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Love Stronger Than Kryptonite - Part 2

Part 1

Clark Kent x female reader

Sinopsis: After disappearing without a trace for thirty-one days, the woman Clark Kent loves becomes nothing more than a ghost haunting every corner of his life.

Warnings: angst, emotional pain, grief, trauma, violence, blood, experimentation, manipulation, kidnapping, emotional breakdowns, abandonment themes

WC: 18,000 words approx.

One month.

Exactly thirty days had passed.

Thirty days since the last time he saw her. Thirty days since he was left alone.

Thirty sleepless nights. Or almost sleepless. Sometimes he closed his eyes out of exhaustion, out of pure physical fatigue, because the human body had limits and his, even if it was stronger than anyone else’s, had them too. But sleeping was not resting. Sleeping was dreaming of her again. Sleeping was waking up with her name on his lips and an emptiness in his chest. Sleeping was worse than being awake.

Thirty dawns in which Clark opened his eyes and, for one second, just one, he did not remember what had happened. He did not remember that she was gone. He did not remember the night at the restaurant. He did not remember the hours spent waiting. He did not remember the unanswered messages. For one second, just one, the world was still the same as before. The world where she existed. The world where she was going to arrive at the restaurant with that shy smile, as if she were not used to smiling. The world where he was going to give her the key to his apartment and say those words he had rehearsed so many times in the men’s bathroom.

And then everything came crashing down on him like a wave of cement. His chest caved in. His throat closed up. And he had to remember how to breathe again. Every morning. As if it were the first time he was learning. As if his lungs had forgotten how air worked. He inhaled deeply. Exhaled slowly. And again. And again. Until the knot in his throat loosened a little. Until he could get out of bed. Until he could look at himself in the mirror and see his red, swollen eyes, and not recognize himself.

Your memory was branded into him like a hot iron. In every corner of his apartment. In every street you had walked together. In every coffee you had shared. In every laugh, in every kiss. He could not get rid of you. And the worst part was that he did not want to. Because if he got rid of your memory, he would have nothing left. Because you were everything he had. Because without you, without the hope that you would come back, he did not know who he was.

It was strange. Clark thought about it many times, during those long hours before dawn when he could not sleep and simply stared at the ceiling, his empty hands resting over his chest. It was strange because when a person says goodbye to you, when they sit in front of you and say, “It’s over,” “I’m leaving,” “I don’t want to continue,” it hurts. It hurts a lot. But at least you understand. At least you know what happened. At least you have an explanation, even if it is a bad one. And then you slowly walk away, healing with time, learning to live without that person. It hurts, but it is possible. You can go on.

But what happens when someone leaves without saying anything? What happens when one day they are there and the next they are not? What happens when you never knew what you did wrong, or whether you did anything wrong at all, or whether she was okay, or whether something happened to her, or whether she simply decided she no longer wanted anything to do with you? How do you heal from that? How do you close a wound that has no shape? How do you bury someone when you do not know if they are dead or alive?

Clark went over everything he had lived with you, day and night. He could not help it. It was as if his brain were trapped in a circle he could not escape. The things you said to him. The things he said to you. The times you laughed. The times you looked sad and he did not know why. The times your eyes drifted into emptiness and he thought you were only tired. The times your smile faltered for one second and he did not ask anything because he did not want to make you uncomfortable.

Had something about him disappointed you? Had he said something wrong? Had he done something wrong? Had he failed you somehow without realizing it? Had he not given you enough attention? Had he not told you enough that he loved you? Why had you not told him? Why had you said nothing? Why had you left him like that, without a word, without an explanation, without a goodbye? Did he deserve that? Had he done something so terrible that it justified you disappearing without a trace?

Those were the questions circling his mind as he looked out the window of his apartment, watching the city lights, watching how people continued with their lives while his had stopped completely. Or while he remained suspended above the city, so high the cold sank into his bones, so high he could barely breathe, sharpening his hearing, his super hearing, the one that could hear a sigh from miles away, the one that could distinguish one heartbeat among millions. He listened for something, anything, something he recognized, something that belonged to you. Your laugh. Your voice. Your heart beating. Something. Anything.

But he heard nothing. Only the noise of the city. Only other people’s lives. Only the silence of not finding you.

He was waiting for you. Even though he knew nothing about you, even though he had not heard from you in a month, even though every day he woke up hoping that this would be the day and every day he went to bed with the same disappointment, he was waiting for you. He searched for you in every face, in every person as he walked to or from home. He looked at women who resembled you in the way they walked, in the way they wore their hair, in the way they lowered their gaze when someone looked at them. But it was not you. It was never you. You were not there. There was nothing of you. As if you had vanished. As if you had never existed.

At the Daily Planet, things continued as usual. That was the cruelest part of all. That the world kept turning when yours had shattered. People worked, laughed, published new articles, complained about the coffee, talked about politics, sports, the weather. Everything was the same. Everything kept going the same way. But to Clark, everything looked different. The colors were duller, as if someone had lowered the brightness of the world. The lights dimmer, as if it were always night. The voices crossing his ears, the ones that once seemed interesting or amusing or annoying, now sounded so distant, as if he were behind thick glass he could not break. As if he were inside a bubble and the rest of the world were outside, and he could not get out, and no one could come in.

His gaze never went farther than his desk and your desk. Empty. The things that belonged to you were no longer there. The company had removed them, stored them in an inventory box as if they were ownerless objects. Well, almost all of them. There was still a star-shaped coaster you had used so many times. You had left it there one afternoon, after he brought you coffee, and you never took it with you. Clark had it on his desk. It was yours. And that was the little that remained of you in that place where you had once worked together, where you used to look at each other over the screens, where you used to pass handwritten notes in secret, where he used to steal kisses from you when no one was watching.

Now only a coaster remained. A cardboard circle with a star drawn on it. And Clark looked at it sometimes, touched it, turned it between his fingers, as if he could still feel your warmth. As if he could find you in its worn edges.

Perry called him into his office a week after you disappeared without a trace. Clark entered with slumped shoulders, lost eyes, a little unkempt. He had not shaved that day. Nor the day before. Nor the day before that. His shirt was badly ironed, his hair messy, the dark circles beneath his eyes so marked they looked like bruises. Perry looked at him in silence for a moment, with those eyes of his that had seen everything in this newspaper, and something in his gaze softened. But he said nothing. It was not his style.

“Clark, sit down,” Perry said, pointing to the chair in front of him.

Clark sat. He said nothing. He could not. He felt that if he opened his mouth, a sound would come out that he did not want anyone to hear. A moan. A whimper. A contained sob he had been keeping to himself for days, for the lonely nights, for when no one could see him. So he only nodded and waited.

Perry took a white envelope from his desk and placed it in front of Clark. It was a normal envelope, the kind used in offices, with no decoration, no return name. Only the recipient: Daily Planet. Attention: Perry White.

“Kent, this arrived a few days ago,” Perry said, his voice grave, serious. “No return address. Nothing. Just the envelope and what was inside. It’s a resignation letter.”

Clark lifted his gaze. His eyes, which had not shone in days, opened a little wider. The resignation letter. Your resignation letter. So you had resigned. So you were not planning to come back. So it was official. It was not only that you had not arrived at the restaurant. It was that you had left. Forever.

“The problem is that I tried calling the number we had for her in her file,” Perry continued, taking off his glasses and cleaning them with his tie, a nervous gesture Clark knew well. “No one answered. I tried several times. Different days, different hours. No one ever answered. As if that number didn’t exist. As if she had never existed.”

Clark stared at him without understanding. Or understanding too much. Because you did not answer him either. Because he had also tried calling you. Hundreds of times. Thousands. From his phone. From other phones, just in case you had blocked his. And never, not once, did you answer. Never. Not a message. Not a sign of life.

“She doesn’t answer you either?” Clark asked, and his voice sounded hoarse, as if he had not used it in days. Because yes, he had gone days without talking to anyone. Without wanting to talk to anyone. Without having anything to say.

Perry shook his head. “No. So we closed her file. It’s protocol. No return address, no way to contact her... there’s nothing else we can do. I’m sorry, Kent. I know you and she... well, I know you were close.”

Close. What a small word to describe what you felt for her. Close was nothing. Close was not staying awake all night thinking about her. Close was not searching for her in every face. Close was not crying in the shower so no one would hear you. Close was not feeling empty inside because someone had taken a part of you that you did not know how to recover.

Clark left Perry’s office slowly that day. His feet barely touched the floor. His mind was somewhere else. And as he passed by what used to be your desk, he saw Sarah, the intern, a young girl with brown hair and a frightened face, gathering your things. The last ones left. The pens. The paper clips. A spiral notebook. Some colored sticky notes. Sarah was placing them carefully into a cardboard box, as if handling something fragile. And when she looked up and saw Clark, she froze.

“Mr. Kent,” Sarah whispered. Her hands trembled a little. She did not know whether what she was about to do was right or wrong. “I... Miss Lane told me that before sending all of this to the inventory box, I should... I should stop by your desk.”

Clark looked at the box. A brown cardboard box, the kind they used for filing documents. Inside were the remains of your life at the Daily Planet. The little that was left of you in that building. He nodded with a lopsided smile. It was not his usual one. It was not that wide, warm smile he had once shown with pride, the one that revealed the two dimples in his cheeks and made everyone feel welcome. No. It was only a lopsided, sad, tired smile. The smile of someone who has lost something and does not know how to get it back.

Sarah stepped away a little, pretending to organize the empty desk, though in reality she was glancing over, worried. Everyone at the newspaper knew Clark was not okay. Everyone had noticed. But no one knew what to say to him. No one knew how to help him.

Clark took the box and carried it to his desk. He sat down slowly, as if it were hard for him to remain standing. And he began to empty it, object by object, like someone unearthing a memory.

