The word people use when something came close to happening- but didn't.
She almost told him. He almost loved her. They almost had forever.
But almost is just another word for too late. And too late is all they ever had.
Angst. Slow burn. Yearning. Beauty. Almost.
Original edition: Wattpad (Xx_derujan_xX)
ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴏɴᴇ: ᴀʟᴏɴᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴀɪɴ
ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛᴡᴏ: ʟɪᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴛᴏᴡɴ, ʙɪɢ ꜱᴋʏ
ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ: ᴍɪᴅᴡɪɴᴛᴇʀ
ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜰᴏᴜʀ: ᴏʀᴅɪɴᴀʀʏ
ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ꜰɪᴠᴇ: ꜱɴᴏᴡᴇᴅ ɪɴ
A/N, please read!!
PICTURE CREDITS: Pinterest
CONTENT WARNINGS: This story has themes that might be heavy for some readers. They include:
MEDICAL CONTENT: · Terminal illness (Huntington's Disease) · Symptoms portrayed: tremors, memory loss, cognitive decline, hallucinations, mood swings, physical incoordination · Progressive physical and mental deterioration · Medical trauma
MENTAL HEALTH: · Depression · Anxiety and panic
GRIEF/LOSS: · Anticipatory grief · Death of a loved one (off-screen, before story begins) · Death of a parent (Lana's parents, mentioned) · Grief processing
RELATIONSHIPS: · Unrequited love (temporary) ·Emotional infidelity · Adoption/foster care themes · Abandonment trauma
ABOUT THE STORY: This is a x Reader fanfiction! English is not my first language.
CANON-COMPLIANT (mostly): It's possible that some scenes aren't canon. I'm trying to make it as realistic as possible. I haven't watched all the episodes yet.
Summary: You were the only good thing left. He never planned to keep you.
TW: Graphic violence, blood and injury detail, emotional manipulation, physical restraint, g0re, Grief response, Themes of ideological extremism justifying murder, Domestic Tragedy, Angst with No Happy Ending, Geto Suguru Is His Own Warning, Emotional Horror
Suguru Geto had a smile that made the world tilt. His eyes crinkled and he looked at you, the only good thing left in his rotting world.
You should have asked more questions.
But you were sixteen, in love, stupid. He was beautiful in that haunted untouchable way, and you thought your warmth could fill every cold space inside him. You held his hand when he woke up in the middle of the night. You kissed the tension from his jaw. You told him it's okay, I've got you as if those words meant anything against the weight of a world he'd already decided to burn.
You noticed the changes though. You weren't blind.
The calls got shorter. His eyes got emptier. He stopped eating the food you cooked, stared at it like something foul. When you asked if he was okay, he'd look at you and you'd see something calculating behind the exhaustion. Measuring you. Weighing you.
"Do you think people deserve to suffer?" he whispered one night, voice flat.
You were curled against his chest half-asleep. "Hmm?"
"Never mind."
You should have run then.
The last week was the worst. He barely spoke. Stopped touching you entirely. You found him standing in the dark at 3 AM, staring out the window, and when you wrapped your arms around him from behind his body went rigid. "Sugu," you whispered. "Please talk to me"
He didn't turn around, but his hand came up to cover yours. "I'm sorry," he said.
What for?
The day it happened the sky was the wrong color, somehow too blue. You'd made his tea and he took it without a word. You remember thinking his hands looked like they belonged to a statue.
"I love you," you said.
"I know," he answered.
You smiled slightly. Here's what you didn't understand yet; this was the last time kindness would touch his face. He'd made his decision three weeks ago. Rehearsed this moment every night while you slept beside him, the only thing keeping you alive this long was the pathetic, cowardly part of him that still wanted to remember your laugh.
He killed that part this morning.
You turned to grab your phone from the counter. Your back to him for less than three seconds.
That's all it took.
You only feel what happens next.
Pressure first. Then cold. Then heat, wet, shocking, blooming across your chest like a second heart waking up somewhere it shouldn't be.
A hand pressed flat against your sternum. But it isn't his.
Pale. Wrong. Fingernails like broken glass sunk into your skin. His curse has reached through you from behind, arm passing through muscle and bone like water, until its palm found the front of your ribcage and stopped.
Goosebumps immediately rose on your skin.
Your knees buckled. One moment you're standing, the next the floor rushes up and your body meets tile. He follows you down, lowering himself to kneel beside you as your blood begins to pool.
His curse withdraws its arm. His hand takes its place. Suguru presses his palm flat against your chest, right over the wound. The pain hit a second later, white, screaming, but that wasn't what stole your air. It was his face. Oh God his face.
He wasn't smiling nor crying. He was watching, head tilted, observing some interesting scientific phenomenon, your blood warm on his fingers.
"Sugu—" Your voice came out wrong, confused and broken.
His jaw tightened. His hand came up to cup your face, thumb stroking your cheekbone so gently you sobbed.
"I'm sorry," he said again. And this time you understood.
This is what he was sorry for.
A flick of his wrist. A pulse of that cursed energy you never understood but never feared, it was his, and you trusted him. He could stop whatever he just did. You'd be okay. Broken. Betrayed. But alive.
He didn't.
If anything, he pressed deeper.
A raw, animal sound ripped through your throat. Your back arched off the floor. Your hands flew to his wrist, fingers locking around bone, nails digging in, trying to pry him off. It wouldn't budge. Why wouldn't it budge? His skin split under your nails. Blood welled up in thin red crescents. You clawed down his forearm in streaks, flesh catching under your fingertips, your own blood smearing across his knuckles. Your heart pounded a wild, desperate rhythm against the inside of your ribs.
"Shh," he breathed. "Shh shh shh.. "
Your lungs filled with something warm and thick. Your breath sounded like drowning. His face swam above you, a nightmare you couldn't wake from. But your eyes wouldn't close. Every time you tried, some primal part of your brain forced them open again, closing your eyes meant trusting him, and you couldn't trust him, not anymore and not ever again, because look, he is killing you!
"There they are," he murmured, almost proud. His other hand held your face in place, fingers digging into your jaw hard enough to bruise. Trapped. You'd been unknowingly trapped since the moment you loved him.
Another wave of pain. White. Hot. Endless. Your voice shattered mid-scream, splintered into a rasp, then nothing. Still your mouth opened, though no sound followed.
He watched as though you were breaking him, your scream a knife buried in his own chest, tears slid down his beautiful cheeks, and the horror that flooded you almost swallowed the pain; he was crying because he was enjoying this. Not the suffering itself or the meaning of it. The proof sat in his hands, killing the thing he loved most. The most honest moment of his ruined life, devastation and freedom tangled together behind those dark eyes, self-loathing curled alongside indifference, and he felt all of it at once.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
The words meant nothing now.
He leaned down. Pressed his warm lips to your forehead. The same lips that swore he'd never hurt you.
"Stay with me," he whispered. "Just a little longer.."
As if you had a choice.. As if he hadn't pinned you here with pain and betrayal and that cruel, lingering hope that maybe, maybe, he'd change his mind–
He watched the light drain from you. Your fingers went slack on his sleeve. Your chest stopped heaving. Your eyes, those eyes that looked at him like he was good, worth saving, loved, went glassy and still.
Your body went limp and cooling beneath him, your blood still seeping into the tile below. He pressed his forehead to yours and closed his eyes.
He slowly gathered you up off the cold floor, lifting you against his chest. A dead weight should not feel this light. Your head lolled against his shoulder, mouth slightly slack, eyes still open but seeing nothing. He left them that way.
"I loved you," he whispered to your dead ears, to the hollow shell of a girl who used to hold him and tell him the world wasn't all bad. "I loved you and I still chose this."
He stayed a long time holding you, rocking you without thinking, his sleeve soaked through and his cheek pressed flat to your cooling hair, until his knees ached from the tile, his legs soaked through, and he realized he was still holding you. He let go. Stood. Looked down at what he'd done; you, curled on the floor, face peaceful now, the pain was over, and you didn't have to watch him become a monster anymore.
His hands wore you like gloves. Your art engraved his skin, wild red strokes down his forearm, crescent moons where your nails caught, your last words pressed into him whether he wanted them or not.
He walked to the door. Paused with his hand on the frame.
"You would have tried to stop me," he said to the room. "And I couldn't have you standing in my way."
The door closed.
And opened six hours later.
Sunset. Dark apartment. Your phone had buzzed seven times, missed calls, texts, a voicemail from your dad that was just ten seconds of silence before "I love you, baby" and a click.
Gojo Satoru stood in the doorway.
He'd come because Geto never showed for a mission recently. The name Suguru had been screaming in the back of his skull all day, a dull roar he'd ignored, and now he was here.
He found you first.
There you were. Middle of the floor, blood dried now, brown and tacky, spread in a halo around your still body. Your eyes still open. Glassy. Empty. Aimed at the ceiling because he'd moved your head when he finally stood up. Arranged you almost tenderly, a doll returned to its shelf, waiting for hands that would never pick you up again.
Gojo stood there frozen, hand still on the doorframe, knuckles white. He could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears and it was the only sound in the whole world because the apartment was so quiet and you were so still and- AND—
His knees hit the floor with a wet sound and still he didn't notice, because all he could see was your face. Your face. You'd smiled at him last week. Asked how his day was. Told him he was reckless and should sleep more and oh, Satoru, you're such a disaster, who forgets to eat?
He'd laughed. He'd said that's what Suguru's for.
Suguru.
His trembling hand hovered over your cheek. He couldn't touch you, because if he touched you, he couldn't pretend you weren't really gone.
"Oh," he breathed. His voice cracked on the single syllable. Split right down the middle. "Oh!.."
