#signed s

You don’t remember the scream.

Not yours. Not his. Not anyone’s.

What you remember is the snap of your heel against wet concrete. The silence that came before it — wrong, thick, unnatural. Like the city had sucked all the sound out of the alley and held its breath.

You hadn’t meant to walk home this way. Just a shortcut. Just a quiet block. Just five minutes less in the rain.

Your bag was heavy on your shoulder, a little too full — with your notes, your wallet, the crumpled letter you still hadn’t responded to.

You’d only half-heard the footsteps at first. Dismissed them. A pedestrian. A late-night jogger. Maybe someone else taking the shortcut.

But then they sped up.

Fast. Direct. No hesitation.

And before your brain could name it — fear bloomed in your chest like something ancient.

You turned.

A man. Hood low. Knife already drawn.

The alley was empty but for him. And you. And the seconds you could already feel slipping away.

Your fingers tightened around your bag strap. Your breath caught. You opened your mouth — to yell? To plead? To scream?

"What’s a lady like you doin’ in this part of town, huh?”

The voice slithered out of the shadows behind you, too casual to be harmless. It echoed through the narrow alleyway, bouncing off brick and broken glass, curling through the cold like smoke.

You didn’t turn around. Didn’t answer.

Your pulse thundered in your ears, louder than the rain tapping against your coat.

Keep walking.

You clutched your bag tighter, eyes forward, steps faster. You could feel the tension coil in your gut — the kind that knew danger long before your brain caught up.

This isn’t happening. No. No, you won’t let it. You can’t.

You sped up, ignoring the voice calling after you, hoping if you just made it to the mouth of the alley — just another ten, twenty steps — you’d be safe. Someone would see you. Someone would hear you.

But then — Footsteps.

Heavy. Purposeful.

Thudding against the wet pavement behind you. Long, measured strides. A predator’s pace.

He’s following you.

You broke into a run. Panic surged like electricity through your veins, sharp and sickening. Your lungs burned, your hands trembled, your legs moved on instinct.

Rain soaked your clothes. Your bag bounced against your hip.

Almost there — Almost to the light of the street —

Then — Impact.

His body slammed into you from behind, knocking the breath from your lungs.

You hit the ground hard. The wet pavement scraped your chin, and your mouth filled with the metallic taste of blood where your teeth had bitten into your lip.

You gasped. Choked.

Then screamed.

But the sound was swallowed by the storm. Just wind and rain and the hollow slap of footsteps.

He was on top of you, dragging your bag from your shoulder with a grunt. His weight pinned you down, hands scrabbling. You twisted beneath him, trying to kick, to push, to scream again —

“Stop—stop—get off—!”

He caught your wrists in one hand and shoved your face harder into the pavement.

The smell of gasoline. Wet cardboard. Rotting food from a nearby dumpster.

“Don’t make this harder than it has to be,” he growled near your ear. “No one’s comin’ to save you, sweetheart. You might as well give up.”

There was a smile in his voice. That cruel, satisfied kind — the kind of smile you felt.

Your stomach twisted.

And then — you fought.

You flung your head backward, hard, and felt the crunch of his nose beneath your skull.

He shouted — surprised, angry. The grip on your wrists loosened just enough.

But then —

Cold steel pressed against your throat.

You froze.

Your breath caught mid-sob. The blade didn’t cut, not yet, but it didn’t need to. It was a promise. A warning.

“Try that again,” he hissed, voice no longer smiling. “I dare you.”

Tears blurred your vision. You went still.

He rummaged through your bag now — shaking, cursing, still recovering from the blow. You heard your wallet unzip. Heard bills being pulled out and stuffed into his pocket.

Then — a soft thud.

Your wallet. The one your mom gave you two birthdays ago. Pale blue with little sunflowers on it.

Was that the last birthday you’d ever spend with her?

The sob that came next was guttural.

“What’s this?” he muttered. Paper rustled. “A letter?”

You stiffened.

No. No—

It was his letter. The one you printed before work.

You hadn’t even folded it yet.

“Aww, someone’s got a secret admirer,” he said with a dry laugh. “That’s cute.”

“That’s too bad.” His voice dropped, voice crawling with venom.

“Get off me, you fucker!” you shrieked, twisting under him again, tears streaming hot down your cheeks despite the cold.

But he was stronger. Bigger. And now, armed.

“Bitch,” he growled, knife pressing tighter to your skin. “If you don’t shut up, I’m gonna—”

The words stopped.

Suddenly.

Cut off by a grunt, like he’d been yanked backward by some unseen force.

Then a scream — his scream — ragged and shocked.

His weight disappeared.

Gone.