First he found a small brown wallet. It was leather, worn at the corners, with a metal clasp that did not close all the way. He opened it with trembling fingers. Inside was your ID badge to enter the Planet. The photo was the one they had taken of you on your first day, when you arrived with that serious expression of someone who was not used to having their picture taken. You must have left it that night. That night he walked you to your apartment. That night that was the last time he saw you alive, though he did not know it.

Then he found small papers, interview notes you had both made together. He recognized his own handwriting on some of them. On others, yours. Tight, tiny handwriting, as if you wanted to take up as little space as possible. As if you were afraid of bothering anyone. There were lists of questions. There were badly written addresses. There were doodles in the margins, small drawings you made when you were bored. Stars. Many stars. Like the one on the coaster.

And then, at the bottom of the wallet, behind the Planet badge, he found a photo. Carefully kept, like a treasure. Like something you never wanted to lose.

He recognized it instantly.

It was your face. Not the badge photo, serious and formal. The real you. Smiling. But not at the camera. At him.

He remembered that time. He had invited you to the movies, one of your first dates, when you were still getting to know each other, when he still did not know he was going to fall in love with you down to the bone. As you left, you saw a photo booth, one of those in shopping malls, with the red curtain and the flash that blinded you.

“I don’t have pictures of myself,” you said, looking at the booth, and he noticed something in your voice. It was not just an observation. It was a confession. As if you were saying that no one had ever wanted to take a picture of you.

Clark smiled, that smile you liked so much. “Then let’s go,” he said, taking your hand. And you looked at him with those eyes that sometimes drifted into emptiness, but that at that moment were filled with something close to hope. “We should have pictures of us from now on,” he suggested. And you nodded, holding his hand. The hand you always held. The hand he believed you loved holding because it made you feel safe.

There was the photo. He was holding the popcorn with one hand, and with the other he had his arm around your waist, pulling you close to him. At first, you were looking at the camera, posing, serious. But the photographer, a young impatient girl, pressed the button too soon. Without giving you time to pose. Maybe Clark did have time. He was smiling at the camera, happy, carefree, with that enormous smile everyone liked so much. But you... you were not looking at the camera. You were looking at him. With a smile that remained captured in the photo forever. A smile he did not remember ever seeing on you before. A smile that said “I love you” without using words. A smile that now, one month later, broke his heart into a thousand pieces.

Then why? Why, if you seemed so happy, had you left him? Why was there no farewell voicemail from you, crying and telling him not to look for you anymore? Why had you not shown up at his apartment one night, knocked on the door, sat in front of him, and said, “I don’t want to continue,” “Don’t look for me anymore,” “This is over”? Why had you not given him that chance? Why had you not allowed him at least to say goodbye? Why had you left him with so many questions? Why was his last memory of you that smile in the photo, and not a farewell? Why was his last memory a happy one, and why did that make everything hurt even more?

Clark sighed. A long, deep sigh that rose from the very bottom of his chest. And he placed the little he had of you back into the box. The wallet. The notes. The photo. The badge. Everything. He stored it carefully, like someone guarding a treasure. Then he closed the box and placed it beneath his desk. He could not take it home. Not yet. Because if he took it home, it would be real. It would mean accepting that you would not come back. And he was not ready for that.

Maybe that was why he stopped searching. Not completely, never completely. But he did stop calling. He did stop going to your apartment every night. He did stop asking the neighbors, the doormen, the people on the street. Because he believed it was for the best. Because he thought you must be better off that way. Because he did not want to bother you. Because if you had left without saying anything, maybe it was because you did not want him to find you. Maybe it was because you had decided he was no longer part of your life. And even if it hurt more than anything, even if he felt like he was dying inside, he had to respect it. He had to let you go.

But even so, he could not stop looking for you. He could not stop sharpening his hearing at night, when the city fell asleep and the silence grew deeper, just in case he heard something of yours. He could not stop looking at blonde women on the street, just in case one of them was you. He could not stop dreaming of you and waking up with his heart broken.

How do you stop looking for the woman you love? How do you stop waiting for the person you long to have by your side? How do you tell your heart to be quiet, to stop crying, to stop hoping, to stop dreaming? How do you do that when the love you feel is so great it does not fit inside you?

He did not know. Maybe he would never know. Maybe he would spend the rest of his life looking for you. Maybe he would grow old with the hope of finding you on some corner, in some café, in some place where you had once been happy. Maybe he would never stop wondering why you left. Maybe he would never get an answer.

That day, he came home after work. The silence in his home was so vast he could hear it, as if the walls had learned not to make noise so they would not disturb him. He took off his jacket and let it fall over the back of a chair, without the strength to hang it where it belonged. He did not even turn on the lights. He preferred the gloom, that gray light coming through the windows that did not demand he see clearly. He preferred to sit on the sofa, in the same place where so many nights he had sat with you, with your head resting on his shoulder, with your legs tangled around his, with your soft breathing brushing against his neck. Now it was only him. Alone. Empty. Like a building from which all the furniture had been removed, leaving only bare walls.

He stayed there, staring at the wall in front of him without seeing it, for minutes that felt like hours. He did not know how much time passed. He had lost track of time weeks ago. The days blended into one another like wet paint, without edges, without differences. They were all the same. They were all gray.

Until the doorbell rang.

The sound struck him like a whip. He blinked, confused, as if he had been sleeping with his eyes open. He stood slowly, his legs numb from being still for so long, and walked toward the door. He opened it.

Lois and Jimmy were there.

They both looked at him with eyes full of something Clark already knew too well: concern. They had been so worried about him throughout that entire month. Lois had left him messages, brought him food he did not eat, sat beside him at work without saying anything, just to keep him company. Jimmy had tried to take him out for drinks, to see a movie, to do anything that might distract him. But Clark always said no. Always. Because going out meant facing a world where she was not there. Because distracting himself felt like betraying the memory. Because he did not want to forget even one second of what he had felt.

When his friends looked at him from the doorway, Clark said nothing. He only stepped away and returned to the sofa. He did not invite them in. He did not ask why they had come. He simply sat down again, in the same place, and went back to staring at the wall. As if they were not there. As if nothing mattered.

Lois and Jimmy exchanged glances. That kind of glance that says everything without words. The he’s worse than we thought. The we have to do something. The if we don’t help him now, he’ll never get out of this.

They entered without waiting for an invitation. Lois closed the door behind her. Jimmy remained standing, not knowing where to place himself, playing with the car keys in his pocket. Lois, on the other hand, went straight to him. She sat in front of Clark, on the coffee table, lowering herself to his level. She looked into his eyes, those eyes that once shone with a warm light and now looked like two stagnant pools of water.

“Clark,” Lois said carefully, with that soft voice she used very rarely, the one she saved for truly difficult moments. “I know you probably don’t want to talk about... her.”

Clark raised his gaze. Just a little. Just enough to meet Lois’s eyes, which watched him with a tenderness he felt ashamed to receive.

“We’re sorry to reopen your wound,” Lois continued, and her voice trembled slightly, because it hurt her too to see him like this. Lois Lane did not like watching the people she loved suffer. And Clark was one of the people she loved most. “But it’s just... it’s not normal, Clark. There’s... there’s nothing about her.”

Clark frowned. What did she mean, there was nothing about her?

Lois shifted on the coffee table, crossing her arms. “I asked Perry for her file. I wanted to see where she had worked before, what she had studied, where she came from. Jimmy got the numbers of the newsrooms where she supposedly worked. He called all of them.”

Jimmy nodded, taking a step forward. “We wanted you to at least have one final explanation so you could move on, Clark. Something. A clue. An address. A friend to call. Anything.”

“And every number,” Lois continued, “was either wrong, or no one answered, or they simply said no one with that name had ever worked there. We showed them the photo from her badge. The Planet one. The one they took on her first day. Do you know what happened? Nothing. There’s nothing. No one recognizes her. No one knows who she is. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”

Clark blinked. Strange. Yes, it was strange. But until that moment, he had been so busy suffering, so busy wondering why you had left, that he had not stopped to think about those things. About the details. About the inconsistencies.

“Besides,” Jimmy added, moving a little closer, his hands in his pockets, “I also checked universities. Where she was supposed to have studied, according to her résumé. There’s nothing. No classmates who knew her from the year she supposedly graduated. It’s like... I don’t know, like she didn’t exist before coming to the Planet.”

Clark looked at them. First at Lois. Then at Jimmy. Then back into the emptiness. His lips moved, but at first no sound came out. He had to make an effort, gather the little strength he had left, to speak.

“I don’t know,” he said in a whisper. His voice came out hoarse, broken. Like someone who had been screaming in silence for a long time.

Lois leaned toward him, closing the distance. “I know you think she left you because she didn’t love you anymore,” she said, and Clark looked at her with wet eyes. “But I’m sure she loves you. Even now. Wherever she is.”

Jimmy nodded fervently. “You can tell when someone is in love, Clark. And she gave herself away with her eyes every time she looked at you. Leaving just like that, without a word, without a fight, without anything... doesn’t that seem odd to you? Doesn’t it seem like something was wrong?”

Lois gently placed a hand on Clark’s knee. “Clark, did she ever say anything strange to you? Did she ever mention being afraid of something? Of someone?”

Clark looked at them. And then, for the first time in a month, his mind began to work differently. It stopped repeating the same questions over and over, and started remembering. Truly remembering. Remembering the details he had let pass because, at the time, they had not seemed important.

He went over everything he had lived with you. There were so many things. The times you often looked out the window, as if expecting to see someone who should not be there. The times when, walking down the street, you turned your head to look behind you, as if afraid someone was following you. The times your smile faltered, only for one second, and then you smiled again as if nothing had happened. The times you suddenly went quiet, your eyes lost somewhere he could not see.