He was supposed to be the strongest and here he was, kneeling in your blood, staring at you. His favorite person, gone. His hand finally made contact. His fingers brushed your eyelids to close them, the gentlest thing that had touched you since this morning.
He smoothed your hair back from your face. Your skin was cold.
So cold.
His breath hitched. Then broke.
The sound that came out of him was a choked, wet noise he couldn't swallow down no matter how hard he tried. Gojo Satoru didn't cry. Gojo Satoru was untouchable, untroubled, untouched by the weight of the world
But Gojo Satoru was also seventeen and his best friend had killed someone.
Had killed you.
Somewhere across the city, Suguru washes your blood from his hands.
The scratches burn.
The water runs red, then clear, then red again, he doesn't know why, he already rinsed them twice?..
He looks up.
The mirror shows only himself. But he could have sworn–
No.
He turns off the water.
Dries his hands.
Leaves the bathroom without finishing the thought.
You step off the bus in smallville, kansas, with one suitcase, a little bit of confusion, and absolutely no idea what you've gotten yourself into. Your english is functional. You know the basics, you can order food, you can ask for directions, but no one warned you about american high schools. No one warned you about the noise. the lockers slamming, the people shouting across the hallway and the sheer amount of bass coming from someone's car in the parking lot. Your ears are genuinely overwhelmed. Back home, things were quieter. Here, everything is loud and fast and everyone walks with so much purpose like they're in a movie.
You're looking around like... why are people wearing pajamas to school? why are the jeans so low? why is that girl's shirt two sizes too small but also bedazzled? You showed up in your nice outfit and suddenly you feel overdressed and underprepared all at once.
The cafeteria is its own circle of culture shock. You stare at the cafeteria pizza like it personally offended your ancestors. Everyone around you is eating it like it's normal, like this sad rectangle of cheese is acceptable food, and you're sitting there thinking who hurt these people. You take a bite of the lunch and immediately miss your grandmother's cooking with your whole chest. You start bringing your own food in little containers and chloe literally moans when she smells your leftovers one day. She hovers like a stray cat every lunch period after that.
and then. AND THEN.
You're walking to class and you see it. A couple pressed against the lockers, full-on kissing. Like, in front of everyone. In public. Where teachers can see. You stop dead in your tracks, eyes wide, because back home your cousin got in trouble for holding hands with a girl at the park. You stare for maybe two seconds too long before you physically turn your body away and speed-walk in the opposite direction, face warm, muttering to yourself in your native language about how these people have no shame 😭
The bullying thing lasted approximately one day. A group of smug guys corners you by the lockers, trying to intimidate you with all the classic american bully lines. One of them goes, "you better watch your back," and you literally turn around, stare at your own back like that's a physical thing you can do, and go, "my back.. fine?" with the most genuine confusion on your face. They stared at you, you stared back, they had no idea what to do. They never tried again. You still don't know why they were talking about backs. Maybe american sports are just that intense?
But here's the thing about you. You're so earnest, so genuinely kind, that people can't help but gravitate toward you. You have this aura, this calmness, that makes people want to sit next to you and talk. You don't even realize it's happening at first. A girl sits down at your lunch table, starts crying about her ex-boyfriend, and you just nod and say "he is.. ah.. trash, yes?" in your broken english, and somehow that's exactly what she needed. She comes back the next day. And the next. You still don't know her name. She's told you her entire romantic history. She always leaves saying "you're the only one who gets me." You don't get her, you don't even know her. But you have a kind face, apparently, and smallville is hungry for that.
Your english gets better slowly, determinedly. You carry a little notebook everywhere, writing down words you don't know, practicing pronunciation under your breath. Sometimes you get things mixed up– in the most adorable way possible!!
like the time with clark 😩
It's a hot day, he's been helping his dad with something, and he walks into the school looking fine. Slightly flushed, hair a little messy, sleeves pushed up. You're trying to say that he looks warm, that he must have been working hard, that you have water if he needs it. what comes out is: "clark, you are hot i see."
He opens his mouth and nothing comes out. You, completely oblivious, pull a water bottle from your bag and hand it to him. "here. for the hot." he takes it like you've handed him something sacred, mutters "thank you" in a voice that cracks slightly, and you walk away wondering why he looked so surprised.
Another time, you're in class and some upperclassman says, "i'm afraid it's not possible to get a spot on the yearbook committee this late in the semester" You look at them with so much sincerity. "Afraid? don't be afraid. it is just committee"
The upperclassman blinks. Then they laugh. It's genuinely delighted. You get a spot on the committee. No one knows how you did it. You just have that effect on people😭💕
Someone complains about a test and says "i'm gonna die, i'm serious," and you look at them with such gentle concern and say, "please do not die. you can take the test again maybe." they don't know how to argue with you. They just study harder.
You're determined, stubborn in the quietest way. You learn english through sheer force of will, watching late-night tv with a notebook, practicing pronunciation in the mirror, asking clark endless questions because he's patient and never makes fun of you. He loves it. He loves the way you scrunch your nose when you're concentrating, and how you triumphantly yell "I DID IT" when you finally master a phrase you've been struggling with 🥹
You're the girl who invites the whole gang over for dinner and your mom feeds them until they can't move and they all leave saying it was the best meal they've ever had. Clark watches you navigate this weird loud american world with so much grace and determination and he's gone for you. He starts learning a few words of your language just to see you smile!!
Let me hold your hand when i say this:
You're sitting on the kent farm porch, legs dangling off the edge, your notebook open in your lap. Clark is beside you, ostensibly doing homework, but he's mostly been watching you sound out words for the past twenty minutes.
"Okay," you say, tapping your pencil. "i have a list. Words people say, i do not understand."
"Hit me," clark says.
You look at him, alarmed. "No! why would i hit you? you are so nice to me!"
"No, no, it's—" he rubs the back of his neck, smiling. "it's an expression. it means 'tell me.' like, go ahead."
You narrow your eyes at him, writing something down. "Americans say so many things they do not mean. Okay. First word. 'literally.' People say it all the time. Chloe said 'i literally died' yesterday but she is standing right there alive"
Clark laughs softly. "Yeah, that one... people use it for emphasis, they don't mean it literally literally"
"Then why say the word 'literally'? just say 'figuratively'? or nothing? this is confusing"
He watches you write something in your notebook, a gentle smile on his face. "What are you writing?"
"I am writing: 'literally' does not mean literally. Do not call ambulance if chloe says she died."
He lets out a real laugh this time, bright and warm, and you feel something flutter in your chest. You want to make him laugh more.
"Okay, next," you say, hiding your smile. "'down bad.' pete said this, he said he is 'down bad' for the new girl in science class. is he sick? should he go to the nurse?"
Clark's laugh turns into a cough. His ears go pink. "that one— uh— that one means—it means he likes her. a lot"
You blink. "so... 'down bad' means good? but 'down' is down. 'bad' is bad. two negatives? like math?"
"it's not—" he runs a hand through his hair, laughing. "it's slang"
"American english is not real english," you declare, closing your notebook with authority. "I have decided. You are all making it up as you go."
Clark is quiet for a moment, still pink, looking at you with that soft expression he gets sometimes, like you're the sun and he's just happy to be in your light.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "Yeah, we kind of are."
You nod, satisfied, then you bump your shoulder against his.
"You are my favorite american, though. even if your language is fake."
He looks away, but not before you catch the smile spreading across his face.
Thursday afternoon, Clara asked for help with the back room.
"A shipment came in," she said, already halfway turned toward the hallway. "Boxes need unpacking. Shelves need rearranging. You don't have to, but—"
"I'll do it."
The answer came out quicker than you expected, but you didn't take it back. You needed something to do. Sitting in the window all day had started to feel repetitive. The same view, the same sketches, trees, snow, that stupid window seat you couldn't stop drawing. Your hand needed a break. Your head did too.
The back room was warmer than the rest of the store, but only technically. The radiator in the corner hissed like it was doing its best and failing halfway through, throwing uneven heat into a space that still felt cold no matter where you stood. You couldn't care less. You were used to adjusting yourself to rooms instead of expecting them to adjust to you.
You started with the closest box. Cut the tape. Folded the flaps back. Books, stacked tight and neat inside. Poetry, mostly.
Of course.
Clara ordered poetry the way other people ordered groceries, regularly, without thinking about it too much.
You were almost through the second box when the bell chimed.
The sound carried differently back here. Softer, but still sharp enough to make your hands pause. You stayed still, just listening.
"Clark?" Clara's voice drifted in from the front, warm and surprised. "What are you doing out in this?"
His voice followed, slightly muffled through the wall. "My mom forgot one of her orders. She sent me before the roads got worse."
Your eyes dropped to the box. Reached in. Pulled out another stack of books. It shouldn't have mattered. You kept working.
A few minutes passed before the back room door opened. You glanced up without meaning to.
Clark stood in the doorway, a paper bag tucked under his arm. Snow had melted into his jacket, darkening the fabric at the shoulders. His hair was damp, pushed back like he'd run a hand through it one too many times. His cheeks were still pink from the cold.
He looked like he'd walked through the weather instead of around it.
"Clara said you were back here," he said, stepping inside. "She asked me to bring these."
He held out a small stack of books. They transferred to your hands.
"Thanks."
"Yeah."
He didn't leave. It became obvious almost immediately, even without you turning back. Books went aside without pause and you reached into the box again, kept your hands moving.
For a second, nothing.
A quiet shift. Metal scraping lightly against cardboard. You turned slightly. He'd found the box cutter.
"What are you doing?"
Clark shrugged, already pulling open the next box. "Helping." He said it simply, like it didn't need explaining. "Roads are getting bad. Clara told me to wait it out anyway."
