d

you’ve always been the kind of freak who loves sitting on a plane, even in economy. and this time, it's even better because dani said the magazine would cover travel and board and insisted you fly business. so yeah... you’re kind of excited.

you’ve got the whole thing planned out in your head: iced mocha latte from al’s at 7 a.m., airport by 8:15, an hour of lounge time with sad but free continental breakfast and your research window open on safari. flight at 10, wichita by 4:30, rental car by 5:15, and–if all goes according to plan–you’ll be pulling into smallville just in time for a cozy dinner at some roadside diner that hopefully leans full 1950s: red-and-white tiles, mini jukeboxes at every table, a waitress named cheryl who calls you "hon."

but right now? you’re freaking the fuck out. because while you may love traveling, you hate packing.

“dude, there are, like, no underwear in here,” meera says, peering into your half-zipped packing cube.

“oh, fuck,” you groan, springing up.

“sit down. i’ll find some,” she says, shoving your shoulder back down with surgeon-level authority. to your horror, she proceeds to stuff the cube exclusively with the fancy underwear the lacy pairs, the ones you save for birthdays, or the very occasional hookup.

“meers,” you hiss, “i’m going there for work.”

she doesn’t even look up. “exactly. and nothing says professionalism like being emotionally prepared for a surprise makeout sesh with small-town cowboy.”

–

by the time you make it to the airport the next morning, you’re operating on exactly three hours of sleep, a fuckass coffee (classic al’s), trader joe’s chocolate covered espresso beans, and the high-stakes adrenaline of someone pretending to be effortlessly put-together.

you left the apartment with your suitcase half-zipped, your boarding pass loaded on three different apps (just in case), and your laptop charger already tangled in a knot so complex it might qualify as modern art. you are, in short, thriving.

not to mention, by some grace of god, the security line is short and (fucking miracle of miracles !!) the lounge has both wi-fi and a working toaster.

you settle into a warm sunlit corner and take your computer out of your bag. there’s a tiny stack of pancakes on your plate, a toasted bagel, a very earnest tab open titled, “how to make sure someone likes you.”

you need clark kent to like you.

see, you never truly believed that he had any true fault in what happened. sure, he couldve been a little more careful but honestly speaking, people have made worse mistakes with lesser consequences. his very public internet flogging that carried no nuance whatsoever never really made sense in your eyes.

besides, youre a romantic. and if there’s one thing hollywood romcoms have taught you, airports are a place for second chances. there’s something particularly appealing about the idea that reinvention is just one gate change away. maybe that’s why you’re already imagining what you’ll say when (if) you find him. if he even opens the door.

hi, i’m a journalist who’s been mildly obsessed with your writing since college and i swear i’m not here to stalk you, just exploit your tragic legacy for narrative gold!

okay. no. yikes. definitely not that.

you scroll absently through the “clark kent” google results again, half-hoping a new clue will magically appear between “where is clark kent now?” and “top 10 famous people who vanished mysteriously post pandemic.” it doesn’t.

the boarding call comes just as finish off the last of your pancakes. you close your laptop, and gather your things.

your business class seat is window-side, thank you very much. there’s a little glass of orange juice waiting for you, a hot towel you never quite know what to do with, and just enough legroom to fit a basketball player. you’re shorter than meera’s mighty 5’5.

you settle in, and tug your headphones on. you think about perhaps listening to an emily henry audiobook before switching to a podcast clark did back in 2016 that you’ve never heard before but had the foresight to download last night.

see, you’ve watched many many videos of him, especially in the last week, but with the podcast mic and the incredible audio quality, his voice runs straight down your spine. it’s warm and buttery and a charming mix of metropolis-polished and country twang.

by the time the plane lifts off, you feel it again - that little buzz in your chest. you’re finally doing something that you’ve wanted to for a long time and youre fucking excited.