Just gone.

You gasped, breath rushing into your lungs like a flood.

You rolled onto your back, blinking through the rain, trying to make sense of what just happened —

And then you saw him.

The man holding your attacker aloft — effortlessly — by the collar of his jacket.

And in that moment, the world stopped.

Because it wasn’t just anyone.

It was him.

Superman.

In the flesh. Towering and terrifying and impossible — but the look in his eyes wasn’t distant or dangerous.

It was soft. Worried.

He looked at you.

Not the rain, not the man — you.

The man in his grip squirmed, kicking wildly, until Superman dropped him to the ground without ceremony.

“If I see your face again,” he said, voice like thunder, calm and cold, “a jail cell won’t be the only thing you have to worry about.”

Your attacker scrambled away, slipping and stumbling over himself in his hurry to escape. He disappeared into the rain without another word.

Then — silence.

Only the rain. Only the soft rush of breath from your lips. Only the ache of everything.

You sat there, soaked to the bone, your hands trembling in your lap, staring at the godlike figure now crouched beside you.

His cape fluttered in the wind. Water slid down his jaw, his brow furrowed with quiet concern.

He opened his mouth. Then paused.

“Are you alright, Y/— err, miss?”

You didn’t even register the slip.

You just stared at him, eyes wide.

Then nodded.

Once.

Barely.

He reached out and gently helped you to your feet, his grip warm despite the storm. He kept his hand on your elbow for a moment longer than necessary, eyes scanning your face for any sign of injury.

“Thank you,” you whispered, your voice hoarse and shaking.

He offered a small nod. And a smile — soft, fleeting.

Then he lifted into the sky, cape catching on the wind. A streak of red and gold vanishing into the clouds.

You stood there alone for a moment longer.

And then — the world rushed back in.

The cold. The sound. The weight of it all.

You stumbled home in a daze.

Unlocked your door. Shut it behind you.

Leaned against it with your head tilted back, breath ragged.

And finally whispered to yourself —

“Goddammit… I didn’t even ask him for an interview.”

--

The booth was too small, too warm, and the light overhead buzzed faintly, like it knew something you didn’t.

You sat squished between Clark and the window, the glass still beaded with leftover rain. His shoulder was broad and unmoving beside you — a silent presence, heavy with something you couldn’t name.

Across from you, Lois was tearing a packet of mustard like it had personally wronged her, and Jimmy was halfway through a bacon burger, his fingers already stained with grease.

“Okay,” Lois said, finally. “Walk me through it again.”

You poked at the soggy corner of your fries. “I already did.”

“Humor me.”

You sighed. “It was dark. It was raining. I took a shortcut. Bad idea. He followed me—” You swallowed hard. “I tried to run. He caught up.”

Clark’s hand was motionless on the table, fingers curled tight.

Jimmy leaned forward. “And then Superman just—bam—shows up?”

“Yeah.”

“Clark’s gotten more interviews with him than anyone at the Planet,” Jimmy cut in, licking salt from his thumb. “Maybe he’s passing along tips.”

Clark gave a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I wouldn’t say tips.”

“Oh, come on, Smallville,” Lois said, smirking now. “You’ve got the guy on speed dial or something. You get exclusives nobody else can touch. He trusts you.”

Clark said nothing. Just shifted in his seat beside you.

You could feel the tension in him like a wire pulled tight.

Jimmy pointed at you with a fry. “You didn’t ask for a quote last night?”

“I was kind of busy getting my face slammed into concrete,” you muttered.

Lois popped a fry into her mouth. “Still. You’ve got a column. You could’ve milked it.”

“I didn’t think of it, Lois. I was just—” You stopped. “Scared.”

That quieted the table for a beat.

Clark finally spoke, voice low and strained: “You didn’t need to think about work.”

You glanced over. His expression was unreadable, jaw tight, brow furrowed just slightly behind the glasses. He wasn’t looking at you. He was staring down at the tray like it had done something wrong.

Lois, never one to let things stay soft for long, nudged the mood again. “Still wild though. You and Superman. You should write a piece about it—‘Saved by an Alien: My Night with the Man of Steel.’”

Jimmy grinned. “Bet it’d go viral. Especially if you include the letters.”

Your stomach dropped. “What letters?”

“Oh, come on,” Jimmy said, laughing. “Everyone knows you’ve got a thing with that anonymous ‘S.’ guy.”

“It’s not a thing,” you said too fast.

Clark’s thigh tensed beside yours.

Lois raised an eyebrow. “It’s been what, two months? Letters every week? Sounds like a thing.” She leaned forward, chin in hand. “You ever wonder if it’s him?”