He peeled the tape back, folded the box open, started sorting through the books with more care than you expected. "Might as well be useful."
You found yourself watching him. He wasn't fast, but he wasn't clumsy either. You looked back down at your own box.
"Suit yourself."
He smiled a little.
"You like poetry?"
His voice came out of nowhere. You looked up. He had the stack in his hands — Dickinson, Frost, Plath, —turning one over like he was trying to figure out what to do with it.
"Sometimes." You watched him. "You?"
He made a face. Not quite a no. "My mom loves it. She's always trying to get me into it, but…" He shrugged. "People read so much into it, you know? Hidden meanings. Symbolism. Its like too much sometimes"
"That sounds exactly like someone who doesn't get poetry."
He laughed quietly. "Yeah. That's fair."
You pulled another book from the box, ran your thumb across the cover, set it aside. "Which one did she give you?"
"Dickinson." He nodded toward the pile. "She has this old copy. Pages falling out, notes in the margins, the whole thing. She read me one once. Something about hope being a thing with feathers"
You stopped.
"And?"
He took his time answering. "I remember thinking… that's not what it feels like."
You looked at him.
"What does it feel like?"
His thumb traced the edge of the book. "Heavier," he said. "Not in a bad way. Just… something you can't ignore. Even when you want to."
You nodded. Let that sit.
He glanced at the poetry stack. "What about you? Any books you like?"
A strand of hair slipped forward. You tucked it behind your ear. "There was one. A girl who runs off into the woods and disappears"
He waited.
"I never finished it."
"Why not?"
You peeled at the loose tape on the box, let it curl around your trembling finger. "Moved. Left it behind."
You reached for another stack. Your fingers brushed, his skin was warm.
He frowned. "Your hands are cold."
"January."
He glanced toward the radiator. "It's warmer over there."
"I'm fine."
The words came without looking at him. You heard boxes shifting. He'd moved them closer, narrowing the space between you and bringing the radiator's warmth within easy reach.
He set another book down. Slower this time. "You weren't at school."
You kept your eyes on the box. "Snow."
"The roads were fine."
You peeled another strip of tape. "I didn't feel like going. Couldn't see the point."
"Of school?"
You let out a breath. "Of any of it."
Another stack came out of the box. You set it down harder than you meant to. "Classes, homework, graduation… it all feels predetermined."
Clark leaned back against the table, arms folded. "Yeah. I get that."
You looked at him, surprised. "You do?"
"Sometimes." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Feels like everyone else has it figured out. Plans, goals… and I'm just waiting for something to make sense."
You studied him. "That's not what I meant."
He met your eyes. "Then what did you mean?"
You hesitated. The real answer was somewhere deeper. Somewhere you didn't let people go. You looked back down at your hands.
"I don't really see myself there," you said. "In any of it."
"School?"
"The hallways. The desks." You searched for the word. "It all feels… not mine."
A pause.
"I'd rather be here," you added. "Drawing."
He seemed to think about it. "You're good at it."
You shook your head. "It's just something I do."
"It doesn't sound like just something."
You looked at him. He wasn't smiling. He meant it.
"I don't think anyone would care," you said, more honest than you meant to be.
"I would."
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the box.
He let it pass. Picked up another book, slid it into place. "School's… there," he said. "It's not forever. But it gives you something to do while you figure stuff out."
"I don't want to figure it out."
He turned to you. "You might... But avoiding it doesn't really help either."
"You sound like a teacher."
He smiled. "I skip sometimes."
This caught your attention. "You?"
"Yeah." A shrug. "When it gets too much."
"Where do you go?"
"The loft. At the farm. It's quiet."
"And then?"
"Then I go back."
You tilted your head. "Why?"
He thought about it. "Because it's still there. Whether I show up or not."
He pushed off the table, brushed his hands together. "I'm not saying you have to like it. But if you're here anyway, you might as well see what happens."
You gave him a skeptical look. "And what if nothing does?"
He smiled. "In Smallville? Something always does."
Music drifted from the front of the store. Ella Fitzgerald. Clara played her a lot.
Clark's gaze shifted toward the doorway. "Your mom—"
"She's not–" You stopped. "Clara. She's not my mom."
"Oh." A short pause. "Sorry."
"It's fine." You hesitated. "She took me in."
He nodded. "She's nice."
"Yeah."
"And she cares about you."
That landed differently. You stayed quiet and focused on the stack of books instead, as if they needed more attention than the silence between you did.
Your hand stopped on one without meaning to.
You picked the book up and turned it over, waiting for something to catch. For the feeling that it belonged somewhere.
Nothing came.
Only the impression of having reached for something you should have known, and missing it without understanding what had slipped through.
When the light shifted, gray pressing heavier against the windows and the glass turning pale with snow, you realized the storm had gotten worse.
Clara stepped into the back room, wiping her hands on her apron. She slowed when she saw outside. "Oh… that's not good."
Clark moved closer to the window. "I should probably head out before it gets worse."
Your hands stopped moving in the box.
Clara shook her head. "No, you're not driving in that."
"It's not that bad," he said, though he didn't move toward the door.
"Clark."
He hesitated. Looked outside again. The wind had picked up, snow cutting across the glass. He exhaled quietly.
"Yeah... Okay."
You reached for another book, even though you hadn't finished the last stack.
Clara nodded. "Good. I'll make up the spare room."
"You—"
"I know." She gave him a small smile. "Still doing it." She moved past him and out into the hallway, her footsteps fading.
The silence after she left was different than before. Less expectation in it. Clark didn't fill it right away, which surprised you. He just leaned against the table, arms folded, watching the snow hit the window.
You pulled another book from the box. Set it on the stack. Pulled another.
He didn't say anything.
You reached for another one. Your hand brushed the edge of the box wrong and a stack tilted. You caught it before it fell, but your fingers trembled doing it, just for a second. You pulled your hand back.
Clark's gaze shifted toward you.
"You don't have to stay in here," you said.
"I know."
You picked up another book. "You could go wait in the front. Clara has a couch"
"I'm fine."
The word echoed something he'd said earlier. You wondered if he meant it that way.
The wind pressed against the windows. Snow built in the corners of the glass. The radiator clicked somewhere behind you, heat rising in uneven waves.
"So," he said.
You looked up.
He seemed to reconsider whatever he was going to say, but shrugged instead. "Nothing. Just making noise."
You almost smiled.
He reached for a book to hold. "You don't have to talk," he said. "If you don't want to."
You watched him.
"I'm not trying to—" He stopped and started again. "I just figured, if I'm stuck here anyway, might as well not make it weird by sitting in silence."
"It's already weird."
He laughed softly. "Yeah. It is."
Your fingers found the spine of a book you'd already handled twice. You didn't put it down.
He didn't say anything else.
Dinner was soup and bread.
Clara moved around the kitchen with the ease of someone who had done it a thousand times. Clark sat across from you. Pages appeared from nowhere, winding around his ankles until Clark laughed and scooped him up.
"He likes you," Clara said, pleased.
"He doesn't like anyone," you added.
Clark looked at the cat in his lap. "I feel honored."
Pages was purring now, demanding attention, entirely comfortable.
"You know," Clark said, scratching behind his ears, "Pages is a nice name. But it's a little formal for a cat who climbs into strangers' laps."
You raised an eyebrow. "What would you name him?"
Clark thought about it. Looked at the cat. Pages stared back, unblinking.
"He watches everything," Clark said slowly. "Like he's waiting for something. Or looking for something"
He smiled.
"Scout."
You blinked. "Scout?"
"Yeah. Like… he's scouting out the territory. Making sure everything's safe." He scratched behind Scout's ears. The cat purred louder. "See? He likes it."
You watched them, Clark and Scout. The way Scout had chosen him, how Clark's hands were gentle without being careful.
"Scout," you said, testing it.
The cat looked at you.
Clark grinned. "See?"
You shook your head. But you were smiling. A little.
The house shifted into something hushed.
You stayed in the window seat. Scout was already pressed into the space beside you, settled there in a way that made it feel like he had always belonged. Outside, snow softened everything into blur and weightless light, streetlights breaking into pale halos against the glass. The whole world slowed down and muffled.
The stairs creaked before you saw him. Careful steps. Clark appeared in the doorway, hair still messy, a borrowed sweater that actually fits his shoulders.
"Can't sleep?" you asked.
He shook his head. "Is it okay if I…?"
You nodded.
He sat on the floor.
Scout immediately left you.
"Of course," you muttered.
Clark let out a quiet breath that almost counted as a laugh. "He's consistent."
"Disloyal."
"Practical," he corrected gently.
Scout settled into his lap as though it was the most natural place in the world. Clark stroked his fur, watching him with quiet attention.
"So," he said. "What do you want?"
You looked at him. "That's a big question for this hour."
"I know." He blushed. "Sorry."
You sighed. "I don't know."
He nodded quickly. Then, quieter: "Yeah."
A pause.
"You?" you asked.
He hesitated, eyes still on Scout. "I don't know yet either. I keep thinking I should."
"That's the problem," you said before you could stop yourself.
He glanced up.
"You act like there's a version of you you're supposed to match," you continued, softer now. "Maybe there isn't."
He held your gaze, thinking. "Maybe," he said quietly.
Scout purred louder, completely unbothered.
The snow kept falling.
You talked without really noticing when it started. Or when it stopped mattering what the words were. The farm came up, then the bookstore, then something about how strange it was to stand in one place and not feel like you were waiting to leave it.
Clark listened without interrupting. He asked things now and then simple questions without digging too deep and kept the thread moving.
"You don't talk about yourself much," he said.
"You don't either."
That made him smile. Small at first, then a little more real, like it caught him off guard. "Fair enough."