–

the sun is just starting to set by the time you turn off the interstate and onto a two-lane road flanked by wheat fields and politely spaced telephone poles. according to your gps, smallville is still twelve minutes away. according to the increasingly spooky lack of signage or civilization, however, you might be driving straight into the plot of a mid-budget horror movie.

you’ve already passed a “jesus is watching” billboard, and an abandoned gas station with a goat on the roof (unclear if intentional).

and then, like it’s been waiting for you to stop checking the map every six seconds, smallville just... appears.

and it is stupidly cute. like, aggressively charming. there’s red and yellow bunting hanging from the stores in the main street which is lined with brick buildings and hand-painted signs: granny’s pie stop, main & maple booksellers, the stitchery (a sewing-slash-coffee shop, apparently). there are pumpkin planters on the sidewalks even though it’s not october, and actual children are playing tag in front of a general store. there’s even a little dog chasing them and nipping at their ankles as they squeal in delight

it’s so quaint you half expect to bump into a flannel-clad man carrying a christmas tree and a tragic backstory. in june.

hey, maybe you’ll get that cowboy romance meera wouldn’t shut up about.

you roll your window down and let the breeze in. it smells like woodsmoke and farmland aaaand.. maybe a little like betrayal, because you’re genuinely annoyed at how much you like it here. you’d been prepared for rundown and forgotten. instead, it’s full of life and laughter.

your rental car looks ridiculous on these streets - a slick, city-black sedan that definitely screams “i’ve never milked a cow” in this town -but no one seems to care. a sweet old man even waves as he walks by in overalls.

your phone pings, startling you.

meera: did u get murdered yet? pls confirm for legal purposes.

you send her a picture of yourself with a goofyass smile and a thumbs-up then pull into the gravel lot of the dandelion inn.

it’s a cute little b&b with floral wallpaper and fresh cookies at the front desk.

“hey, hon!” the little lady behind it grins, “you must be the girl from metropolis. i’m kelly.”

“guilty,” you smile. “how’d you know?”

she laughs. “oh, word gets around quick here. plus, you’re the only guest this week who booked with a corporate card and asked for the strongest wi-fi. that’s big-city energy if i’ve ever seen it.”

you like her immediately.

after checking you in, she hands you a room key with a sunflower keychain and a warm oatmeal cookie wrapped in a napkin.

“we’re screening the princess bride tonight,” she says. “you’re welcome to join. we’ve got blankets and popcorn and everything.”

you nod like you’ll think about it, but let’s be honest, you’re definitely going. you have questions about clark kent, but right now, but right now it’s still sunday, and you want to enjoy this gilmore girls knock-off town while the fantasy’s still fresh.

once youre settled into your room, you sit on the bed and pull out your notebook. you flip to a fresh page.

smallville: first impressions

disturbingly adorable

so fckin friendly - just genuinely nice??

stars hollow istg

clark kent grew up here?? makes sm sense, he is was a kind hearted cutie patootie too

you chew on the end of your pen and glance out the window. somewhere out there is the man you came looking for. or at least the ghost of who he used to be.

and if this town really is the kind of place that holds on to its people, maybe - just maybe - it’s still holding on to him, too.

–

by 7:45, the park is glowing like it’s been kissed on the cheek by a hallmark movie.

you wander down maple street with a b&b quilt tucked under your arm and a paper bag of kettle corn crinkling in your hand. somewhere ahead, someone is playing a soft acoustic cover of little sadie by crooked still. the town green is strung with fairy lights and someone’s set up a projector against the side of a whitewashed barn. there’s a table with cold cider and piles of nachos.

you’re so charmed–borderline disarmed–by the whole thing that you don’t even realize someone’s talking to you until they’re practically sitting in your lap.

“you’re new,” a woman says cheerfully, plopping down on the edge of your quilt like this is a long-running tradition. she’s got a plastic cup of lemonade in one hand and a tupperware of what can only be deviled eggs in the other. “i’m trish. i work at the library-slash-post office. not a joke. budget cuts and an overly optimistic mayor.”

“hi,” you say, blinking. “i’m just visiting. doing some writing.”

“ooh, mysterious!” her eyes sparkle. her accent heavy. “we get your kind every so often. journalists. usually after tornado season.”

you laugh. “close enough.”

she gestures at the green with her cup. “last week, we had a bake sale that turned into pie-eating contest that turned into a town hall. susan and shirley had a big fight about which one of their boys truly won. majority said susan’s boy, jack-ryan did.”

you’re about to ask whether susan offered bribes when a voice from behind you interrupts.