There were so many things. So many small moments that now, seen from another perspective, formed a pattern. A pattern he did not like.

Then he thought of you. He thought that maybe he had not searched enough. That he had given up too soon, carried away by sadness and self-pity. That he had never entered your apartment to look for some sign, some paper, some clue as to where you might be. He had to go in, didn’t he? Even if it was illegal. Even if it was not right. He had to know.

But the last time he went to your building, your apartment already had a “For Rent” sign taped to the door. The windows were empty. The curtains had disappeared. There was nothing. As if you had never lived there. As if everything had been a dream.

Then he thought of the neighbors. Where had your things gone? Who had taken them? Had someone kept them? Or had they simply... disappeared, like you?

Clark stood immediately. The movement was so abrupt that Lois had to move aside to keep from falling off the coffee table. Jimmy took a step back, startled.

“Clark?” Lois asked. “What is it?”

But Clark did not answer. He could not. The words crashed together in his throat. He only knew he had to go. He had to go now. He could not wait another minute.

He ran out of the apartment, leaving Lois and Jimmy in the middle of the living room, staring at each other without understanding what had happened. He heard Lois shout his name, heard Jimmy say, “Should we follow him?” but he no longer cared. He no longer listened. He only felt an enormous urgency, a fire in his chest he had not felt in weeks.

He ran to the roof of the building. The afternoon air struck his face, cold and sharp. He stopped for a second, looking at the horizon, searching among the buildings for the one that had been yours. He found it. He always found it. It was a gray, ordinary building, the kind there were hundreds of in the city. But he knew which one it was. He had stood in front of its door so many nights. He had waited there for so many hours.

And then he flew.

He rose between the buildings with a stealth only he could possess. He did not want anyone to see him. He did not want explanations. He did not want to be Superman. He only wanted to be Clark. The man who had loved you. The man who needed answers.

Landed on the rooftop of your building. They would no longer let him in through the main entrance. He had gone so many times, called the doorman so many times, asked the neighbors so many times, that in the end they had forbidden him from entering. “She doesn’t live here anymore, young man,” they would tell him. “Let it go. You’re going to get in trouble with the police.” And he would leave, with his tail between his legs, feeling like a stalker. But not now. Now he did not care. Now he needed to know.

He went down the stairs carefully, keeping close to the walls, moving through the shadows. He did not want anyone to see him. He did not want to have to explain why he had come back. He heard a neighbor’s television, a baby crying, someone’s footsteps moving down the hallway. He waited. Held his breath. And when the hallway was empty, he moved forward.

Then he stopped.

In front of your door.

The door where he had left you so many times. Where he had said goodbye to you so many times with a kiss on the lips and a “see you tomorrow.” Where he had seen you smile so many times before closing the door. Where he had stayed a few seconds longer so many times, only to listen as you walked inside, turned on the light, and began that nighttime life of yours he never saw.

He had left you there so many times. Why had he not done it that night? Why had he not insisted on staying a little longer? Why had he not gone upstairs with you? Why had he not made sure you were okay before leaving?

He stayed there for a moment with his hand against the wood, as if he could feel you on the other side. As if something of you still remained inside those empty walls. He tried to open it. It was locked. With his vision, he looked through the door and into the apartment. Empty. Just like the first week he had gone to see you, to see if you could talk, to see if you had come back, to see if there was any trace of you. Bare walls. Naked floor. Curtainless windows. But it was strange. Because if you had left of your own free will, if you had decided to disappear from his life, why was everything so clean? Why were there no old pieces of furniture, broken things, remnants proving someone had once lived there? It looked as if someone had erased your existence on purpose.

“She’s not in there.”

A woman’s voice sounded behind him. Clark turned quickly, his heart leaping in his chest. A neighbor. An older woman, the kind who sees everything from behind the curtains. She was peeking out from her doorway, wearing a floral robe and her hair tied in a messy bun. She looked at him with tired eyes, but also with fear. As if she were doing something she should not.

“Don’t look here,” she said, her voice a whisper. “You’re the boyfriend, aren’t you? The one who came so many times. The one who knocked on her door late at night.”

Clark kept staring at the door of your apartment, but his ears were attentive to every word the woman said.

“They’re watching me,” the neighbor said, her eyes moving toward the stairs, toward the windows, toward any place danger might come from. “I shouldn’t be talking to you. They told me to keep quiet. That if I spoke, something bad would happen. But... the girl was good. She never bothered anyone. She always said hello. And you...” She paused, looking at him. “You looked so desperate those nights. Knocking and knocking. Calling and calling. I felt sorry for you. So I’m going to tell you something, but after this, you don’t know me, understood?”

Clark nodded. He could barely breathe.

“A month ago,” the neighbor continued, lowering her voice until it was nothing more than a thread, “I heard noises. It was around ten at night, more or less. A loud crash. Like something had hit the wall. And then footsteps. A lot of footsteps. And when I looked through the peephole, I saw a man. A big man, very big, carrying a woman in his arms. The woman wasn’t moving. Her head was hanging down, her arms were hanging down. I don’t know if she was... I don’t know if...”

She fell silent. Swallowed.

Clark clenched his fists. So tightly that his nails dug into his palms. They had hurt you. Someone had hurt you. They had carried you like a sack. And he had not been there. He had not been able to protect you.

“Do you know where she is?” Clark asked in a whisper. His voice trembled. All of him trembled.

“No,” the neighbor said. “But I know who that man was. I’ve seen him in pictures, on the news. His face stayed with me. It was Lex Luthor. I’m sure. It was him. The one who came out of her door. The one giving orders. Then, the next day, they came to threaten me. Men in suits came and told me that if I said anything, I’d regret it. That they knew where my daughter lived. That they knew where my grandchildren lived. That’s why I said nothing. That’s why I kept quiet. That’s why, when you came asking, I told you I didn’t know anything. But... but you looked so desperate. So...”

The neighbor took one step closer. She looked from side to side, terrified, as if someone could appear at any moment.

“On the first floor,” she said, “there’s a locker for each resident. To keep valuables, documents, whatever. When the girl moved in, the woman who rented the apartment to her told me she had asked to use the locker. That if something happened to her, if one day she didn’t come back, someone should go there. That she had stored something inside. I don’t know what it is. I didn’t open the locker. I didn’t want to get involved. But you... you probably need it more than I do. The password is 2902. That’s what the landlady told me before leaving. She said the girl gave it to her like that, with those numbers. Good luck.”

And the neighbor slammed the door shut. Clark heard her lock it. Heard her walk away. Heard her disappear.

He stood in the hallway for one second, his heart beating so hard he could barely hear anything else. 2902. His birthday. February 29th. A day that only existed every four years. A day he hated as a child because the other kids made fun of him. A day only you had celebrated with him as if it were special. You remembered his birthday. You remembered it. If you remembered it that much, then you had not left because you wanted to. Then someone had forced you to leave. Someone had torn you away from his side.

He moved his feet. He went down the stairs quickly, no longer caring if he made noise. He passed by the doorman, who opened his mouth to say something, but Clark ignored him. He walked straight to the lockers. They were in a narrow hallway in the back, beside the mailboxes. Small gray metal lockers, numbered. He looked for yours. The one from your floor. The one that matched your apartment number. It was there. Closed with a combination lock.

With trembling fingers, Clark turned the wheels. 2. 9. 0. 2. The lock clicked. It opened.

His heart sped up even more. If you remembered him that much, if you had used his birthday as the password, then you had not left because you wanted to. Then something had happened to you. Someone had hurt you. And he had not been there. He had not been able to protect you.

He opened the locker. Inside, there were two things. An old laptop, one of those large, heavy ones, with a scratched casing and stickers on the lid. And envelopes. Several yellow manila envelopes, the kind used to store important documents. He took them out immediately, his hands shaking. He pressed them against his chest. Closed the locker. And without looking back, without greeting the doorman, without thinking of anything else, he went back up the stairs, reached the rooftop, and flew.

That was the sign. That was the precise moment when he arrived at his apartment and opened everything. When he looked at your file. When he realized your life had been spent surrounded by people who studied you, who looked at you as if you were some strange creature, who measured and weighed you and injected you and wrote everything down in cold notebooks, without names, only numbers. Everything you had gathered from Luthor while you went to see him to give him your “progress.” But you never gave him anything real. Clark saw it in your notes. In the reports you wrote for Luthor but never delivered. Page after page of carefully constructed lies. False dates. False locations. Invented conversations. You lied to Luthor. For months. You lied to protect him. So he would not know that Clark Kent was not just a journalist. So he would not know that the man you were supposed to spy on was the same man who kissed you in apartment doorways.

And there were also the recordings you had recovered from your training sessions. Clark played them on the laptop, one by one, with frozen fingers and a constricted heart. He saw images of you when you were little. So little. A girl with wide, frightened eyes, standing in the middle of a white room, surrounded by men in white coats who spoke to you as if you did not understand. They hit you. Injected you. Made you cry. And then, when you grew older, the recordings became darker. More violent. They put you against other people. Made you fight. Forced you to use your powers until your nose bled, until you fell to the floor, until you could not lift your arms. And always, at the end of each recording, the same voice. Luthor’s voice. Saying, “Again,” “Do better,” “You’re useless.”

Clark could not watch them all. He had to stop several times. He had to close the laptop, press his forehead against the table, breathe deeply, very deeply, so he would not break something. So he would not fly out at that very moment and kill Luthor with his own hands. Lois placed a hand on his shoulder. She said nothing. No words were necessary. Jimmy was pale, his fists clenched, biting his lips so he would not cry.

And then, at the bottom of one of the envelopes, he found the note. A sheet of paper folded in four, wrinkled at the edges, as if you had carried it with you for a long time. He opened it carefully, fearfully, as if there were something inside that could hurt him more than he was already hurt.