The conversation loosened after that, no longer trying to go anywhere. It drifted instead, filling the room in fragments while snow pressed softly against the windows.
At some point, the sketchbook was in your hands again, open but unfinished. Clark noticed. His attention stayed on it for a second, then on you.
"What is it?" he asked.
You hesitated, then turned the page toward him: Scout. Curled up, half asleep, pressed into warmth. The lines were quick, not perfect, but they held something still.
Clark stayed quiet, eyes on the page. His voice dropped when he spoke. "You caught something there."
"It's a sketch."
"It's more than that."
A pause settled between you again, not uncomfortable. Clark shifted, glancing at the page once more.
"Can I try?" he asked.
You looked at him. "You don't draw."
He gave a small shrug. "Doesn't mean I can't try."
You pursed your lips slightly, then handed him the pencil. He looked at the blank page before making the first uneven line.
"That's bad," you breathed.
A quiet exhale of laughter. "Yeah." He tried again.
The pencil didn't sit quite right in his hand. Too firm. The lines came out heavier than they needed to be, then faded where they should have stayed. He kept lifting it between strokes, starting over in pieces instead of flow.
You leaned in without thinking, attention fixed on his hand instead of the page. Your fingers touched his wrist, steadying it, just a small adjustment.
"Relax your hand."
The line changed.
You let go quickly. "Better."
Clark glanced at the page, then at you, then back down again. Slower this time. "Yeah.."
The warmth of the window seat held you longer than you noticed. Scout had shifted at some point and curled heavier against Clark. You remember him speaking once, voice low enough not to pull you fully back. You don't remember answering.
Everything blurred at the edges. The snow outside softened into nothing. Sleep didn't feel like a decision. Just the point where your awareness finally let go.
When you woke up, the window seat was cold.
Morning had already taken the room. Pale light pressed through the glass, flat and indifferent. The snow had stopped and left everything washed clean and still.
Scout was gone. Clark was gone.
Something heavy shifted on your shoulders: a blanket. Dark green, worn soft at the edges. Clara kept it in the spare room. He must have gone to get it and covered you without waking you. You sat there, not fully awake and a little groggy, until you noticed the sketchbook on the floor beside the seat.
On the page: Scout.
Sort of.
You stared at it. The shape was there, technically. Head, body, legs, a tail placed where it should be. But nothing quite agreed with anything else. The proportions pulled in different directions and the face was so serious.
You could see where he'd pressed too hard, where he'd hesitated and gone back over a line instead of fixing it. The whole thing sat with a quiet, determined confidence that made it worse.
At the very end of the page, written small:
I tried my best – Clark
You pressed your lips together.
It didn't help.
You let out a breath that almost turned into a laugh.
you’re a muslim girl living in smallville, and you’re that girl. You'll show up to the school in the softest hijab draped perfectly, gold hoops peeking out, baby tees, chunky sneakers but also those gorgeous skirts and dresses you combine so well together. Your style is a perfect blend of 2000s pop culture and your own modesty, and everyone in school secretly wants to know your scent because you always smell like vanilla, oud, and whatever lotion clark definitely pretended not to notice you putting on in class.
You’re sweet, you’re hilarious, and you have this smile that makes people stop mid-sentence. Like, genuinely forget what they were saying. Clark kent definitely experiences this. He tries to play it cool, but around you, he’s suddenly forgetting how to form full sentences. He’s nervous in the best way, always holding doors open and making sure you have a seat, always accidentally showing up wherever you are 🥹
Ramadan comes around, and you casually mention you’re fasting. Next thing you know, the whole gang, clark, chloe, pete, lana, even lex (before things got weird) is trying to fast with you. They don’t fully get it, but they’re so supportive it’s almost embarrassing. Chloe brings you dates and does research on suhoor meals. Pete loudly announces at lunch that he’s “doing it for solidarity.” and clark sits with you every lunch period, quietly eating nothing, pretending he’s not hungry.
By the time eid rolls around, they’re more excited than you are. Chloe and Lana already planned a whole celebration with henna and food, pete’s made an eid playlist that’s somehow half nasheeds and half 50 cent (😭..), and clark shows up with a small, thoughtful gift. You’re standing there, blushing, while they all cheer like you just won an award, and clark is just looking at you with that soft, nervous smile.
And through it all, you’re just being you, praying when things get weird, laughing with your whole chest, smelling incredible. You're a sweetheart, truly. You're the one making everyone feel included, and you've got this humor that catches them all off guard. They adore you so much.
Eid mubarak to you! Because representation matters, and smallville is better with you in it 🌸🫶🏼
(credits on those pink banners: @puppizai💕, pictures pinterest!)
The clock on your nightstand said 3:00 AM when you last checked. Then 4:00. Then 5:00. Your body was tired but your brain wouldn't stop, circling, worrying, bracing for a day you didn't want to have.
Pages shifted against your leg. Purring even in sleep. You envied him that.
At 6:30, you gave up.
Sat up. Reached for the list.
It was becoming ritual now. The paper felt soft at the edges from your fingers tracing it every morning and night. You'd rewritten it twice already, just in case.
Morning:
· Blue bottle (2 pills)
· White bottle (1 pill)
· Small orange bottle (half, break carefully)
· Green bottle (1 pill)
You followed it like scripture. Blue. White. Orange, the pill cutter was in the drawer, your hands steady today, thank god. You reached for the bottles.
Then you stopped.
Green bottle?
You scanned them again. Orange. White. Brown. Red. The familiar lineup.
No green.
You stared at the list.
· Green bottle (1 pill).
There it was. Written in your own careful handwriting. You'd put it there for a reason.
But you couldn't remember what reason... Couldn't remember a green bottle at all..?
Then your eyes caught it, tucked behind the brown one, almost hidden. Small. Actually green.
Oh.
Of course.
The green bottle.
Escitalopram. For depression. You'd almost forgotten your antidepressant.
The one thing keeping you from drowning completely, and you'd almost forgotten it. You pulled it out. Held it for a moment, staring at the label.
One pill. You took it. Put it back.
Continued the routine as if nothing happened.
You caught your reflection in the mirror and looked away.
Downstairs, Clara was making pancakes.
She did that every morning now. You never asked, but she'd decided, without consulting you, that you deserved a warm breakfast before facing the world.
You didn't know what to do with that.
"Morning, sweetheart." She slid a plate toward you without waiting for a response. "Nervous?"
You sat. Picked up your fork.
"A little."
It was the first honest thing you'd said today.
Clara's face softened. She sat across from you with her coffee. "That's normal," she said quietly. "First day at a new school. New people. New everything."
You nodded. Ate a bite of pancake.
"I used to throw up before the first day of school," Clara continued. "Every single year. My mother thought I was dramatic."
You almost smiled. "Did you stop?"
"Eventually. Then I became a teacher and started throwing up again." She laughed softly. "Some things don't change."
You looked at her. Really looked. "Thank you," you said.
Clara tilted her head. "For what?"
"For... this." You gestured vaguely at the plate, the kitchen, everything. "For not making it weird.."
Clara's eyes went warm. "You don't have to thank me for caring about you"
But you did. You had to. Because no one else ever had.
The drive took seven minutes.
Clara pointed out landmarks, the diner, the Talon, the field where they had the fair. You tried to pay attention. Tried to care. The buildings blurred past like they didn't matter. And they probably didn't.
Clara pulled up to the school. Teenagers clustered outside, laughing, shoving, living.
You didn't move. After a long moment, she reached over and touched your hand. "You don't have to be anyone today," she said softly. "You just have to exist. That's enough."
Your throat tightened.
"I'll pick you up at 3:15. Right here." She squeezed your hand once. "You've got this."
You nodded. Swallowed.
Opened the door.
The cold hit you immediately, January cold that found its way through your sweater, your jacket, straight into your bones without asking.
You walked toward the building without looking back. But you wanted to. That was new.
The hallways were loud.
Lockers slammed. Voices overlapped. A couple sharing a kiss, lost in eachother. You frowned, and looked away quickly.
You found your locker, spun the combination wrong twice, got it open on the third try. Your hands were steady today, good days and bad days, you were learning.
Today was good. Today you could pretend to be normal.
"Y/N, right?"
You turned.
Chloe Sullivan. Blonde. Bright. Energy like static electricity.
"Clara mentioned you'd be starting today," she said. "Also, I'm the news editor at the Torch, which means I know everything. Welcome."
You shook her hand. Her grip was firm.
"Thanks?"
"One-word answers. I can work with that." She grinned. "Come on, tour before homeroom."
She didn't wait. You followed.
Chloe talked the entire time.
Not in an annoying way. More like she had so much stored up, so much information and energy and observations, and you were simply the first available recipient.
She pointed out teachers "Mr. Bernstein: looks scary, actually lets you redo assignments", students "Whitney Fordman: quarterback, dating Lana Lang, entire personality is football", and the exact spot where someone had thrown up at homecoming last year "not naming names, but his initials are Greg and he still can't look at the cafeteria nachos".
You didn't have to respond. Chloe supplied both sides of the conversation.
It was... almost relaxing.
Then she mentioned the meteor shower.
"—and obviously that explains the meteor freaks, which is honestly the only reason this town is interesting. Like, without them, Smallville would just be cornfields and the world's most aggressive gossip network."
You stopped walking.
"What..Meteor freaks?"
Chloe stopped too. Turned to face you. Her eyes did something, sharpened, brightened, like a detective catching a clue.
"You don't know."
It wasn't a question.
You shook your head.
Chloe grinned. Not a nice grin. An I've been waiting for this moment grin.
"Oh, you are going to love this."
"Where are we going?"
"The Torch office. You need to see the Wall."