You stared. “Who?”

“Superman.”

You almost choked on your soda.

Jimmy laughed. “That would be nuts. But I mean… he did know all of a sudden when you were in trouble”

Lois nodded thoughtfully. “And Clark does get all the best interviews with him.”

“I don’t think Superman has time to write letters,” you said, cheeks burning.

“Please,” Lois scoffed. “That man floats over Metropolis like a lost poet half the night. You think he’s not a little lonely?”

Clark shifted again. His knee brushed yours and didn’t move away.

You couldn’t look at him.

Jimmy sipped his shake. “Bet he reads your column.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out brittle. “Sure. Superman reads the classifieds and clips the advice section.”

“Why not?” Lois said. “Maybe he’s in love.”

Silence.

Clark stood abruptly, tray in hand. “I’m gonna take this to the trash.”

You watched him go, heart in your throat, and you didn’t know if it was the adrenaline, the diner heat, or something deeper that made your chest ache when he walked away without looking back.

“Listen, it was all coincidence. Why would Superman be worrying about a girl right now?” you said, trying not to sound too defensive. “He has all of Metropolis to protect—and some cheesy letters doesn't seem like his style.”

You laughed once, too sharp, trying to brush it off before it stuck in your chest.

“Superman, writing me? A small-time columnist who can barely get a coffee order right? That man’s got aliens to fight and space stations falling out of the sky. He doesn’t have time for… poetry.”

You shook your head, trying to let it go, but your words hovered heavy between bites of cold fries and cooling tension.

Clark came back then, sliding into the booth beside you with that quiet presence of his. The air shifted. You knew he’d heard you—he always did.

He set his coffee down, watching the steam for a moment before speaking.

“Maybe he does,” Clark said softly.

You blinked.

He kept his gaze steady on the tabletop, voice quiet but certain. “Maybe someone like that needs something simple now and then. Something human. Something that reminds him what it’s all for.”

His words hung in the air longer than they should’ve, like they’d been meant for someone else.

You looked at him then, really looked—how his brows drew together, how his fingers worried at the rim of the coffee cup like he wasn’t sure if he’d said too much.

Lois raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything.

Jimmy’s phone buzzed and he reached for it, distracted.

But you… you were still staring at Clark.

And he still wasn’t looking at you.

“Clark?”

Your voice cut through the soft hum of lunchtime chatter. There was a flicker—just a second—where something in his gaze faltered. A flash of fear, maybe. Vulnerability. It vanished as quickly as it appeared, smoothed over by his usual calm, but you’d caught it.

“Yeah?” he said, lowering his gaze to his hands folded neatly on the table.

You hesitated, the words sticky in your throat.

“Do you…” you began, voice quieter now, as though the table had grown too big between you. “Do you think you could arrange an interview with Superman for me?”

You leaned in slightly, hoping to meet his eyes again.

Clark glanced up, just barely—his chin stayed tucked, but his gaze lifted, uncertain and trembling at the edges. Like he was bracing for something. Like he already wanted to say no, and hated himself for it.

His fingers curled tighter around his coffee cup.

Jimmy looked up from his phone, oblivious to the tension bleeding between the two of you.

“Ohhh, that’ll be interesting,” he said, grinning. “Are you gonna thank him in person or hit him with the mystery letter reveal? ‘Dear S’ meets Pulitzer-worthy scoop—I’m here for it.”

Clark’s shoulders tensed, the muscle in his jaw ticking once.

“I don’t know if he’ll say yes…” he said quietly, almost apologetically.

Your stomach dropped. Just a little. Enough to make you look down at your hands in your lap, hiding the disappointment blooming too fast.

But then—Clark paused.

He glanced at you again. Really looked this time.

Saw the flicker of hope dimming in your expression.

And something in him cracked.

“But…” he added softly, “I’m sure it doesn’t hurt to ask.”

You lit up like the sun had broken through the clouds.

“Oh—Clark, thank you! You have no idea how much this means to me.” Your excitement was radiant, warm and unfiltered. Without even thinking, you reached out, wrapping your arms around his broad frame in a quick, grateful hug.

He went stiff—just for a second—and then slowly relaxed into it, caught in the scent of your shampoo, the warmth of you pressed briefly against him.

And just like that, it was over.

You turned back to the table, already chattering. “Okay, wait—guys, what do I even ask him? Like, where do I start?”

Lois leaned in, Jimmy threw out a handful of half-serious suggestions, and the conversation took off again.

But Clark barely heard them.

His cheeks were warm—burning, if he was honest—and his heart hadn’t quite settled.

You’d hugged him.

You had hugged him.