Your handwriting. Small. Tight. Trembling in some letters, as if you had cried while writing.

“If I am in the right hands, then I only want you to know that I know your secret. That is why I kept it as if it were my own. Thank you for teaching me what seemed impossible to live.”

That was all. There was nothing else. It did not say where you were going. It did not say why you were leaving. It did not say whether you planned to come back. Only that. A thank you. An I love you disguised in simple words. An “I know who you are, and I am protecting you.”

Clark trembled. His entire body trembled. They had done something to you. Someone had hurt you. You had not left of your own will. Someone had torn you from his side. And he had done nothing. He had spent a month crying, grieving, blaming himself, when what he should have done was search. Investigate. Fight. Find you.

He rose from the chair so quickly that it fell backward. Lois took a step back, startled. Jimmy opened his mouth to say something, but Clark was already gone. He had shot toward the window, toward the balcony, toward the sky. He flew with such force that the air whistled around him, that the windows of nearby buildings trembled in his wake. He did not think. He did not plan. He only flew. Straight to Luthor.

That was his mistake. Acting on impulse. Not thinking. Not waiting. Not gathering more evidence. Only allowing rage, fear, and desperation to guide him. Because when you love someone, when that person is everything to you, when you have lost them and finally have a clue as to where they might be, you do not think. You simply act. And Clark acted.

He put on the suit midair, with that movement he had done thousands of times. The cape billowing behind him. The red crest on his chest. But inside, he did not feel like Superman. Inside, he felt like a frightened man. A man who had failed the only person who truly mattered.

He reached Luthor’s tower in less than a minute. He did not knock on the door. He did not ask permission. He shattered the entrance window with his shoulders, feeling the glass burst into a thousand pieces around him, feeling the alarms begin to blare. He walked through the hallways with firm steps, his gaze fixed ahead, his fists clenched. The guards tried to stop him. He pushed them aside effortlessly, without even looking at them. He was not there for them. He was there for Luthor. To find out where you were. To bring you back.

Luthor received him in his office. He was sitting behind his enormous dark wooden desk, his hands clasped on the surface, a victorious smile on his lips. He did not stand when Superman entered. He did not flinch when the glass door shattered into pieces. He only looked at him, with those cold eyes, with that false calm Clark hated so much. The way inside was imposing, full of technology, blinking lights, screens showing graphics and maps and things Clark could not quite understand. But Lex was not afraid. That was the worst part. That he was not afraid. That he had been waiting. That all of this was part of his plan.

“So Clark Kent finally managed to get you to come,” Lex said, tilting his head as if admiring a work of art. “Surely it was because of the project he himself made me discard, wasn’t it? How ironic. She, who was my best creation, my masterpiece, ruined by a shitty journalist. By a man who did not even know what he had in his hands.”

Clark looked at him. If she knew his secret, if she knew he was Superman, then that meant she had revealed nothing to Luthor. Despite everything, despite the orders, despite the years of training, despite the punishments and the injections and the nights of pain, she had not betrayed him. She had protected him. The way you protect something fragile. The way you protect something worth more than your own life.

He kept staring at Luthor, saying nothing, waiting. The alarms were still blaring in the distance, but here, in this office, there was only silence and Lex’s ugly smile.

“What did you do to her?” Clark asked. His voice sounded deep, hoarse, as if it came from the bottom of a well. He took one step closer. Luthor did not move. “Where is she?”

Desperation trembled in his voice. He tried to hide it, tried to wear the face of a hero, of Superman, of someone who was not afraid.

“Where she always should have been,” Lex said, his voice calm, as if he were talking about the weather. “It was difficult, I won’t deny it. Getting rid of what I created with so much effort... it hurts, you know? Like losing a child. But sometimes it has to be done. Sometimes children become rebellious. They forget who they are. They forget who they owe everything to.”

Clark clenched his fists. “Where is she, Luthor?”

Lex lifted one hand, calm. “If you do anything to me, I won’t tell you. And you’ll gain nothing. You can kill me, Superman. You can break my bones one by one. You can do whatever you want to me. But if you do that, you’ll never know where she is. You’ll never know whether she’s alive or dead. And you’ll live with that for the rest of your life. Is it worth it?”

Clark stopped. Rage burned through his insides, but Luthor was right. He could not do anything to him. Not until he knew where you were.

Lex smiled, satisfied. He continued speaking as if he were telling a story. “She was the best. They raised her well. Obedient. Strong. She never asked questions. Never complained. She did what she was told and stayed silent. She was perfect. But her mistake was remembering she had a heart. She was not supposed to love. I designed her so she couldn’t. Love is a weakness, Superman. You know that better than anyone. Love makes you weak. It makes you make mistakes. It makes you forget who you are. And she fell in love. With him. With Clark Kent. With that useless friend of yours. She dared to love, and that is wrong, isn’t it? Isn’t it wrong when something that belongs to you forgets that it is yours?”

Lex stood slowly, walked around the desk, and approached Superman without fear. He knew he would not hurt him. Not until he spoke.

“In the end, she said nothing. She lied to me. She lied to the man who gave her a home. Who gave her a reason to exist. Do you know how much time I invested in her? How much money? How many resources? And she repaid me by lying to me. And I knew, Superman. I knew because she can read minds. Because it was easy to fool that idiot Kent, she could read him like an open book. But she did not want to. She preferred lying to me over hurting him. Is that love? Is that what you call love? Betraying the one who created you for someone you met five minutes ago?”

“Where is she, Luthor?” Superman asked again. His voice was louder now. More dangerous. The lights in the office flickered. The windowpanes trembled.

Lex smiled. And pointed to the side. Toward a corner of the office where Clark had not seen anything before. But now he saw it. A portal. A metal cube suspended in the air, surrounded by green and purple lights, with a surface that looked liquid and solid at the same time. Vibrant. Threatening.

“There,” Lex said, pointing with a long, pale finger. “Go ahead, Superman. You’re strong. If you go in there, no one will hurt you. Because you’re the strongest of all, aren’t you? The invincible hero. The one who never falls. The one who always wins. Go in. Go look for her. If she’s still alive, of course.”

Clark looked at him, doubtful. It was a trap. It had to be a trap. But you were there. Or you could be. And he could not just stand there with his arms crossed.

“Go ahead,” Lex repeated, arms open. “Don’t be afraid. Is Superman afraid? Does the Man of Steel hesitate? Go in. It’s only a portal. It will take you to her. Or maybe it won’t. Maybe it will take you somewhere else. You won’t know until you enter. Will you risk it? Or would you rather stay here with me, listening to me talk about her?”

Clark did not think any longer. He flew toward the portal. He could not help it. It was his only clue. His only chance. He had to find you. He had to know if you were all right. He had to bring you back.

“Honestly,” Lex said when Superman entered and the cube closed behind him with a deep, metallic, definitive sound. “A stupid alien. Just like all the rest. And do you know what the funniest part is?”

Lex stood in front of the cube, looking through the glass surrounding it, hands in his pockets, with a wide, happy smile, like a child who had just broken a toy he did not like.

“You know, she was excellent,” he said, speaking as if Superman could hear him. As if he were enjoying every word. “She had everything she needed to be the best. She had fought so much. So much. Since she was a child. I broke her bones, made her cry, lifted her back up, broke her again. I made her strong. I made her perfect. And your friend, that Clark Kent, that stupid shitty journalist, decided to turn her into a failure. He filled her head with foolish ideas. With love. With freedom. With things that do not exist. And she believed them. Like an idiot. Like all of you.”

Lex sighed, as if he were tired. Tired of having to explain the obvious.

“But don’t worry. This time no one died because of Superman. No, no. This time was different. This time it was because of his friend. Because of Clark Kent. That useless man who does not even know what he lost. Because of him, she died. Because if she had not fallen in love with him, if she had not tried to protect him, if she had not lied to her owner... she would still be here. Obeying. Being useful. Being my perfect project. But no. Your friend made her weak. And weak things break. And broken things get thrown in the trash.”

Lex moved closer to the glass. Superman was inside, on his knees, panting, struggling to breathe. The cube glowed. Something moved in the gloom.

“Do you know the best part?” Lex said, almost whispering. “She never told him who she was. Clark Kent never knew the truth. He never knew she was a weapon. He never knew they were spying on him. He never knew she could read his mind. He never knew anything. And now, she’s gone. And he was left with no answers. No goodbye. Nothing. Because that’s what happens when you fall in love with a monster, Superman. You end up empty. And you don’t even know why.”

Superman lifted his gaze. From inside the cube, he could see Lex on the other side of the glass, smiling. He wanted to strike it. Wanted to break it. But something was happening. His body felt weak. So weak. As if he had suddenly lost all his strength. His legs trembled. His arms felt heavy. He fell to his knees with a dull thud, panting, struggling to breathe, as if the air had suddenly become too thick to inhale. As if the power inside him had vanished. As if he were no longer Superman. Only a man on his knees, trembling, afraid.

Lex approached the glass, looking at him from the other side, with that blood-chilling smile.

“By the way,” he said, as if remembering something important, “meet Metamorpho. That hideous thing you see in there with you. A metahuman. He has the ability to transform his body into anything. Even kryptonite. So enjoy your stay, Superman. Because you are not getting out of there. And she... well, she didn’t get out either.”

Clark looked at the man. Metamorpho was sitting inside the cube too, in the corner, his gaze lost on the floor, as if he did not want to see what was in front of him. He did not look at him. He avoided him. As if he were ashamed. As if he knew what he was doing was wrong, but had no other choice. Lex Luthor watched from outside, arms crossed, that wide, ugly smile still plastered across his face. He was enjoying every second. Seeing Superman weak, trapped, unable to do anything, was his greatest pleasure.

Superman stared at him. At Metamorpho. At that being who could become anything, any weapon, any poison. And for a moment, for an instant, Metamorpho lifted his eyes. He looked at him. And there was no hatred in his eyes. No desire to fight. Only exhaustion.