The Torch office was cozier than you expected.
Cluttered. Papers everywhere. A few desks with ancient computers. Stacks of old newspapers threatening to topple over. A leather couch.
And on the back wall—
THE WALL OF WEIRD.
It was magnificent.
Articles pinned up. Photos connected by red string. Handwritten notes in the margins. It looked like something from a movie about conspiracy theorists, except it was real and it was here and it was glorious.
Chloe spread her arms like she was presenting a masterpiece.
"It's every strange, bizarre, and unexplained event that's happened in Smallville since the meteor shower. That's when it all began– when the town went schizo" She glanced at you. "Impressed?"
You walked closer.
Headlines jumped out at you:
' RIVER DREDGING UNCOVERS BIZARRE GLOW-IN-THE-DARK GEODES '
' AREA MAN GAINS FINGER ON LEFT HAND, LOSES ONE ON THE RIGHT '
' SMALLVILLE HIGH STUDENT DISAPPEARS– RETURNS WITH NO MEMORY '
You reached out and touched one of the articles. Paper rough under your fingertips. "This is real?"
"Every word." Chloe came to stand beside you. "I know it sounds crazy. But things happen here. Strange things. And someone has to document them."
You looked at her. "You?"
"I'm the only one taking it seriously." She shrugged. "Clark thinks I'm obsessed. My dad thinks I'm dramatic. But someone has to pay attention."
Pay attention.
You understood that.
Your eyes traveled across the wall.
Photos of people. Victims, maybe. Or perpetrators. It was hard to tell.
And then, a photo: 'HEART BREAK IN THE HEART LAND.'
A little girl. Three years old. Dark hair, big eyes staring at the camera with an expression that made your chest tighten. An adult's arm can be seen around the girl, as if holding or comforting them. Dust on her pink clothes. Looking lost and scared in a way that felt familiar.
"Who's this?"
Chloe leaned in. "Oh. That's Lana. Lana Lang. She's in our grade."
Lana.
You stared at the photo. At the little girl with the lost eyes.
"She looks..."
"Yeah." Chloe's voice softened. "Her parents died in the meteor shower. She lived with her aunt after that."
Something tugged at your memory. You'd seen that face before. Not just now. Before. Somewhere. But where?
"You okay?" Chloe asked.
You blinked. The flicker was gone. "Yeah. Fine." You looked away from the photo. But you could still feel those eyes on you. Little girl eyes, lost eyes.
Eyes like yours.
First period was English.
You sat in the back. Pulled out your sketchbook instead of the textbook. The teacher's voice became background noise.
You started drawing, the tree outside the window, bare branches against gray sky. Your hand slipped.
Just slightly. The line wobbled where it should have been straight. You stared at it. Tried again. Better this time, but not perfect.
Your jaw tightened. Bad days and good days. You kept drawing anyway. Because what else could you do?
Between classes, you saw Clark.
He was at his locker, laughing at something, that easy laugh again. He looked up as you passed. Caught your eye, and smiled. "Hey, Y/N. How's first day going?"
You stopped. "Okay," you said. Then, because he was still looking at you, waiting: "Your mom get the poetry book?"
Clark's smile widened. "She did. Read half of it already. She'll probably be back for more next week."
"She should." The words came out before you could stop them. "Dickinson's good."
Clark tilted his head. "You read poetry?"
"Sometimes." You shrugged. "They're not as bad as you might think actually"
He looked at you like you'd said something interesting. "I get that," he said quietly.
The bell rang.
Clark's eyes stayed on you for one more second. "See you around, Y/N."
Then he was gone. Your chest did that thing again.
Second period was History.
You sat in the back. Sketchbook open. This time you drew the view from the window, this time: parking lot, flagpole, fields beyond.
A shadow fell over your page.
"Hey."
You looked up. Kevin. Blond. Confident smile. "You're the new girl, right? I saw you in English."
You nodded. Didn't speak.
"Cool. I'm Kevin." He slid into the seat beside you without asking. "What're you drawing?"
You turned the sketchbook slightly so he could see.
"Whoa. You're actually good."
You blinked.
"No, seriously. That's really good." He leaned closer. "You take commissions? I have a locker that could use some art."
You shook your head.
Kevin laughed like you'd made a joke. "Fair enough. Hey, there's a party this weekend. You should come. Meet people."
"I don't really—"
"Everyone says that. Then they come and have fun." He grinned. "Think about it."
The teacher started talking. Kevin stayed in the seat beside you.
You didn't draw anymore. Just stared at the page.
At lunch, you found an empty table in the corner.
Back to the wall. Old habit . Clara's sandwiches, apple, crackers. You ate without tasting. Kevin appeared halfway through.
"Mind if I sit?"
You did mind. But you didn't say it.
He sat. Talked. About himself, mostly. Football. Parties. How he noticed you right away because your eyes were "really pretty, like gorgeous you know??"
You looked at your sandwich. Wished it would swallow you whole.
Across the cafeteria, you saw Clark sitting with Chloe and another boy, Pete, maybe. He was laughing before he glanced over. Caught your eye. His smile faded slightly. He could tell you wanted to be anywhere else.
You looked away first.
After lunch, Kevin followed you to your locker. "So what class do you have next?"
You checked your schedule. "Gym."
"Nice. Me too." He grinned. "Guess we're stuck together."
You said nothing. Opened your locker. Reached for your bag. And knocked over a small container on the shelf above. Paint. The little set Clara had given you last week—watercolors, tiny pans of color, a gift "for when you want to draw something that needs more than pencil."
It hit the floor and the lid came off. Paint scattered, red, blue, yellow, mixing into mud on the dirty hallway floor.
You stared at it. No!
Kevin laughed. "Oops. Sorry, that was kinda funny though."
Your hands started shaking. Not from the disease. From something hot and tight in your chest. You knelt down, started picking up the pieces. The pans were cracked. Broken. Ruined.
"Hey, don't worry about it," Kevin said. "It's just paint. I'll buy you new ones if you want. You know?"
You couldn't answer. Because it wasn't just paint. It was Clara. Clara picking this out, wrapping it, giving it to you with that hopeful smile. Clara believing you deserved something beautiful.
And now it was on the floor. And everyone was walking past like it didn't matter.
A hand appeared beside you. Another one, picking up pieces. You looked up.
Clark: He knelt there, gathering broken paint pans, handing them to you one by one.
Kevin hovered awkwardly. "Uh, Clark, man, I got this–"
"It's okay," Clark said quietly. Not looking at him. Looking at you. "Go ahead. I'll help her."
Kevin hesitated. Then shrugged and walked away.
You watched his hands as he picked up the pieces. And couldn't look away.
His fingers were long. Steady. Strong in a way that seemed effortless, like they'd spent years doing work that required patience and care.
His fingernails were short and clean. A small scar on his knuckle. Veins visible along the back, subtle, nothing showy.
"Some of these might be okay," he said softly. "The ones that didn't crack. You can probably still use them." He finished gathering. Held out his hand with the last few pieces.
You took them. Your fingers brushed.
Warm; That was the first thing. His skin was warm in a way that felt unfair, like he carried heat even in January. The contact lasted less than a second. But you felt it everywhere.
"Thanks," you whispered.
Clark nodded. Stood up. Offered you his hand.
You placed yours in his.
Big; That was the second thing. His hand closed around yours and it was big, warm and broad and wrapped around your fingers like they were something worth holding. He pulled you up gently. Effortlessly. Like you weighed nothing.
For one breath, two, your hand was completely lost in his. Then he let go immediately. Space, always space, he knew you needed it. "It's just stuff," he said quietly. "I know it doesn't feel like it. But it's just stuff."
You looked at him. His eyes were kind.
"You should go to gym," he said. Clark's eyes followed the tremor in your hands. "I'll put these somewhere safe for you. Give them to Chloe, she'll get them to you later."
You nodded. Clark smiled, watched you longer than necessary.
"See you" He walked away, carrying your broken paints carefully, like they were still worth something.
You stood there for a long moment. Your hands had stopped shaking.
What the hell.
You wanted to draw his hands. Right there. Right then. You wanted to capture the way they moved, the way they held things, the way they'd held you for that single, devastating second.
You thought it. And the thought stayed.
Gym class was worse than you expected.
The locker room was cold. Echoing. Girls laughing, changing, not noticing you. You found a corner, changed fast, kept your eyes down.
Volleyball.
You stood at the back. Let the ball fly past. No one seemed to care.
Then someone served hard. The ball came straight at you. You reached for it– Missed, and Stumbled a little.
Your body didn't do what you told it to. Just for a second. Your knee buckled, you caught yourself on the wall, but not before—
Laughter.
Not mean, maybe. Just surprised. But laughter.
"Nice try, new girl!"
Your face burned. You straightened up. Pretended it didn't happen.
But your hands were shaking again. From shame. For the rest of class, you stayed at the back. Didn't move. Didn't even try. Someone cooed about how adorable you were.
When the final bell rang, you waited in the locker room. Sat on a bench while everyone else showered. Dressed and left.
When it was empty, you locked yourself in a stall. Showered fast with your powdery clean soap. Skin prickling. Ears straining. You liked the scent of it a lot.
No one came, so you dressed. Escaped.
Your knee still ached slightly. You ignored it.
The final bell came as a relief.
You walked to the pickup spot. Clara was there, right on time, warm car waiting.
You got in. Didn't speak. The heater was on, fighting back against January. Clara's CD player was playing something soft. Ella Fitzgerald, maybe.
Your hands were cold. You tucked them under your thighs.
Clara reached over and turned the heat up. Just slightly. The silence wasn't empty. That was the thing about Clara. Her silences felt like blankets instead of walls.