“you’re talking her ear off, trish.”

another voice pipes up, “she’s fine. if she made it past tsa, she can survive trish.”

you glance around to find that you’ve somehow acquired an entire welcoming committee. they’re settling themselves around your blanket like this was planned. you learn that they're joyce, earl, molly, ben, someone’s cousin, possibly someone’s dog, and there’s something so casual, so effortless about it that it takes you a moment to realize what’s happening.

they’ve let you in.

like you’re not new, like this isn’t strange. like you’ve always been part of the rhythm here.

eventually, the conversation drifts.

“heard you’re here about clark,” molly says, topping up your cider like it’s a peace offering.

you pause mid-sip. you’ve only… spoken to people about this on reddit. anonymously.

“word gets around,” ben adds, reminding you of what kelly had said earlier. “don’t worry. no one’s mad. just… interested.”

“he’s a good man,” joyce says, soft but firm. “always has been.”

“used to mow my lawn for free,” earl chimes in. “said the slope was dangerous, but we all knew it was because he can’t say no to a widower with a bad hip.”

“built the benches in this park,” trish adds, like it’s just one item on a long, beloved list. “with his own two hands.”

“showed my kid how to use a camera.”

“fixed the roof after the hailstorm.”

“never missed a blood drive.”

the stories pile up quick, gentle and nostalgic - laced with affection. there’s something underneath them, though. like, maybe he used to belong to this town in a way that he doesn’t anymore.

“he still lives here, right?” you ask, as casually as you can manage.

theres a beat of silence. not long, but just long enough to notice.

“he keeps to himself these days,” joyce says gently.

“but he’s around,” molly jumps in. “he’s… he’s healing.”

you nod like that explains everything, even though it doesn’t. not really. it’s like you’re assembling a puzzle, but the pieces keep shifting shape just when you think you’ve got an edge.

before you can ask more thpugh, the lights dim. the movie starts and a nostalgic sigh ripples through the crowd like someone just uncorked a bottle of collective memory.

you settle in, even giggling at some of the jokes, but your mind keeps circling back to clark.

and then, two-thirds of the way through the movie, just as westley is flinging himself down a hill and declaring his undying love… you see him.

standing near the edge of the park, half in shadow, half in the glow of the fairy lights, still as a statue.

he’s tall and clearly a notable presence, sporting a beard and downturned shoulders. you’ve watched countless interviews of him and are used to the clean-shaven version, sitting up straight in interviews, smiling like it’s second nature. he looks… rough. but it’s still unmistakably him.

he doesn’t interact with anyone. doesn’t move. just stands there, looking.. not at the screen, but at the crowd.

at you?

your breath catches.

it’s a strange kind of recognition. the kind that hits your chest first and logic second.

and then, before you can stand or or even blink properly, he turns and walks away.

not in a hurry or like he’s hiding.

just like someone who hasn’t quite decided if he wants to be found.

not quite yet.

(divider from @saradika-graphics)

you’ve been staring at the blinking cursor for eight minutes and thirty-four seconds, which wouldn’t be that bad if it weren’t on an empty google doc titled “digital loneliness in a post-pandemic cityscape.” you’re supposed to write a 1,200-word lifestyle feature. so far, you’ve written: “loneliness is…”

and then you stopped, because honestly? you’re not sure you know anymore. or worse, you know too well.

you tap your keyboard like that’ll fix something inside you.

“tell me you’re writing and not just admiring your font choice,” dani says, suddenly appearing beside you with a cup of something suspiciously green in one hand and a raised eyebrow in the other. dani, your editor, champion, tormentor, and unofficial life coach, who once edited an entire piece of yours using only fleabag quotes as comments after you got her wine drunk and forced her to watch it.

“don't make me an optimist. you'll ruin my life.” she’d scribbled in the margins.

dani is… dani. she always walks like she’s being timed. there’s something olympian about her gait: deliberate, kinetic, a little terrifying. at 6’1, she doesn’t really tower as much as she commands the air around her, as if ceilings move to accommodate her. when she laughs, rare, short bursts, like a balloon being let go too soon, it feels like applause you didn’t know you’d earned.

she’s the only person who ever made you want to work weekends. not out of fear (though that’s there, too), but because her approval is the kind of thing that makes you believe you're not completely wasting your twenties. she’ll knock three paragraphs out of your lede with a single, “too slow,” and then send you a picture of her lunch ten minutes later with the caption “nommy nommies.”

you don’t know everything about her - she’s private in a scandinavian way, minimal and pristine - but you know she used to figure skate competitively and once told you, over cocktails at a christmas party, that the trick to good reporting is “keeping your skates sharp and your soft parts softer.” you still don’t quite know what that means, but you’ve quoted it in two different extended family events and once on a bumble date, and all times gotten an impressed nod in return. it still makes you giggle.

she took you in when you barely knew what an em dash was and made you believe you were going to be someone. not someone important, necessarily. but someone who could write something that mattered. lol.

you straighten up. smile. you are the cheerful one™ after all. the girl who brings in muffins on mondays. the girl who says “no worries at all!” and actually means it.