“Even so, she fought,” Lex said from outside, in a singsong voice, as if narrating a film. “Really. She fought. I don’t know if it was to protect Kent or to protect you. Maybe both. Maybe she wanted to save everyone. How foolish. How stupid. Don’t you think? Giving your life for people who don’t even know you exist.”

Lex touched something on a floating panel beside him, and an enormous screen appeared in the air, inside the cube, in front of Superman. A floating screen that began to play a recording. The battle from that day. Superman watched weakly, his chest tight, his breath cut short by the kryptonite Metamorpho released unintentionally, or perhaps intentionally.

He saw you fight. He saw you fall. He saw you throw green balls of energy, raise walls from the ground, try to protect yourself. He saw that man whose face he could not make out, that monster called Ultraman, attack you again and again. He saw how you fell to the ground. How you bled. How you got back up, even though you could barely do it anymore. How you fell again. How you kept fighting. How you did not give up. How, even when you had no strength left, even when blood ran from your nose and mouth, you kept fighting.

Tears welled in his eyes. He could not stop them. They were hot, heavy, and rolled down his cheeks as he watched the screen. Maybe while he had been on his way to the restaurant, tulips in his hand and the velvet box in his pocket, rehearsing the words he was going to say to you, you had been there. Somewhere dark. In some cold laboratory. Fighting for your life. For his. To protect his secret. So he could keep being Superman. So Clark could keep being Clark.

He saw Ultraman drive the dagger into you. How your body shuddered. How your eyes widened in pain. How Luthor approached, caressed your cheek, whispered something in your ear. How he pulled out the dagger. How the blood spilled out. How you fell. How you went still. How you went silent. How you stayed...

And then Luthor stopped the recording. The screen went dark. The cube returned to gloom. Only Metamorpho’s green glow remained, Superman’s ragged breathing, and Lex’s smile on the other side of the glass.

“Dying was probably the best thing for her, don’t you think?” Lex said, tilting his head as if asking an honest question. “Clark Kent would have hated her if he had found out. If he knew she was a weapon. If he knew they were spying on him at first. If he knew she could read his mind. Do you think he would have forgiven her? Do you think he would have kept loving her after knowing everything was a lie? No. He would have hated her. He would have left her. He would have made her feel worse than she already did. So yes, death was the best thing. That way she spared herself all of that. That way she left without having to see the disgust on Kent’s face when he learned the truth.”

No.

Clark knew it. From inside the cube, with his body weak, with almost no strength left, he knew it. He would not have hated her. Never. Not even when she stood him up at the restaurant. Not even when he stopped receiving messages from her. Not even when his calls went unanswered. Not even when he found out everything she was. Her number. Her past. The recordings. The lies. Everything.

He did not hate her. He never hated her. The only person he hated was himself. For not having seen the signs. For not having asked. For not having stayed that night. For not having protected her. For being so blind. So stupid. So trusting.

If he could go back, if he could have her here, in front of him, he only wanted to tell her one thing. Just one. That it would be all right. That he could take care of her. That he could accept her. That he did not care where she came from, or what she had done, or what had been done to her. That only she mattered to him. That he wanted to heal every scar life had left on her. That he wanted to erase the number on her shoulder with kisses. That he wanted to give her a home. A real home. Not a laboratory. Not a cell. Not a cage. A home. With him. With his smile. With his arms. With his kisses on her forehead.

But he could not. Because she was no longer there. Because he had arrived too late. Because while he was going to the restaurant with tulips in his hand, she was dying. And he could not save her. He could not even say goodbye.

Superman lowered his gaze. He could no longer look at Lex. He could no longer look at Metamorpho. He could only look at the floor of the cube, cold and gray, and feel the tears continue to fall, silent, hot, endless.

Lex enjoyed it. It showed in his posture. In the way he leaned back in his chair, in the way he crossed his legs, in the way he placed his hands behind his head. He did not know Superman was Clark. He did not know that the man crying inside that cube was the same journalist you had kissed. To him, Superman was only an alien. A hero. Someone who always hated not being able to save someone. And seeing him suffer, seeing him cry, seeing him crumble... that was better than any victory.

“Metamorpho will watch over you while I decide what to do with you,” Lex said with a low, amused laugh. “Don’t get bored, all right? We have plenty of time. I can wait. So can you. After all, she’s in no hurry anymore. She has nothing anymore.”

He stood, adjusted his jacket, and walked toward the door of his office. Before leaving, he looked back one last time and smiled.

“Enjoy the company,” he said. “Metamorpho is very quiet, but he doesn’t bite. Well, sometimes he does. But don’t worry. The kryptonite he gives off isn’t enough to kill you. Only enough to make you feel... the way she felt. Weak. Alone. Afraid. You know? I think that’s fair.”

And he left. The door closed behind him. The office lights went out, one by one, until only the green glow of the cube and the breathing of two trapped men remained. Two projects. Two weapons. Two beings who never asked to be what they were.

The cube remained floating in the middle of the room, suspended in the air, turning slowly. Metamorpho did not move. He said nothing. He only stayed in his corner, his gaze lowered, his hands on his knees, like a domesticated animal that no longer remembers what it is to be free.

And Clark finally let the tears fall. He did not hold them back anymore. He did not pretend anymore. He let them all come out. One after another. Hot, fast, endless. He trembled slightly, his shoulders hunched, his head bowed, his hands shaking on his legs. He made no sound. He did not cry out loud. He did not scream. He only cried in silence, the way you had learned to cry when you were little. He only cried, because he had nothing else left.

He had finally realized he had arrived too late. That she had been alone. That she had been afraid. That she had tried to tell him, maybe, but had not been able to. Or had not wanted to. Or had not found the right moment. And he had not been there. He could not save her. He could not protect her. He could not do anything.

But she had protected him. Protected his secret. That was what hurt the most. That she, who had suffered so much, who had been used and beaten and discarded, who had every reason in the world to hate, to betray, to seek revenge... she had protected him. She had given her life for him. For Clark.

And he had not been able to do the same. He had not been able to protect her. He had not been able to save her. He had arrived too late.

Clark finally mourned your death. That was what hurt the most. That you were dead. That you would not come back. That you would never smile at him again, or take his hand, or say “see you tomorrow.” That he would never again feel your lips, your laughter, your gaze. That you were gone forever. And he had not been able to say goodbye.

Thinking about it sent chills through him. More than the kryptonite did. Because the kryptonite took away his strength, burned in his blood, hurt him. But thinking about you, about the fact that you would not return, that there was nothing he could do to bring you back... that was worse. That broke his soul. That made him want to stop existing.

It did not matter that someone else was there. It did not matter that Metamorpho watched him out of the corner of his eye, that he saw him crying and said nothing, that maybe he also wanted to cry but no longer remembered how. It did not matter that Lex might be watching from some camera, enjoying every tear. Nothing mattered. He cried because he could feel you. Because somewhere, in some corner of his heart, you were still there. He still felt you. He still loved you. And he wanted you back. He wanted to hold you. He wanted to tell you everything was going to be all right. He wanted to heal your wounds. He wanted to give you the key to his apartment. He wanted to tell you he loved you. He wanted to spend the rest of his life with you.

But he could not. Because you were gone. Because you had died. Because he had arrived too late. And now all he had left was to cry inside a floating cube, surrounded by kryptonite, with a killer beside him, while the man who had killed you went home calmly to have dinner.

“I’m sorry,” Clark whispered through his tears, even though he knew you could not hear him. Even though he knew you were dead. Even though he knew you would never hear his voice again. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have let you go. I shouldn’t have left that night. I shouldn’t have... I shouldn’t have...”

The words drowned in his throat. He lowered his head. Closed his eyes. And kept crying. In silence. In the dark. In the center of that cube that was his own tomb, because without you, without your smile, without your hand, without your love... what was the point of still being Superman? What was the point of still being Clark?

Because there is nothing sadder than a hero who arrives too late. There is nothing sadder than a love that is not enough. There is nothing sadder than a life that goes out in silence, with no one to say goodbye to it, with no one to say “I love you” one last time.

Clark heard the voice. Weak, trembling, as if every word required an enormous effort. It came from the opposite corner of the cube, where Metamorpho was still sitting, his gaze lowered, his hands twisting over his knees. He was not looking at him. He was looking at the floor. As if speaking to him were already a crime. As if saying those words put him in danger.

“Was she your friend?” Metamorpho asked.

Clark was on the floor, his back against the wall of the cube, his legs stretched out and his arms hanging limply. He stared at nothing. At the gray emptiness before him. He was no longer crying. He had run out of tears. But inside, he was destroyed. Shattered. As if someone had taken his heart and squeezed it until it broke into pieces. He did not answer. He could not. Saying “yes” would have been too much. Saying “she was more than my friend” would have been worse. So he remained silent, his gaze lost, his breathing slow and heavy because of the kryptonite still floating in the air.

Metamorpho glanced at him from the corner of his eye. He saw his red eyes. Saw his wet cheeks. Saw how his hands trembled. And something inside him moved. Something Luthor had not been able to tear out completely.

“I heard about her,” Metamorpho continued, looking toward the door, toward the sides, as if someone could appear at any moment. “Everyone heard and... I shouldn’t talk about it. I shouldn’t. But... I... I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. My son is here. He’s in this place. And I don’t want them to hurt him. That’s why I do what they tell me. That’s why I am this. That’s why I turn into... into this. So they won’t touch him.”

Clark lifted his gaze heavily. The kryptonite made even his eyelids hurt. But he listened. He listened to every word.