Halfway home, you spoke. "I don't like it."
Clara glanced at you. "School?"
You nodded. Stared out the window. "It's too loud. Too many people. Everyone looking." You paused. "I just want to be home."
Home.
The word slipped out before you could catch it.
Clara's hands tightened on the wheel. Just slightly. "Then we'll go home," she said quietly.
You looked at her. She was watching the road, but her face was soft. "The bookstore will be there," she continued. "Pages will be there. Your window seat will be there. And tomorrow, if you want to stay home, we can talk about that too."
You blinked rapidly. Looked away. "Okay."
Clara didn't push for more. She just drove.
The bookstore was quiet now.
The last customers left around six. Clara locked the door, made soup for dinner– soup because it's January and cold– then went to her room with a book. That was hours ago.
Now it was almost midnight. And you couldn't sleep.
You sat in the window seat. Pages on your lap, warm and heavy, breathing slow. The street outside was empty. Snow falling again, just enough to make everything look softer.
The paints were on your desk. Clark had given them to Chloe, who'd found you after last period and handed them over with a knowing smile.
"Clark said to tell you he hopes they still work."
You looked at your sketchbook.
At the half-finished drawing from this morning. The tree with the wobbled line. You picked up a pencil. Tried again, your hand was steady now.
You drew Clark. Kneeling on the hallway floor. Picking up pieces, looking at you like you mattered. You erased the sketch quickly and drew something else.
His hand.
The curve of his palm. The length of his fingers. The way his knuckles looked when he curled them around something- around you.
You drew until your eyes burned.
Then you stopped. Stared at what you'd done.
Just a hand. But it was his hand. And you'd drawn it from memory, from that single second of touch, from the way your skin still remembered.
Warnings: None, just heart wrenching fluff. Clark being a lover boy as per usual.
A/N: Clark Kent i love you. If I ever get my hands on a genie i WILL make you real. Idk how many words this is, probably around 1.2k.
Rain pelts against the windows of Clark’s loft, keeping you half asleep as the warmth of his bed wards off the chill of the metropolis winter. It’s still late, or early, depending on which of you was asked. You’d fought sleep valiantly for hours, watching reruns of Desperate Housewives, cocooned in his fluffy white sheets, krypto sleeping on your feet. But, despite your best efforts, you’d fallen asleep sometime around two a.m., neglecting to remove your contacts or the makeup you’d worn to work that day. You had changed into one of his soft cotton shirts the second you’d gotten home, his lingering scent helping you stave off how badly you missed him until he’d finished patrolling through the city after work.
The front door clicks open just passed 3, the sound of rain and blissful quiet reaching Clark as he drops his briefcase by the door. Exhaustion had hit him before he’d even left the Daily Planet, the effort of suiting up and flying around for hours feeling more Herculean than it usually did. You’d been away on a excavation for three weeks, and the first two days you’d been back in metropolis had been spent locked in your office at the university, pouring over data and photographs until your eyes nearly bled and you fell asleep at your desk.
Clark didn’t exactly like it when you got so absorbed in your work that you forgot to eat or sleep properly, but he also understood just how devoted to and attached to your work you were. It always felt like a divine punishment, to know you were once again in the same city, but that he would have to wait even longer to feel you under his touch once again. Clark, however, never made you feel guilty for needing time to decompress and sort your findings before slipping back into every day life. He simply waited, checking up on you every single day.
Eventually, though, there was always a night he walked into the apartment and once again got a hit of your vanilla perfume and cocoa butter lotion after so long apart. Every time his knees would grow just a bit weaker, his heart beating just a bit faster. Almost like that feeling on Christmas morning, when you stumble down the stairs and see your presents waiting for you by the tree. Almost like that, but so, so much stronger.
He doesn’t bother getting something to eat or drink, desperate to trace his eyes over you and confirm your safety, confirm that you’ve come back to him. He walks into the bedroom and smiles softly at the sight of you. You’re wrapped in his shirt and his sheets, breathing softly as the light of the TV washes over you. Krypto barely stirs from his spot under the blankets by your feet, only his snout sticking out for air.
He beelines to your side and kneels beside you, placing kisses over your nose and cheeks, relishing the warmth you always seem to emit. As he runs his thumb over you lips he notices the mascara still on your lashes, his heart softening further when he realises you’d fallen asleep waiting for him.
As badly as he wants to let you keep on sleeping as peacefully as you are, he also doesn’t want you to be upset when you wake up and realise you hadn’t washed your face. Knowing he needed to shower anyway, he left you to sleep for a few more minutes, heading into the bathroom. In the interest of being as close to you as quickly as possible, he brushes his teeth and showers within seven minutes, throwing on a pair of sweatpants and towel drying his hair before he pads back to your side.
“Angel.” He runs his finger down the length of your nose and over your cheek bones, softly whispering your favourite pet names as he watches your eyes flutter, smiling when they slowly crack open.
Sleep begs to pull you back under as Clark comes into your view, backlit by the TV, hair freshly washed, dimples blinding you. So angelic and divine you’d think you were in heaven if you didn’t know better. Your first greeting is a sleepy mumble, under laced with a love that makes Clark’s chest constrict. Your hand immediately lifts and searches him out, your face softening again when you feel his skin under your fingertips.
“I’m sorry to wake you, but you need to wash your face baby.” As badly as you want to roll over and go back to sleep, you don’t fight when Clark scoops you up in his arms and slowly walks over to the bathroom. He sits you down on the counter, a towel folded beneath you so that the marble countertop doesn’t make you any colder.
Your head leans against the wall behind you as Clark rummages through your drawers, slowly piecing together a rudimentary routine he knows he can do for you. He’s memorised your entire skincare routine by now, but he doesn’t exactly want to keep you up for longer than necessary.
He soaks a cotton round with micellar water and grips your jaw softly with one of his hands, the other softly running the cotton over you skin. When he’s sure everything is off he throws the round away and gets a soft cotton washcloth, soaking it with warm water. He takes his time wiping your face off, selfishly cataloging all of your features as you slump into his hand. Once he’s moisturised your skin, he pulls out your contact lens case, softly tapping your jaw to wake you up further.
“Just gotta remove your lenses and we can go to bed angel.”
You don’t protest, clumsily removing both lenses and dramatically slumping into his chest the second he clicks the case closed. Clark laughs softly, running his hands over your back as he breaths you in. Once he has you situated in his arms, he retrieves your hairbrush and makes his way back to your bed. The sheets are shaken out and pulled back before he slowly places you on the mattress. His side dips a second later, and his hands on your shoulders turn you until your back is to him and he can gather all of your hair.
You’re steadily lulled back to sleep as Clark begins to run the brush through your hair, humming a soft tune as the bristles run over you scalp, soothing the ache of missing him until you forgot what it had felt like. His big hands fumble as he plaits your hair, tying it off an inch before the ends, remembering how you’d mentioned that tying it too low caused breakage. The pride that warms his chest when he sits back and gazes at your sleeping, pampered form compares to nothing he’s ever felt before. The pride of knowing that he is the one providing for you, warming you, feeding you, making you smile. It’s a feeling that overwhelms and calms him simultaneously.
He’d always loved being Superman. Always loved being a protector. Always loved being the one person everyone could count on showing up. Always loved being perceived as good. And when he’d met you, he’d met the one thing he had to protect. The one thing he had to show up for, no matter what. The one thing that made him want to stop moving and running in circles. The one person that actually made him feel human.
After much too long, Clark finally slips into the sheets and wraps his arms around you, pulling you right onto his chest, relishing the feel of your nose brushing against his neck, steady breath brushing against his skin. After much too long your hands finally find their way into his hair and onto his skin, your heartbeat slowing down to sync with his. Krypto slowly shifts over until he’s plastered against the side of Clark’s leg, and once again, all is right in the world.
December arrived like a held breath the world had forgotten to release.
The kind of afternoon where the sky couldn’t quite decide what it wanted to be. Gray clouds stretched endlessly overhead while the sun fought stubbornly behind them, determined to be seen.
For a while, it lost.
But eventually, thin ribbons of light broke through. They slipped quietly through the bookstore window, stretching across the wooden floorboards like cautious visitors.
Until they reached you.
They rested there for a moment; on your hands, on the edge of your sketchbook, on your face.
On your eyes.
Once, those eyes had held their own kind of light. Not just reflections of the sun, but something brighter behind it. A quiet spark that made people look twice, that made the world feel lighter when your gaze landed on it.
Once.
Now the shine came from borrowed things.
From winter sunlight forcing its way through stubborn clouds. But still, the light kept trying.
Crossing the room. Climbing gently toward your face.
As if the sun itself refused to believe something so beautiful was meant to stay dim forever.
You didn’t notice any of it. Your attention was fixed on the sketchbook resting in your lap, pencil moving slowly across the page in careful strokes.
Pages was curled against your thigh, his soft gray body rising and falling with slow, content breaths. Over the past weeks he had claimed you completely, as cats tended to do, and now he followed you everywhere in the store like a quiet shadow.
The bookstore itself was peaceful; Clara was somewhere in the back room, unpacking a new shipment of books. You could hear cardboard shifting, the occasional thud of a hardcover being placed on a table, and her soft humming drifting through the shelves.
It was almost peaceful.
Almost enough to make you forget and stop counting time.
The bell above the door chimed. Your pencil stopped moving. You didn’t look up immediately. Old habits were hard to break.
Customers came and went all the time. If you stayed focused on your drawing, they usually didn’t notice you at all. And that was easier.
But then—
“Mrs. Hartley? My mom asked me to pick up the poetry book she ordered. The Dickinson one?”
The voice was warm. Young. Easy in a way that felt unfamiliar.