And if he’d known all it would take was promising you an interview with himself?

He would've flown you to the Fortress of Solitude yesterday.

--

The newsroom had settled into its usual hum — the lull between headlines, the sound of stories being stitched together in real time.

You tried to focus.

Emails blinked unanswered on your screen, and your cursor hovered uselessly over a blank document. The chatter of the office faded into static as your thoughts wandered back to lunch — to Clark’s voice, soft and hesitant as he agreed to try. To the fluttering rush of hope that had ignited somewhere just under your ribs.

You were going to interview Superman.

And somehow, that fact alone made everything feel… heavier. Sharper. Like the world had tilted just a degree to the left, and no one else had noticed.

"Hey."

You looked up.

Lois stood beside your desk, coffee in hand, hip cocked against the corner of your filing cabinet like she’d been standing there for longer than a few seconds. Her expression was unreadable — not teasing, not disapproving, just... watching.

You straightened. “Hey. What’s up?”

She took a slow sip of her coffee, eyes still locked on you.

“I heard about the interview,” she said finally, voice low and even.

You nodded once, trying not to look too eager. “Clark said he’d ask. I mean, it’s probably a long shot, but…”

Lois didn’t answer right away. She just stared at you for a moment — not judging, not exactly — just... weighing.

“You’re good at your job,” she said finally. “Smart. Sharp. You ask the right questions, and you don’t back down.”

The compliment landed strangely — more anchor than praise.

You blinked. “Thanks…?”

Lois’s voice dropped a little lower.

“So just do me one favor.”

You nodded slowly.

“Be careful what kind of story you’re writing here.”

Your chest tightened, confused. “You mean the piece about Superman?”

She held your gaze. “I mean the one that hasn’t hit the page yet.”

You didn’t know what to say.

Lois pushed off the edge of your cabinet and started to walk away, but not before tossing one last glance over her shoulder — all steel and softness, in the way only Lois Lane could pull off.

“Don’t go digging so deep that you forget how to come back up.”

And then she was gone — swallowed by the hum of the bullpen, leaving you with the steady ringing in your ears and the dull ache of something unnamed blooming in your chest.

Clark hadn’t meant to linger.

He’d only come to refill his coffee — that’s what he told himself, anyway — but when he heard Lois’s voice, low and edged with something sharper than concern, he’d paused just outside the bullpen’s column of windows, out of sight.

He watched her walk away.

And then he looked at you.

You were still sitting there, frozen in your chair, eyes fixed on the screen in front of you like it might explain what the hell that was. You looked... rattled. Not afraid. Just like someone who’d been warned before realizing there was danger to begin with.

Clark’s hand tightened around the coffee cup.

He hadn’t told Lois. Not exactly. But she’d always been perceptive — painfully so. And she knew what it looked like when he started to orbit someone too closely.

Clark looked at you now — the soft tension in your shoulders, the slight furrow in your brow, the hopeful weight you carried like a secret under your skin.

His chest ached.

He hadn’t meant for it to go this far. He never did.

But he couldn’t pull away, either.

Not when you looked at him like that. Not when the idea of you being close — even just to him as Superman — made the world feel a little less unbearable.

He took one step back, into the shadows of the hallway.

Then another.

Out of sight. Out of reach.

Where he belonged.

--

The office has thinned out.

Lights dimmed to conserve energy. Monitors black. Coffee cold.

Outside, the city pulses under a curtain of soft rain. The glass windows are streaked with water, and somewhere distant, the wail of a siren fades into the dark.

You rub the heel of your palm into your eye. You’ve read the same sentence three times now, and it still doesn’t make sense.

The adrenaline wore off hours ago.

Now it’s just the ache. The come-down. The way your chest gets tight when you think about that man’s hand grabbing your arm, the press of the alley ground at your front, the breath you couldn’t catch— The helplessness.

You exhale. Shut your laptop. It clicks closed too loud in the quiet room.

You reach for your bag, slinging it over one shoulder— —but your wrist bends funny. A stab of pain shoots through the joint, and you hiss, flinching on instinct.

“You okay?”

You jump.

Clark stands a few feet away, jacket folded over one arm, shirt sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. He looks rumpled. Tired. Like he stayed longer than he meant to.

Maybe he did.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says quickly, hands lifting slightly in that gentle way of his, voice low and warm.

You breathe out. “It’s okay. I didn’t think anyone was still here.”

“I was finishing something.” He gestures vaguely at his desk, then glances at your wrist. “That looked like it hurt.”

You hesitate. Your fingers automatically pull your sleeve down. Cover it.

“It’s fine,” you say, quietly. A beat. “Just… tender.”