“They’re studying her,” Metamorpho whispered, his voice dropping even lower. Almost inaudible. “Her. The girl. I saw her. I saw her when they brought her in. She was so pale... so still... I thought she was dead. But no. That white light you can see from here, do you see it? That light glowing in the distance. That’s the laboratory. Luthor has laboratories inside the pocket universe. In there, everything floats, but it has real floors, real walls, everything is real. But no one knows it exists. No one knows it’s there. It’s like a secret. A secret Luthor keeps only for himself. So no one finds out what he does.”

Clark blinked. The white light. Yes, he had seen it. At the end of the corridor, beyond the walls of the cube, beyond the glass and the armored doors. A faint, constant light, like a beacon in the middle of the darkness. She was there. Somewhere inside that light. Somewhere inside that hidden laboratory.

“They say they healed her, but that isn’t true,” Metamorpho continued, and his voice trembled a little. “They say her heartbeat is strong. That her body doesn’t want to die. That it’s holding on. Luthor wants to reboot her. Like a machine. Like all his projects. He wants to erase everything she feels, everything she remembers, everything she learned. He wants to make her new again. With no humanity left. Without the love she felt for... for that journalist. Without fear. Without rage. Without anything. Only obedience. Only orders. Only an empty weapon.”

Clark felt a shiver run through him. Not from cold. From horror. From rage. From desperation.

“But they say she protected her memories well,” Metamorpho said, and for the first time, his eyes met Clark’s. There was something in them. Something almost like hope. “They’ve tried to wake her. Many times. Every time they try to open her up to operate on her, to experiment on her brain, to erase her memory... something happens. Something throws them back. As if she had put up a barrier. As if her own mind had protected itself without realizing it. They don’t know how she does it. But they can’t get in. They can’t touch her memories. It’s like she’s asleep, but fighting. Dreaming, but struggling.”

Clark’s hands trembled. Not because of the kryptonite. Because of the emotion. Because of the hope beginning to bloom in his chest, small, fragile, but alive.

“They say she’s regenerated,” Metamorpho continued, looking toward the door again, afraid. “That her body is healing on its own. That the dagger they stabbed her with... that poisoned kryptonite dagger... didn’t kill her completely. It left her on the edge, but it didn’t kill her. And now her body is healing. Little by little. Luthor knows that if she regenerates completely, she’ll be stronger than before. That’s why he’s in a hurry. That’s why he wants to erase her memory before she wakes up. Because if she wakes up and remembers everything... if she remembers who she is and who she loves... they won’t be able to control her. Never again.”

Metamorpho paused. Swallowed. He seemed to be making a decision. A decision that could cost him everything.

“If I help you,” he said, his voice barely a whisper now, “if I help you get out of here, if I help you reach her... will you get my son back? Will you help me get him out of this place? I don’t want them to put their hands on him. I just want him to be safe. Can you do that? Can you promise me?”

Clark looked at him. He saw the monster, yes. He saw the shining skin, the strange eyes, the shape that was not entirely human. But he also saw a father. A man who would do anything for his son. Just as he would do anything for her.

“Yes,” Clark whispered. His voice sounded weak, broken, but firm. “I promise you. Where is she? Where is she?”

Metamorpho nodded. And then, with a gesture that seemed to cost him an enormous effort, the kryptonite began to disappear from his hand. The green light started fading, retreating like an ebbing tide. Clark felt air enter his lungs again, felt his muscles stop burning, felt strength return to his veins. Not all of it. Not all. But enough. Enough to fight.

“She’s in the next room,” Metamorpho said, pointing toward the white light. “Where she is. My son is there too. In a cell. They haven’t done anything to him yet. They haven’t experimented on him. But Luthor threatened to. He told me that if I didn’t obey, if I didn’t become what he wanted, he would do the same thing to him that he did to her. That’s why I do this. That’s why I am this. I don’t have another choice.”

Clark stood. His legs trembled, but he remained upright.

“I’m sure she’s there,” Metamorpho said, and his voice sounded almost human. “Alive. Fighting. Like always. Like her whole life. She doesn’t give up. She never gives up. She learned that somewhere. Maybe from you. Maybe from your friend. I don’t know. But she doesn’t give up. And neither should you.”

Clark looked at the white light. If he still had a chance to get you back, to see you one last time, to tell you everything he had not told you... he was going to do it. He was going to fight. He was going to reach you. Even if it cost him his life.

Then Metamorpho did something. Something Clark did not expect. He raised his hand, the one that no longer glowed green, and concentrated his energy. Not into kryptonite. Into light. Into heat. Into something like the sun. A replica. Weak, small, but real. A miniature sun that shone inside the cube and bathed Clark in its glow. It was not enough. Not enough for him to fully recover. But it was something. A little strength. A little hope.

Clark breathed deeply. He felt the warmth enter through his skin, felt his cells awaken, felt his body respond. He was not at one hundred percent. Far from it. But he could move. He could fight. He could try.

He rose from the floor. Took a step toward the wall of the cube. The kryptonite was gone. Metamorpho had absorbed it, or dissolved it, or pushed it away. It did not matter how. What mattered was that it no longer burned him. What mattered was that he could.

Clark struck the glass, and the crystal shattered into a thousand pieces. No alarms sounded. Metamorpho had disabled something, or he knew how to move without being detected. It did not matter. Clark stepped out of the cube, staggering, his head spinning, his vision blurred. He landed on the floor of Luthor’s office, stumbled, and grabbed onto a table so he would not fall. He shook his head, trying to clear it. Trying to focus.

Metamorpho floated beside him, half of his body turned into something like a cloud, something translucent, something that did not seem solid. He looked at him with those sad eyes, waiting.

“My son is here,” Metamorpho said, pointing to a door at the end of the hallway. “In that room. Please. Get him out. Take him far away from here. Somewhere Luthor can’t find him.”

Clark nodded. He walked toward the door. Inside, there was only one guard, a large armed man, who turned when he saw him enter. He did not even manage to lift his weapon. Clark knocked him out with a single blow, quick, clean, silent. And there, in a small crib, wrapped in a blue blanket, was Metamorpho’s son. A baby barely a year old. Big-headed, with wide frightened eyes, his little arms trembling.

Clark picked him up carefully, his hands shaking, his heart tight. He pressed him against his chest, feeling his warmth, his fragility. He was so small. So defenseless. Just like you when you were little. Just like all of Luthor’s projects.

He left the room and handed the baby to Metamorpho. The man received him with open arms, tears in his eyes, a sob he could barely contain. He hugged him tightly, so tightly, as if he would never let him go.

“Wait for me here,” Clark said. “I’m going for her. When I come back, I’ll get all of you out. I promise.”

Metamorpho nodded, holding his son against his chest. Clark walked toward the other door. The one that led to the laboratory. The one separating your cold body from his arms.

It was restricted. Locked with codes, with bolts, with technology no ordinary human could open. But Clark was not an ordinary human. With one pull, he tore the door from its hinges. Threw it aside. Entered.

There were no alarms. It seemed like the people inside could not hear anything. Or maybe Luthor had disconnected everything out of his own arrogance. But Clark could hear. He heard the doctors’ voices through the walls. Heard their conversations. Heard their plans. Heard the machine marking your heartbeat. Slow, but firm.

“Prepared for the operation,” one of them said, the lead doctor, a bald man with round glasses and a white coat.

“Attempt number ten of the day,” a tired woman reminded him, with dark circles under her eyes and fingers stained with something Clark did not want to identify. “We haven’t been able to access her, not in the previous attempts either. I think the tools aren’t working. That’s what Mr. Luthor said.”

The lead doctor nodded, looking at the inert body on the operating table. Your body. Clark saw it from the entrance, and his heart stopped for a second. You were there. Pale. Still. With your arms at your sides, wearing a white gown that covered you down to your feet. Wires came out of your chest, your arms, your head, connected to machines that beeped and blinked. The heartbeat monitor marked something weak, almost imperceptible, but there. Still there.

“I’ve been thinking,” the doctor said, touching his chin, “and maybe they’re right. Maybe what she needs is a powerful laser. Like Ultraman’s. To get inside her. To break that barrier she has. To reach her brain and erase everything.”

The woman smiled. An ugly, tired smile, without joy. “Good idea. That way we can get in and eliminate everything to leave her like new. She won’t cause any more trouble. She’ll be useful again. Like before. Like when she was good.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Clark said.

Everyone turned. Their faces filled with fear. The doctor took a step back. The woman dropped the tool in her hand. The others, the assistants, the nurses, pressed themselves against the walls as if they wanted to disappear.

“It’s Superman,” one whispered.

“How did he get in?” another asked.

But before they could do anything, green energy burst from your body. A bright, intense layer that covered you completely and expanded outward like ripples in water. The energy seized all the doctors. Lifted them into the air, shook them, made them scream. The woman pressed a panic button, but it was too late. The alarm sounded, yes, but the energy already had them. The doctors twisted, kicked, begged for help no one was going to give them. And at the same time, Clark saw it. Your heartbeat on the machine grew stronger. Faster. Your color improved. Your cheeks, once pale as wax, now had a faint rosy tone. The green energy was giving you life. It was draining their strength to give it to you.

The doctors fell to the floor, unconscious, trembling. The green energy retreated back into your body, like a tide returning to the sea. And then, a blow. Hard. Brutal. Clark felt something hit him in the back and send him flying, crashing into the opposite wall. The infamous Ultraman had appeared.

Clark had not fully recovered from the kryptonite. He could barely stay on his feet. His muscles trembled, his breathing was short and ragged, and every movement required an enormous effort. But he saw you there, on the table, pale and still, and that gave him strength. He had to reach you. He had to get you out of there.

Ultraman launched himself at him again. Blow after blow. Direct, merciless, relentless. Clark dodged the first ones, but the third hit him in the stomach and folded him in two. The fourth grazed his jaw. The fifth struck his chest and sent him into the wall. The impact was so strong that the glass on the medical equipment shattered, and the pieces flew through the air like blades.