Clara called from the back room. “Clark! Just a second, dear, I’m buried under a mountain of books back here!”
Clark.
The name tugged at your memory. Clara had mentioned him once, on your first day here: The boy from the Kent farm. Nice family. Long-time customers.
You still didn’t look up. Your pencil hovered above the page, unmoving. Footsteps moved through the bookstore. Slow. Unhurried. They stopped somewhere near the window seat. The silence stretched just long enough to feel noticeable.
“Hi.”
The voice was closer than you expected.
You looked up.
For a moment you didn’t really see him. Just the shape of someone standing between you and the window, light spilling around his shoulders.
Then the clouds shifted. Light spilled through the window again, and suddenly he was standing there. Dark hair catching the light.
Tall.
A little awkward in the way he stood, like he wasn’t completely sure whether he should be there or not.
His eyes were blue.
Warm.
Looking directly at you.
“Hi,” he said again, quieter this time.
You blinked. Your brain felt strangely empty. Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.
His gaze dropped briefly to the sketchbook in your lap. “Sorry,” he said quickly. “Am I interrupting?”
You glanced down at the page. Half a drawing. Soft pencil lines forming the window, the street outside, the vague shape of a tree losing its leaves. Pages slept through the entire encounter, completely uninterested.
“No,” you said. Your voice came out rough, like it hadn’t been used in a while. You cleared your throat quietly. “No. I was just… drawing.”
Clark nodded immediately, like that made perfect sense. “Yeah. I figured.”
He shifted his weight slightly, shoving one hand into the pocket of his jacket in a small, almost nervous gesture. “I’m Clark, by the way.” He hesitated for half a second. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”
You nodded. “I’m new.”
“Thought so.” His smile appeared slowly, small, genuine, reaching his eyes.
Clark glanced around the bookstore. “I grew up here,” he said casually. “This place, I mean. My mom’s been coming here since I was little. Mrs. Hartley always saves the best books for her.”
Clara appeared from the back room a moment later, dusting her hands on her apron. “Clark! Sorry about that.”
She held up a book triumphantly. “Your mother’s Emily Dickinson collection.” She stopped when she noticed the two of you standing there. Her eyes flicked from Clark to you. Then back again.
A small, knowing smile appeared. “Oh! Have you two met?”
“Just now,” Clark said. His gaze shifted back to you.
“I didn’t catch your name.”
You hesitated for half a second. Then quietly said it. “Y/N.”
Clark repeated it softly. Slowly. Carefully.
“Y/N.”
Something strange moved in your chest. Not painful.
Just… unexpected.
Clara handed him the book, and he paid quickly, thanking her as he tucked the receipt into the pages. At the door he paused. The bell chimed softly as he pushed it open, letting a gust of cold December air slip inside.
For a moment he stood there. Then he glanced back over his shoulder. “Hope I see you around, Y/N.”
The certainty in his voice lingered; and then he was gone.
The door closed. The bell settled back into silence. The light outside shifted again as clouds slowly. swallowed the sun.
You sat exactly where you were. Sketchbook still resting in your lap. Pencil still between your fingers. Pages slept peacefully beside you, completely unaware that anything had changed.
Your heart was beating a little faster. You looked down at your sketchbook again. At the half-finished drawing and the empty space you didn’t remember touching. Your pencil had moved without asking. Without you noticing.
And now, there on the page–
A face:
Dark hair.
Soft eyes.
A small, warm smile.
Clark.
You stared at it for a long moment. Your hand had drawn him before your mind could stop it.
Artists draw what moves them. What they can't stop seeing. What they carry, whether they mean to or not.
Slowly, you closed the sketchbook and pressed it lightly against your chest.
Through the clouds, the sun sent one last slender beam across the room.
It brushed your eyes.
You closed them before it could stay.
Clara lingered in the doorway for a moment, arms loosely crossed, watching you breathe. Then, with a quiet smile, she slipped back into her work, the gentle shuffle of books the only sound she left behind.
A/N: How I felt after hitting you with the rizz in the beginning eyes on FIRE. love the eye motif *dramatic kurdish song playing in background*
Btw: y'all actually liked my blog thank u for being real ones 😭💕
You watched the change from the passenger seat of Clara’s station wagon. The leaves lost their green first, then their strength, until they lay scattered across the ground; orange, brittle, forgotten.
Something about it held your gaze a little too long, long enough to make you think you understood something.
Even nature ends.
Even trees know when to let go. Maybe loneliness wasn’t a wound; it was simply the final state of things.
The last color before the ground swallowed everything whole.
Clara was talking. Her voice was warm, like the coffee you had watched her make at a gas station an hour earlier. You let the sound wash over you without catching the words. She was nervous, you could tell. She wanted you to like this place.
She wanted you to stay.
You wouldn’t.
Not forever, anyway.
Your forever had an expiration date stamped on it in a language no one wanted to say out loud.
You turned back to the window. The sky was bigger here. Obscenely big. Endless. As if it were showing off, reminding you how small you were beneath it, how little you mattered in the grand scheme of clouds and fields and things that stretched on forever.
You already knew that.
You had always known.
The bookstore was called The Page Turner.
The sign was green paint on worn wood, the kind that had probably hung there longer than you’d been alive.
The display window held stacks of books, a tiny cardboard castle, and a handwritten sign that read:
Escape Between These Pages.
As if escape were that simple.
Clara parked the car and turned toward you with that hopeful smile. “Ready to see your window seat?”
Your window seat.
You had mentioned it once, the first day you met her. Just a passing answer to a passing question. You hadn’t expected her to remember.
She did.
Somehow that made it worse.
You followed her inside.
The smell reached you first.
Old paper. New paper. Paper handled by a thousand people and destined for a thousand more.
Wood. Dust.
And beneath it all something faintly sweet, cinnamon, maybe, or the lingering ghost of someone’s tea.
Books covered every surface. Shelves bowed under their weight. Tables were stacked high. Piles rose from the floor as if they had grown there naturally, as inevitable as trees.
And in the front window—
A seat.
Cushioned. Worn in exactly the right places. Facing the street. Facing the world.
Your window seat.
You stopped walking.
What was there to say?
She had taken something you once imagined in passing, something fragile and impossible, and turned it into something real.
And now it was yours.
Which meant you would lose it eventually.
You always did.
Clara touched your arm, light and careful, as though you might break.
“I’ll show you the apartment,” she said softly.
You followed her upstairs.
Your room was at the front of the building.
A bed waited beneath a quilt made of mismatched fabric patches, each piece hand-stitched together with quiet patience. There was a desk next to the window, a small shelf, and another window seat overlooking the street and the world beyond it.
You sat down slowly. The glass was cold.
November cold. The kind that slipped beneath your skin and reminded you that winter always came eventually.
You pressed your forehead against it and closed your eyes.
For a moment, just a moment– you allowed yourself to feel it.
The exhaustion.
The weight of everything.
Years of being passed over, passed through, passed by. Foster homes blurring together. Faces you stopped learning because they never stayed long enough to matter.
You were tired.
So impossibly tired.
And yet here you were.
Someone had prepared the room for you. A bed beneath a handmade quilt, and by the window a small seat where you could sit and watch the sky.
You unpacked slowly.
There wasn’t much to unpack, but the small routine made the room feel less temporary.
That night sleep stayed out of reach.
The bed was soft. The room quiet. If anything, it was already beginning to feel like yours.
And that was the most dangerous thing of all.
You didn’t trust kindness. You didn’t trust warmth. You didn’t trust people who remembered small details. They always left.
Or worse: they stayed long enough to realize you weren’t worth the effort.
And even if they didn’t, your body would leave first.
You reached for your bag and unzipped the side pocket. The sock came out easily.
You tipped it onto the bed.
The bottles clinked softly together.
Orange. White. Brown. Red.
Different sizes. Different shapes. Different names you knew by heart but still struggled to pronounce.
Twelve of them.
Twelve small clocks, each one ticking.
Riluzole.
Tetrabenazine.
Something for tremors.
Something for sleep.
Something for moods that swung too far in either direction.
Medication for symptoms people rarely warned you about.
You lined them up on the nightstand. A miniature pharmacy. A shrine to everything wrong with you.
The routine was automatic now.
Bottle one. Two pills. Swallow.
Bottle two. One pill.
Bottle three. Half a pill, snapped carefully between your fingers.
Bottle four.
Bottle five.
Bottle six.
Somewhere around seven you stopped counting.
You swallowed them dry. Water meant getting up again, and you were too tired for that.
When it was over, you sat there for a while, staring at the bottles. At the labels with your name printed neatly across them.
Your name on something that kept you alive and reminded you you were dying at the same time.
The bottles were simply the hands of a clock.
You gathered them again, slipping them back into the sock and tucking the bundle into your bag, where the dark swallowed them once more.
Clara didn’t know.
Not yet.
One day she would.
But not while she still looked at you like you were something precious.
Not while you were still waiting for the moment she realized you weren’t.
A weight suddenly landed on the bed.
You looked up.
A cat.
Gray and white, with wide intelligent eyes. He studied the bag first, then the sock, and finally you.
You stared back.
“Pages,” you whispered.
He blinked slowly.
Then he walked up the quilt, turned in a small circle, and curled against your leg. His purr started immediately, a quiet steady vibration.
You watched him.
He didn’t leave.
Morning came anyway.
The smell of pancakes drifted beneath your door. Real pancakes. Pages was still there, stretched across your ankles, warm and heavy.
You lay there for a long time, watching the light shift across the window while dust drifted through the air and the world continued without you, just as it always had.
Eventually you got up. Showered. Dressed.
Then stood at the door for several seconds with your hand on the handle.
Why was this so hard?
