Invisible (Part II)
(Y’ALL the amount of likes and the comments from Invisible is astounding cuz I just started writing!!!! I saw one comment where they wanted Clark to beg on his knees, and IDK about begging BUT I LOVE MAKING HIM CRY!)
@ventressism (this is for you!!)
It’s been a year since you last wrote Clark Kent’s name in the corner of a notepad.
A year since you stopped looking up every time the elevator dinged.
A year since you started training yourself to look right through him the way he used to look through you.
He and Lois are together now. Everyone in the newsroom knows. It’s the kind of story that people sigh over; Two reporters in love, both chasing danger and deadlines, both saving the world in their own ways.
But you know better. You see the way Lois looks at him - bright, admiring, but distant. The way her smile sharpens every time Superman’s name comes up. You see how Clark pretends not to notice. Maybe he’s good at pretending now.
You’ve stopped pretending.
Your apartment is packed into boxes. You’ve got a train ticket to Gotham, and for the first time in months, the air feels lighter. You tell yourself you’re not running away. You’re just…leaving. Before it hurts again.
You sneak into the bullpen early to clear out your desk, no goodbyes, no explanations. Just a quiet exit. But when you step out of the elevator, he’s already there.
Clark looks up from his desk, glasses sliding a little down his nose. “You’re in early,” he says with that easy, friendly tone that’s always felt like a paper cut, soft, small, and stinging.
You force a smile. “Just finishing some things up.”
He glances at the boxes in your arms, his brow furrowing. “You moving apartments?”
You swallow. “Something like that.”
He stands. “Wait…are you…leaving?”
You hesitate. You weren’t going to say it. But there’s something in his voice - confusion, maybe something else - that breaks your silence.
“Yeah,” you finally say. “I got an offer in Gotham. Figured I could use a change.”
Clark blinks, like he can’t quite process it. “You’re…leaving Metropolis?”
You nod. “Tomorrow.”
He stares at you, and for a second it’s like the whole room goes still. No typing. No ringing phones. Just the weight of everything unsaid.
“I didn’t know you were thinking about leaving,” he says softly.
You laugh, but it sounds more like a sigh. “You never really noticed me, Clark.”
He looks like you’ve slapped him. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” you ask quietly. “You were always with Lois. Always smiling, always listening, always looking at her like she hung the moon. And I just-” you shake your head. “I just wanted to be seen. Just once.”
His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He looks stunned, almost guilty.
You set the box down and meet his eyes. “You don’t have to feel bad. I’m not saying this to make you. I just needed to say it before I go. You were… everything. And I know you never meant to hurt me. You just never looked my way.”
You turn to leave, and his voice catches, soft, broken.
“Wait.”
You freeze.
When you look back, he’s standing there-eyes wide, panic in his voice. “I didn’t….God, I thought you hated me. You were always so quiet, and I-” He steps closer, his voice shaking. “You were right there, and I was too stupid to see it.”
You can feel your throat tightening, tears blurring your vision. “It doesn’t matter now.”
“It matters to me,” he says, and suddenly his voice cracks. “I could’ve had you this whole time?”
He sinks to his knees before he can stop himself, hands in his hair, breath shaking. He looks wrecked, like the words hit him too late, like they’re tearing him apart from the inside.
“I could’ve had you,” he repeats, voice raw. “And I didn’t even know.”
You take a step back. The sight of him, Clark Kent, solid and unshakable, breaking right there in the middle of the bullpen-feels unreal. Painful. Beautiful.
You whisper, “Now you do.”
Then you pick up the box, and you walk away.
He doesn’t stop you this time. He just stays there on the floor, knees pressed to the cheap office carpet, watching you disappear.
For once, he sees you.
But it’s already too late