Clark fell to the floor, panting, his head spinning. He spat blood. He got up again, bracing himself on his knees, his arms shaking. He tried to move toward you, but Ultraman was already on him. He grabbed him by the throat and lifted him into the air. Clark struggled, kicked, but his strength was not enough. Ultraman threw him against a stone column, and the impact echoed throughout the laboratory. Debris fell over him. The column cracked. Clark felt something crunch in his back, felt pain run down his spine like a lash. He gasped, coughed, spat more blood.

He tried to stand. Again. Always again. But Ultraman gave him no time. He grabbed him by the hair and lifted him from the floor, then began to hit him. Once. Twice. Three times. Four. Each blow drove Clark deeper into the ground, each blow stole a little more air from him, each blow blurred his vision more. Ultraman’s fists were like hammers, hard, cold, relentless. And Clark could not defend himself. Could not fight back. Only take it. Only endure. Only stay alive.

Ultraman let him fall to the floor. Clark lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, his arms spread open, blood running down his forehead and along his temples. He could not even lift his arms to protect himself. Ultraman raised his fist. One more. One more and maybe he would not get up again. One more and maybe everything would end there.

But something stopped him.

Green energy. Bright. Intense. It wrapped around Ultraman’s fist and froze it in the air. Ultraman struggled, but he could not move. The energy surrounded him, squeezed him, suspended him like a fly in a web.

“We have an unfinished fight, don’t we?” a voice asked behind Ultraman. Your voice. Clark recognized it instantly. He had heard it in dreams, in memories, during sleepless nights where he repeated over and over the things he had said to you and the things he never got to say. It was your voice. You were alive. You were speaking. You sounded tired, yes, but firm. Like someone who had returned from death and was not willing to leave again.

Ultraman flew backward. Your energy had thrown him as if he were a rag doll. Clark lifted his head with effort, looking toward the room you had come out of. The wall was broken, shattered into pieces, and through the opening he saw you. There you were. Standing. In the white hospital gown, barefoot, your hair loose and disheveled. Your gaze moved around the place, confused, as if you did not fully understand what was happening. As if you had just awakened from a very long dream and the world looked blurry, strange, out of focus.

But then you looked at Ultraman. You saw him heading straight toward you, fists clenched, with the clear intention of hurting you. And something changed in your face. Your eyes hardened. You pushed yourself forward, flying, and your fist, covered in green energy, met Ultraman’s chest. The impact was so strong that he fell to the floor, dragging across it, coughing. He had not expected you to have so much strength. No one had.

Your hands moved toward him. Green energy poured from your palms like rivers of light, wrapping around him, draining his strength. The same thing you had done to the doctors. You were absorbing his energy, Ultraman’s energy, the energy of everyone who had hurt you. And as you did, your eyes grew brighter, more luminous, like two small suns. The white gown billowed around you. You looked like an avenging angel. Or something else. Something Luthor had never anticipated.

“Clark, we have to go.”

Metamorpho’s voice sounded behind Clark, who was still on the floor, barely conscious. Metamorpho stood at the door with his son in his arms, looking everywhere, frightened. His son cried softly, clinging to his neck. “More guards are coming. I can hear their footsteps. If we don’t leave now, we’ll never get out.”

You stopped. The green energy went out in your hands. You lowered your trembling arms and looked at Metamorpho. Then at Clark. And then, in the middle of the chaos, the rubble, the alarms ringing in the distance, your eyes found his.

Clark was leaning against the wall, barely holding himself up. Blood ran down his forehead, from the corner of his lips. The red suit was torn, dirty, covered in dust. But he was looking at you. Only at you. And in his eyes, there was a question he did not dare ask out loud.

Did you remember him?

You had protected your mind and your body. For him. For Clark. For the man who had taught you what love was. That was why, even after death, you protected him. Your body had created a barrier, a shield, something neither Luthor nor his scientists had been able to break. But what if that protection had done something else? What if it had pushed you out of your own mind? What if you had lost your memories in order to protect them? What if you did not even remember his name?

Clark swallowed. His heart beat hard, not because of fear, but because of hope. Fear that you would look at him like a stranger. Fear that you would ask who he was. Fear that everything you had lived together had been erased from you forever.

You approached him. You walked slowly, staggering a little, as if your legs were not responding well. The white gown was too big on you. Your bare feet left prints on the dust-covered floor. You stopped in front of him. Looked at him.

And then, something happened. Something Clark felt in the deepest part of his being. His mind opened. Like that first time you kissed him in the office, when his memories flowed toward you without him being able to stop them. But now you were the one opening the door for him. Now you were the one who wanted him to see. Not only your heart. Your entire soul.

“Of course I remember you, Clark,” you said.

Your voice was a whisper. But to him, it was like a scream. Like thunder. Like the most beautiful thing he had ever heard in his life. Because there was no confusion in your eyes. No emptiness. There was memory. There was love. There were all the days you had spent together, all the laughter, all the silences, all the kisses at apartment doors. It was all there. You had forgotten nothing. Your mind had clung to him the way a castaway clings to a life preserver. Even when your body was dying, even when your blood was slipping away, even when the darkness wanted to swallow you, your mind had kept him. Him. Clark. His name. His face. His smile.

Clark smiled. His lips were split, his face covered in blood, his eyes swollen from crying so much. But he smiled. A trembling, fragile smile, like someone who had recovered something he believed lost forever. He smiled because you remembered him. Because you tilted your head as you looked at him, the way you always did, as if you were trying to understand something that did not quite make sense, as if you thought this was a dream you would wake up from at any moment.

But it was not a dream. It was real. You were there. Alive. In front of him.

And he smiled too because he felt your heart beat when you saw him. He heard it. That heartbeat the machine had marked as weak, almost extinguished, was now strong, fast, full of life. Your heart beat for him. Even after everything. Even after death. Even after they drove a poisoned dagger into you and left you lying on the cold floor. Your heart was still beating for him. Because you loved him. Because despite everything, despite him thinking that you had left him, that you no longer loved him, that you did not care... your body and your heart said otherwise.

And after a month of being unable to breathe, after entire nights without sleeping, after gray and empty days, Clark was finally able to breathe. He inhaled deeply. Air filled his lungs. He did not care about the dust, the blood, the smell of burning. He breathed because you were there. Because you were in front of him. Because you had not left.

He moved closer to you. Or rather, he let himself fall toward you. His arms wrapped around you and pressed you against his chest. It was an awkward hug, trembling, messy. He was not the invincible hero. He was not Superman. He was only a man who had spent an entire month mourning the woman he loved and suddenly had her in his arms again. He held you without hurting you, but tightly, as if he were afraid you would disappear. As if you were made of smoke and one wrong movement could make you vanish.

Your face rested against his chest. Right where you could hear his heart. And you hugged him too. Your arms wrapped around his waist and held him. You closed your eyes. Felt his pulse. Felt his warmth. Felt life returning to you, not because of the energy you had absorbed from the doctors, but because of him. Because he was your energy. He always had been.

“I’m sorry I didn’t make it to the restaurant on time,” you whispered.

Your voice sounded distant, as if your consciousness had remained trapped in that day. The day you left. The day Luthor took you. The day you locked yourself inside your mind to protect yourself. The day you begged to live a little longer, just a little longer, to see him again. The day your powers yielded to you, covered you like a blanket, and protected you from the cold of death. The day Luthor left you lying on the floor as your blood slipped away, but your blood returned to you, as if it had mercy, as if it also knew you could not die without saying goodbye.

You had thought only a few days had passed. A handful of days. That time had stopped while your body healed. You did not know a month had gone by. You did not know Clark had cried for you for thirty nights. You did not know he had stopped eating, stopped sleeping, stopped living. The first thing you saw when you woke up was him. The first thing you remembered was your date. The date you thought about until your last breath. The date when you were going to tell him you loved him. And your first thought, the first one after coming back from death, was him. Always him.

Clark held you tighter. But without hurting you. Always carefully. Always afraid of breaking you.

“No, no, it’s okay,” he said. His voice broke. He was choking on his own tears. “It’s okay. It doesn’t matter. The restaurant doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. The only thing that matters is that you’re here. That you’re alive.”

He pulled back a little to look into your eyes. He was afraid. Afraid of what you were going to say. Afraid that you would blame him. Afraid that you would hate him for not being there.

“You don’t hate me, do you?” he asked. His voice was small, fragile. Like a child asking for forgiveness without knowing what he had done wrong.

You tilted your head. You smiled. That smile of yours, the one he loved so much. The one that appeared suddenly, without warning, and brightened his entire day. There it was. It had not gone away. It was still with you, on your face, in your eyes.

“Hate you?” you asked, as if the idea were ridiculous. You raised your hand and caressed his cheek. Your hand was cold, trembling, but it was your hand. Your touch. After a month of emptiness, after a month of feeling nothing, you were finally touching him again. “How could I hate you when I wanted so badly to see you just to tell you how much I love you?”

Clark smiled. Cried. Both at the same time. And he leaned toward you. He kissed you.

The kiss was soft at first, almost shy, as if you were both afraid of breaking something fragile. As if you were not sure it was real. As if at any moment you would wake up in your beds, alone, with emptiness in your chests. But then it became firmer. More certain. Because it was real. Because you were there. Because after a month of thinking you would never see each other again, you had each other. And nothing else mattered.

“I know I shouldn’t interrupt because you’re having your moment,” Metamorpho said from the doorway, his son in his arms, his eyes shining with hope. “But we have to leave or they’re going to catch us.”

Clark nodded. He reluctantly pulled his lips away from yours. But when he tried to take a step, his body failed him. His legs trembled. He staggered. He would have almost fallen to the floor if you had not held him.

You looked at him, not understanding. Then you looked at Metamorpho. Then back at Clark.