Why did kindness feel like something you had to survive?
You opened the door.
Clara looked up from the stove and smiled.
“Good morning. Pancakes are almost ready”
You sat down.
She placed a plate in front of you. A stack of pancakes. Butter melting slowly. Syrup in a small pitcher shaped like a cow.
You stared at it.
“When did you know?” you asked quietly.
Clara paused.
“Know what?”
“That you wanted this. Me. Here.”
She turned another pancake in the pan, considering the question.
“The first time I saw your drawings,” she said. “Especially the landscapes. The way you draw light, like you’re trying to hold onto something already fading”
Her eyes met yours.
“I know that feeling.”
You stared down at the plate.
“Nothing lasts,” you said.
“No,” Clara replied gently.
“But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t real.”
Later she took you into town.
Smallville looked like a postcard; quiet streets, small shops, the kind of place where everyone probably knew everyone.
Clara pointed things out as you walked.
The diner. The Talon. The high school.
You tensed.
“We can wait,” Clara said immediately.
You nodded.
Halfway down the street you looked up.
A boy stood across the road.
Tall. Dark hair. Laughing at something the man beside him had said. His whole face lit up when he laughed, like joy came easily to him.
Then he looked up.
Across the street. Through a break in traffic.
His eyes met yours.
Blue.
Warm.
Alive.
Something flickered deep inside you, something buried so long you barely recognized it.
Then he looked away again, still smiling, and kept walking.
“That’s Clark Kent,” Clara said. “The Kent farm is just outside town. His mother visits the bookstore sometimes.”
Clark.
You stored the name away without knowing why. Because what was the point? Your fate had already been written in thick black ink. Not erasable. Not changeable. Not something a pair of blue eyes could rewrite.
You kept walking.
The street had gone quiet by the time you settled into the window seat, Pages curled in your lap.
You opened your sketchbook and flipped past the older drawings.
Then you looked out the window.
At the street. At the buildings. At the vast sky that didn’t care whether you lived or died.
You had learned that scent over the years- the way it clung to old buildings, mixed with fire escapes, and soaked into forgotten laundry. It belonged to places that weren't home. Places you passed through. Places that forgot you the moment you left.
You perched on the windowsill of your room, knees pressed to your chest, forehead against cold glass. Outside, the city blurred into a monochrome haze: buildings, streets, and people all muted. Umbrellas hunched, shoulders tight, moving with purpose toward somewhere that mattered.
You didn't.
Three months here, before that another foster home, and before that, another. You'd stopped counting after the seventh placement. Stopped hoping after the fifth. Stopped crying after the second.
Now you just... existed.
You went to school. You came back. You did your homework in the corner where no one bothered you. You drew in your sketchbook, landscapes you'd never seen, faces you'd never met, places that only existed in your head. You played the guitar you'd found at a thrift store two years ago, the one with the chipped paint and the slightly out-of-tune G string that you'd learned to love anyway.
And you took your pills.
Every morning. Every night. The little orange bottles with the long names you couldn't pronounce and the side effects you'd memorized by heart.
Sometimes your hand trembled when you opened them. Just once, quick and small. Like your body had forgotten the right movement for a second.
You hid them in your sock drawer. No one asked. That was the nice thing about group homes. No one paid enough attention to notice the quiet girl with the beautiful eyes and the prescription bottles.
You watched the rain slide down the glass.
Juvenile Huntington's.
The word lived in your chest like a second heartbeat. You'd known since you were fifteen. The tremors that started small. The forgetfulness that came and went. The doctor's office with the bad lighting and the softer voice than you expected.
Progressive. Incurable. There are treatments to manage symptoms, but...
But.
That was the word that mattered. But. As in but you won't get better. As in but this will get worse. As in but you should prepare.
How did you prepare for something like that?
For the day your hand wouldn't obey you.
A word you'd known your whole life simply... vanished.
Waking up in your own body and realizing, slowly, that it doesn't quite belong to you anymore.
You just kept going. Existing. Taking your pills and drawing your pictures and pretending you weren't counting down the days.
A knock on your door.
You didn't turn. "It's open."
The door creaked. One of the staff– Maria, maybe? You could never remember their names. They came and went too fast.
"You have a visitor."
You frowned. "I don't know anyone."
"Well, someone knows you." She sounded annoyed, as if your existence was an inconvenience. "Come on. She's waiting in the common room."
She.
You slid off the windowsill. Your legs were stiff from sitting too long.
Your fingers twitched once before you tucked them into your sleeve. You ran a hand through your hair, probably a mess, but whatever.
The common room was the same as every common room in every group home you'd ever been in. Beige walls. Beige couch. Beige carpet that had seen too many feet and not enough cleaning. A TV playing something no one was watching.
And a woman.
She was... not what you expected. Older, maybe fifties. Soft face, softer eyes. Gray-streaked hair pulled back in a loose bun. She held a book in her hands; not reading it, just holding it. A quiet comfort. Something steady to hold onto.
When she saw you, she smiled.
Not the pity-face. Not the poor thing smile. Just... a smile. Warm. Real.
"You must be Y/N," she said.
You stopped a few feet away. Swallowing. "Who's asking?"
She didn't flinch at your tone. Didn't look offended. If anything, her smile got softer.
"I'm Clara. Clara Hartley." She held out the book. "I brought this for you. I hope that's okay."
You looked at the book. The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson. Old. Worn. Loved.
"I don't know you," you said.
"No. You don't." She didn't put the book down. Didn't push. Just waited. "But I know your drawings."
She said it like she'd been looking for them.
That caught you off guard. "My drawings?"
"The ones on the wall in the office. The social worker showed me." She tilted her head, studying you. Not in a weird way. "They're extraordinary. The landscapes especially. You have a gift."
You didn't know what to say. No one had ever called your drawings extraordinary. No one had ever called anything about you extraordinary.
"I... thanks."
"You're welcome." She gestured to the couch. "Can I sit with you for a while? Just talk. No pressure. No expectations."
Something about her made you pause.
The way she held the book, as though it mattered.
The rain outside, gray and endless, and the quiet exhaustion of being alone in it.
Perhaps it meant nothing.
Perhaps it meant everything.
You sat down.
Clara sat beside you, not too close, not too far. Just right; she knew exactly how much space to give.
"I used to draw," she said quietly. "When I was your age. Nothing as good as yours. But it made me feel... less alone. Like I could put the world on paper and it couldn't hurt me anymore."
You looked at her.
"How did you know?" you asked.
She met your eyes. Hers were warm. Brown. Kind.
"Because I've been alone too," she said. "And I know what it looks like in someone else."
The rain kept falling.
You didn't know what to say. Words had never come easily to you, at least not the ones that mattered. But you could draw for hours, losing yourself in the quiet scratch of pencil on paper, letting your hands speak when your mouth no longer could.
But this?
You didn't have a blueprint for this.
Clara didn't seem to mind the silence. She opened the book, not to read, just to flip through it gently, as though each page were precious.
"I found this at a thrift store twenty years ago," she said. "Cost me fifty cents. Best fifty cents I ever spent."
You glanced at the pages. They were annotated. Handwriting in the margins; small, careful, feminine.
"Did you write in it?"
"Some of it. Some was already there." She pointed to a faded note next to a poem. "See this? Someone else loved this book before me. Someone else underlined these words, wrote these thoughts. I don't know who they were. But we're connected now. Through this."
She looked at you.
"That's what art does, I think. It connects people who've never met. It makes us less alone."
You swallowed, turning your head to the side. Your throat felt tight.
"I've never shown anyone my drawings," you said. Quiet. Barely a whisper.
Clara heard anyway.
"Why not?"
You shrugged.
She was quiet for a moment. Then she closed the book gently and set it in her lap.
"Can I ask you something?"
You nodded.
"If you could go anywhere- anywhere in the world- where would you go?"
The question caught you off guard. You went where they sent you. That was the rule.
But Clara was looking at you like your answer mattered.
You thought about it.
"Somewhere quiet," you said finally. "Somewhere with trees. And a library. And... and a window seat. Somewhere I could watch the rain without feeling like it was trying to get in."
Clara smiled. That same warm smile.
"That's very specific."
"You asked."
"I did." She nodded, thoughtful. "I know a place like that."
You looked at her. Her smile was small. Almost knowing.
"It's called Smallville. Tiny town in Kansas. I have a bookstore there." She paused. "It has a window seat. The best one. Overlooks the main street. You can watch the rain for hours, and the cat will keep you company."
You didn't know what to say.
"Why are you telling me this?"
Clara tilted her head. "Because I think you need to know that places like that exist. Places that feel like home. Even if you haven't found yours yet."
Places that feel like home.
You didn't know what that meant. Not really. Home was a word other people used. A word from TV shows and books and conversations you overheard but were never part of.
Home was not a thing you had.
Clara didn't push. She just sat there, present, holding space for whatever you did or didn't want to say.
It was... strange.
Uncomfortable, almost. Like wearing clothes that didn't fit right. Like someone holding the door for you when you weren't sure you deserved to walk through. Like-
You shifted on the couch. Looked at your hands. Your fingers were cold.
"I should go back," you said quietly. "I have... homework."
It was a lie. You both knew it.
But Clara just nodded. Didn't call you out. Didn't look disappointed.
"Of course." She stood, smooth and unhurried. "I'll be here tomorrow. If you want to talk again. Or just sit. No pressure."
She left the book on the couch.
"You forgot-" you started.
"I didn't forget." She smiled from the doorway. "It's yours now. Consider it a gift from someone who's been where you are."
And then she was gone.
You sat there for a long time, staring at the book. The rain kept falling. The common room stayed beige and ugly and the same as every other common room.
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