“of course i’m writing,” you say, clicking randomly just to make the screen do something. “i’m deep in the magic. elbow-deep in isolation statistics and accidentally poetic reddit posts.”

dani gives you a look. the kind that says don’t test me, sunshine, but with love. mostly.

“cool,” she says. “just checking. deadline’s in six hours, and i need to pretend like we’re still a paper of record and not just a content farm for sad single millennials and the occasional corruption scandal.”

you nod, looking at the clock that tells you it’s lunch time. “six hours is a lifetime. i could fall in love and get married in that time.”

dani smirks. “not with your track record.”

ouch. but fair. but when she notices that you aren’t smiling back this time, she sighs and shakes her head.

“take a walk,” she says. “go outside, read a trashy novel, eavesdrop on some teens having an existential crisis on a park bench. find your story. and when you come back, maybe take a look at this.”

she hands you a thick manila folder.

you flip it open. it’s a profile piece request; freelance, technically. high-risk, high-reward. the subject: clark kent.

you freeze. you’ve read everything he’s ever written. his luthor laboratories exposé. the pulitzer pieces. the live leak...

your stomach twists. you remember the last byline, the last photo. then the silence. the speculation. and now-

“you want me to write about clark kent?” you repeat, and it sounds a little stupid in your own mouth, like when people say “i love you” too quickly in movies and everyone watching knows they don’t mean it.

“yes.”

you blink. “you mean that clark kent? pulitzer-and-pulitzer clark kent?”

dani grins. “the very same.”

the room seems to tilt slightly. you’ve written front-page stories. you’ve exposed a congressman. but this feels… biblical. clark kent hasn't spoken to anyone in five years. he hasn't been seen in nearly three. the last time his name trended, it was alongside the words reckless, traitor, and murderer.

“i don’t think he talks to anyone,” you manage.

dani shrugs. “then make him.”

you let out a small, nervous laugh. “dani. come on.”

“this is big, kid,” she says, leaning forward on her elbows. “i’m not giving this to someone else. and i’m not asking if you want it. i know you do.”

she’s right. of course she’s right. this is the kind of thing careers are built on. hell, rebuilt on. this is the story that could carry your name into newsrooms you haven’t even dared to imagine yourself in. and clark kent? he’s the reason you got into this line of work in the first place. not just because of his prose, which is legendary, but because, back before everything went to hell, he wrote like people mattered.

“and hey,” her voice cuts through your thoughs. “deadline for your lifestyle feature is still 7pm.”

you want to glare at her because you have never once missed a deadline but you’re still dazed. your heart is racing now, and your palms feel clammy. if you do this right - really right - you’ll never have to pitch another goddamn story again.

clark kent. jesus christ.

–

you get home, flick on the light, and immediately step over yesterday’s laundry. it’s a one-bedroom with a closet-sized kitchen, an overworked radiator, and a view of the bodega’s neon sign across the street. but it’s yours. well. yours and meera’s.

you toss your bag on the couch, hang your keys on the little ceramic cat meera bought from the hospital gift shop - “because even doctors deserve cute things” - kick off your shoes, and collapse in front of your laptop like a woman on a mission.

the adrenaline’s still buzzing. somewhere between the last espresso and dani’s parting “don’t screw this up,” your brain has sprinted ten paces ahead.

you force yourself to start with the basics: a reread of clark kent’s greatest hits - or at least the ones you’ve dog-eared emotionally. the arms of the city. blood in the rubble. and, of course, the broken bell. his first pulitzer. the piece that made you want to be a journalist.

but not in the all the president’s men, trench-coats-and-righteous-indignation kind of way. clark’s writing didn’t make you want to chase truth, it made you want to hold it still, long enough for someone to feel it.