“The kryptonite affected him,” Metamorpho said, lowering his head. “I’m sorry. I... I didn’t want to. They forced me. But he helped me with my son. He gave me a chance. And now... now I want to help him. But he’s weak. Very weak. He can’t fly properly. He can’t fight. He needs to get out of here before...”

He did not finish the sentence. He did not need to.

You pressed your lips together. Your eyes traveled over Clark’s body. You saw everything. The wounds. The blood. The dark circles beneath his eyes. The way he could barely stand. Something ignited inside you. Something that was not only love. It was protection. It was rage. It was the same force that had made your body heal itself, that had created a shield around your mind, that had thrown Ultraman through the air.

Leaving was easy. Your powers, though weakened by everything you had endured, still answered your call. You opened every door with a movement of your hand, making the locks burst, bending metal as if it were paper. Even the door separating the world from the pocket universe, that invisible border Luthor had created to hide his nightmares, opened before you as if it recognized you, as if it knew you no longer belonged in that place. You stepped out unharmed. The fresh night air struck your face and, for a moment, you closed your eyes, breathing deeply, feeling that you were finally outside. Metamorpho came out with you, his son pressed to his chest, his eyes wide, looking at the sky for the first time without knowing that this was freedom. He said goodbye with a gesture, a nod, and ran off between the shadows, disappearing into the empty streets of Metropolis. You did not know if you would ever see him again. But you had given him a chance. And that was more than he had ever had.

You left with Clark. You carried him in your arms, flying low, close to the rooftops, hiding from the lights, from the cameras, from any eyes that might see you. He was heavy. Not because of his body, but because he was weak, because the kryptonite was still running through his veins, because he could barely stay conscious. But you held him. You did not let him go. You were never going to let him go again.

Luthor would look for you. You knew that. His best project had come back to life. The one he had discarded, the one he had given up for dead, the one he had left lying on the cold floor of his laboratory like a dirty rag, had returned. And worse, you would join the battle. He knew you had already chosen a side. And that side was not his. That side was Superman. It was Clark. It was everything Luthor hated. And that would make him more dangerous. But you no longer cared. You were no longer afraid. Because now you had something worth being afraid for, and at the same time, something worth being brave for.

You arrived at Clark’s apartment. Your body trembled, not from cold, but from exhaustion, from the energy you had spent, from everything you had absorbed to heal and escape. But you laid him carefully on the sofa, as if he were made of glass, as if any sudden movement could break him. You sat him down, adjusted his head on a cushion, and then looked around.

You saw the sheets. The papers. The videos. Your laptop was open on the table, with the recordings you had saved, with the files you had stolen, with all the evidence you thought no one would ever see. Clark had found everything. He had seen your past. He had seen the recordings from when you were little, the training sessions, the blows, the injections. He had read your false reports, the lies you wrote to Luthor to protect him. He had seen the photo booth picture, the one you kept in your wallet, the one you looked at every night before sleeping. He had seen everything. And still, even after knowing who you truly were, even after discovering that you had been a weapon, that you had been created to destroy, that at first you had been spying on him... he had looked for you. He had not hated you. He had looked for you.

Then you knew. You knew he had searched for you. For days. While you were there, unconscious, floating between life and death, he had been out there, knocking on your door, calling your phone, asking everyone, losing his mind with worry. And a question formed on your lips before you could stop it.

“Don’t leave,” Clark said. His voice was a whisper, fragile, like someone who had cried until he had no tears left. “I’ve already spent thirty-one days without you. One more day... I couldn’t bear one more day.”

You looked at him. Thirty-one days. An entire month. You had been dead to him for an entire month. Or not dead, but gone. He had lived a month without knowing anything about you. A month thinking you had left him. A month blaming himself, wondering what he had done wrong. And still, he had not stopped looking for you. He had not stopped loving you.

“Thirty-one,” you whispered, lowering your gaze. Guilt weighed on your shoulders. It was not your fault, you knew that. It had been Luthor. It had been Ultraman. It had been that damned laboratory. But he had suffered. He had suffered because of you. And that broke your heart.

You raised your hand and placed it on his cheek. His skin was cold, dirty, stained with dried blood. But it was him. It was Clark. It was your home.

“I’m not going to leave, Clark,” you said, and your voice trembled a little, but not from fear. From emotion. From something you did not know how to name but that filled your chest until it nearly burst. “Never again. I don’t want to be away from you again. I don’t want to wake up without knowing if you’re okay. I don’t want to spend a single day without seeing you again. Never again, Clark. Never again.”

Clark hugged you. He did not have the strength to hold you tightly, but he hugged you. He buried his face in your neck, and you felt his lips tremble, felt his wet lashes against your skin, felt his whole body relax, as if he had been tense for thirty-one days and only now, only in your arms, could he finally release all the air he had been holding.

He settled you onto the sofa, the two of you together, wrapped around each other. He did not want to let you go. Not even to look at your face. He held you as if you were a dream, as if he were afraid that if he opened his eyes, you would disappear. And you held him because it felt as if life had given you what you had begged for so desperately. For years. For your entire existence. You had pleaded in silence, in the cold nights of the laboratory, in the moments when the blows would not stop and the pain would not let you sleep. You had begged for someone to see you. For someone to love you. For someone to save you. And now, here, in Clark’s arms, you understood that your plea had been heard. Not by a god. Not by fate. By him. By Clark. By the man who had taught you that you were not a project, that you were a person, that you deserved to be loved.

Luthor no longer mattered. You would defeat him. You knew you would. It would take time, but you would. Because now you were not alone. Because now you had Clark. Because now there were no secrets between you. He knew everything. He knew where you came from, knew what you had done, knew the lies you had told, knew the number on your shoulder, knew you could read minds, knew that at first you had been a weapon. And still, he had searched for you. And still, he had waited for you. And still, he loved you.

You could be free. For the first time in your life, you could be free. You did not have to hide. You did not have to pretend. You did not have to be afraid of someone discovering your past, because he already knew it and did not care. You could defeat them all with Clark by your side. You could fight. You could win. You could live.

At last, you could have a happy ending. That ending you had never believed you deserved. That ending you thought was only for real people, for those who had families, for those who did not have numbers tattooed on their shoulders. That ending was yours now. And you were not going to let it slip away.

Clark knew it. He confirmed it as he held you tighter, as he felt your heart beating against his, as he breathed in your scent and convinced himself it was not a dream. He knew it because he felt it. Because in that embrace, in that shared silence, the two of you understood that everything was going to be all right. That it had been difficult, that it had hurt, that it had almost destroyed you both, but in the end, you were together. And that was all that mattered.

Of course, you defeated Luthor. It was not easy. It took months. There were fights, entire sleepless nights, moments when you thought you would not make it. Luthor was cunning, he had resources, allies, other creations like Ultraman and Metamorpho. But you were no longer the same. You were no longer afraid. You no longer hesitated. And Clark was no longer alone. You fought together. Superman and you. You flew together, fought together, fell together, and rose together. And in the end, Luthor fell. His laboratories were discovered. His crimes came to light. And he, the man who believed himself owner of the world, ended up in a cell. A real cell. Not the kind he built for others. A cell he could not escape. And for the first time in his life, he learned what it felt like to be locked away. For the first time, he learned what it felt like to be a project. And you, from the outside, looked at him one last time. And you felt nothing. No hatred. No rage. Not even pity. Only peace. Because you no longer belonged to him. Because you were already free.

You returned to your name. Not to the number they had tattooed on your shoulder, not to the false name you used at the Daily Planet. You returned to yourself. To the story you already had, but with one difference. The difference was that now Clark walked beside you. That now your work was real. That you were no longer pretending to be a writer, you were one. You had learned it, lived it, worked for it. You earned that position. You earned that name. You earned that life.

Your loneliness had been replaced. In the morning, when you woke up, you were no longer alone. Clark was there, sleeping beside you, with messy hair, his mouth slightly open, one hand stretched out searching for you even while he slept. There were no longer two apartments. There was one. His. Yours. You had brought your things, which were not many, and placed them beside his. The books on the same shelves. The plates in the same cabinets. The laughter on the same walls.

There were no secrets. You did not have to hide anything. If a nightmare woke you in the night, Clark was there to hold you. If he had to leave as Superman, you knew, and you waited, and when he came back, you asked him how it had gone, and he told you everything. Because there were no more lies. Because there was no more fear. Because finally, after so long, you could both be yourselves.

There were shared mugs. Two mugs in the sink every morning, one red and one blue, side by side, like two people who had found each other after being lost. There were two scarves on the coat rack by the entrance, yours and his, sometimes tangled together as if they were embracing. There were two coats hanging by the door, the large one and the small one, the one that kept you warm and the one that kept him warm. There were two keys. One in his pocket, one in yours. The same door. The same home.

At last, you had everything you never believed you deserved. At last, you had a family. At last, you had a place where you belonged. At last, you had love. Real love. The kind that does not hurt. The kind that is not paid for with blows. The kind that makes you stronger, not weaker.

And one night, while you were having dinner together on the sofa, watching a movie neither of you was really watching, Clark rested his head on your shoulder and whispered something you could barely hear.

“Thank you for coming back.”

Your eyes filled with tears. But they were not sad tears. They were the kind you wipe away while smiling.

“Thank you for waiting for me,” you answered.

Because in the end, after everything, broken souls can heal too. Those born in hell can also walk out of the fire. And villains, those who never had a chance, those who were created to be bad... can also have a happy ending.

You deserved it. You always deserved it.

And Clark, your Clark, the man who found you among the shadows and taught you there was light, proved it to you every day. With every hug. With every kiss. With every morning you woke up beside him and he smiled at you as if it were the first day.

At last, after so long... at last, you were alive. Truly alive. And there was nothing, and no one, that could change that.

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