, underneath the covers in case Aunt May checks in, staring at the ceiling.

He sees nothing.

It's as if he's blind.

It's as if he used to see the whole world in color- first in normal, everyday tones, then in bright Technicolor when she entered his life. The colors muted to dry reds and browns during their in-between times and when Uncle Ben died, but they were still there. He could still see the rest of the hues if he really tried.

But now, he knows that even if he stares until his eyes hurt and his head splits, he will never see anything but grainy blacks and greys, fading together into one great tableau of monotony.

And the worst part of it all is that he doesn't care.

He doesn't care if his life continues on like this for years- the unbreakable ritual, the monotonous plodding, the movements and few words he speaks on repeat, on a loop for year after year.

He is sinking, drowning under the weight of a thousand burdens, of a thousand sentences and 'I love you's left unsaid.

He was adrift on the sea- a lost and lonely kid with superpowers and inexplicable strength and a sense of morality that caused him pain- but at least she was there, at least she had made a raft and was sailing out to find him, clambering aboard his boat when nobody else would.

But obviously she should have stuck to that raft, because it's as if a storm swept her away and he's alone now, water quickly rising.

He knows it won't be long now until he's underwater, until he can taste the salty sea, until there's nothing left to breathe but the waves that lap above his head.

He has no interest in resurfacing.

So much tragedy. Peter and Gwen forever, though. For anyone wondering, this didn't go in my other one-shot collection because I'm trying to reserve only happy, mildly angsty fics for that one lol. All the really depressing ones go by themselves so nobody has to worry about something terrible catching them by surprise.

Anyway, your reviews make me ridiculously happy (really though, I check every hour or so for new ones because I'm obsessed), so please feel free to write anything!

-BC