the broken bell covered the gotham sanitation strikes, but it cracked open the entire city. clark embedded himself with the people slipping through the cracks: nurses skipping meals to buy their kids textbooks, subway workers sleeping in break rooms, janitors who hadn’t been paid in six weeks. he reported on the dysfunction and dismantled the entire machine, piece by corrupted piece. budget cuts, hush money trails, a mayor who campaigned on empathy and governed like a banker with a vendetta. and then clark walked into a press conference, pressed record, and didn’t flinch once.

you remember your favorite line. you’d screenshotted it in college, back when meera still called you “baby amanpour” in your family group chat:

“they say gotham’s built on bedrock, but they don’t talk about the hands that laid it. the calluses, the backs broken under steel and snow. maybe they think we’ll forget. maybe they’re counting on it.”

it wasn’t just journalism. it was a punch in the throat.

and then he vanished. no bylines in five years. no panels, no podcasts, no alumni reunions. just... gone. the last thing he wrote was that article.

you dig into the obvious leads first: public databases, old newswires, even his ancient byline email. dead ends. his last known address is now owned by a hedge fund analyst and a french bulldog named miso. reddit threads spiral into fan conspiracies. a tumblr tagged #journalismdaddy went dark in 2023. his linkedin is a ghost town.

it’s not just that he disappeared. it’s that he disappeared clean. no trail. no statement. no explanation. the industry moved on. but you didn’t. couldn’t. not when he was the reason you’re here in the first place.

eventually, you open that article.

the luthor laboratories exposé is still online but barely. comments disabled. metadata stripped. halfway through, you feel the chill in your spine, a tone you’d missed before. the cadence is uneven. the voice, tight. something broke in him writing this. he was afraid. and he was right to be. two women died after that piece. two women whose names weren’t supposed to be revealed, but were, accidentally, during a livestream he gave while promoting the story. you remember the coverage. how fast it all burned. clark kent had told the truth, and paid for it.

you lean back in your chair, throat dry.

the world decided he was done.

but. he's your white whale now.

you open a new tab. search: “underground press clubs.” “dead journalist forums.” “where did clark kent go?” you know it’s a long shot, but something in your chest refuses to let go.

and then, of all places, an old fucking 4chan thread, half-buried in conspiracy rambling:

my source says he went back to smallville after everything. never heard of it? yeah, no one has.

smallville.

you blink. you honestly haven’t.

you grab your phone. call meera.

she picks up after one ring, a heart monitor beeping in the background. “about time, fucking weirdo.”

“hi. sorry. but i have a question.”

“no. you have the voice. the idea voice. i can hear it.”

“have you ever heard of a town called smallville?”

she pauses. “like… kansas?”

“…how’d you know?”

“remember that journalist guy you used to be obsessed with? cute, tall, serious? did all the late-night stuff after his nobel prize?”

“clark kent? pulitzer, not nobel, you dunce.”

“yeah, fucking whatever. tonya in med school had an actual shrine. she used to watch the daily show clips of him like they were marvel trailers. anyway, she once said he was from some blink-and-you’ll-miss-it town in kansas. pretty sure it was called smallville.”

you actually bounce in place. sometimes you could kiss meera’s elephant memory.

this might actually be something if two different people can confirm it.

“hello?” she says, annoyed now. “did you die?”

“still alive! sorry. i literally called you about clark kent.”

“wait. seriously? why?”

you fidget with your notepad, flipping to a blank page. “i might be writing about him.”

there’s silence on her end. then, quieter: “be careful, sissy.”

you hang up and stare at your screen, her words echoing louder than you want them to. she’s never so quiet and that means her words hit harder.

between dani’s deadlines and meera’s late-night pep talks, you’ve somehow survived three years in this city. three years at the paper, and the last time one of your pieces trended, it was because a tiktok astrologer said your headline gave her a panic attack.

you’re good at what you do. you are. but you’re not where you thought you’d be. not yet. and looks like the key is clark fucking kent. the man who told the truth and then disappeared off the face of the earth.

you open the long-abandoned document titled: “new article/book - big serious project???”

and for the first time in months, you actually feel the electricity in your fingers as you type.

title: off the face of the earth.

(divider from @saradika-graphics)

pls pls pls don't hate this.

love, d <3