Clark doesn’t press. But he doesn’t look away, either.

His eyes find yours—hesitant, soft—and for a second, it’s unbearable how kind they are. How much they see.

“I heard them earlier,” he says, even softer now. “Lois, Jimmy… Perry. How they talked about it.”

Your gaze drops. Shame flushes behind your ribs. You know how they saw it. A story. A scoop. A headline.

Not you.

“They didn’t mean any harm,” you murmur, defending them. “They were just trying to make light of it.”

“I know,” Clark says. He shifts his weight, his voice carrying something quieter now. “But I saw the way you looked when they laughed. Like you were somewhere else.”

You feel it again—the cold. The hand on your arm. The wall against your spine. The way your breath caught in your throat and refused to move.

“I keep telling myself I’m overreacting,” you admit. “That it wasn’t that bad. That it could’ve been worse, and I was lucky.”

Clark’s brows pull together. “That doesn’t mean it didn’t scare you.”

Your throat tightens.

He sees you. Not just the version that shows up to work or writes pretty words in columns or fakes a smile in the bullpen.

He sees you.

“I keep thinking…” you trail off. “If Superman hadn’t been there…”

Clark’s expression shifts. Something flickers across it—grief? Regret? It’s gone before you can place it.

“You shouldn’t have had to think about that,” he says. “You shouldn’t have been there alone.”

You nod. Slowly. A bitter little smile tugging at the corner of your mouth.

“I was just walking home.”

Another silence.

You glance at him. “Why are you still here, Clark?”

He looks almost caught off guard by the question. Then, with a small shrug:

“I didn’t want to leave before you did.”

The words hit you square in the chest. Simple. Honest.

You blink. Your voice drops. “Why?”

He looks down. Then back at you. And for a breathless second— you see it in his face. Not pity. Not guilt.

Care.

Like he’s been carrying something all day and only just let it show.

“Because everyone else saw the story,” he says. “And I saw you.”

You don’t know what to say to that. So you don’t say anything.

The silence stretches. It’s not heavy. It’s soft. Safe.

Your bag strap is digging into your shoulder, but you don’t move. You’re afraid if you do, something in the moment will break.

Clark steps a little closer.

“If you ever want to talk,” he says, voice even lower now. “Not for the paper. Not for your column. Just for you—I’m here.”

You stare at him. Then:

“Thank you.”

He nods, but doesn’t smile. Just watches you, like there’s something he still wants to say but can’t. Like there’s something aching in his chest that hasn’t found a way out yet.

You hesitate, then reach for your umbrella— —and your fingers brush his.

The touch is accidental. Brief. But it lingers.

Clark’s breath hitches. Your heart stutters. Neither of you moves.

Your breath catches. So does his.

“I should get going,” you whisper, finally.

He nods once, but then— just as you turn— his voice stops you.

“Wait—uh—can I walk you?”

You blink, surprised. “What?”

Clark shifts his weight, glancing down and then back up, clearly second-guessing himself.

“Home,” he clarifies, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not because I think you can’t handle yourself. I just—after what happened—I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to walk alone.”

You stare at him.

He winces a little. “That sounded... worse out loud.”

A laugh slips out of you—quiet, but real. He looks so painfully earnest. His cheeks are pink, eyes soft behind those glasses, hands fidgeting at his sides like he’s not sure what to do with them.

You tilt your head. “You want to walk me home?”

“I mean—if you want me to.” He stumbles over the words. “If it’d make you feel safer. Or not safer. Just—not alone.”

You soften. The laugh fades into something warmer.

“…Yeah,” you say. “I’d like that.”

Relief floods his face. “Okay. Yeah. Great.”

You smile and tuck your umbrella under your arm. “Let me just grab my coat.”

He steps aside to wait, and when you pass him, your hand brushes lightly along his sleeve—just a graze.

His breath hitches again. He turns his head, watching you with something almost reverent in his eyes.

And though neither of you says it out loud, for the first time all day, you don’t feel like you’re carrying it alone.

tag list: @ticklish-leafy-plant @iyskgd @alexiared, @theelementofsurprisee

I didn’t expect to read it twice.

Most letters, I skim. Scan for key phrases, emotional hooks, anything inappropriate I have to redact. People send a lot of nonsense to the Daily Planet’s Heartline column — love confessions, petty revenge plots disguised as apologies, three-paragraph thirst letters about local celebrities.

(Side note: someone once wrote a haiku about Bruce Wayne’s hands.)

But this one? This one I read slowly.

Twice.

Dear Heartline,

What does it mean to crave something so deeply, your hands tremble to touch it?

To imagine what it feels like to be seen — really seen — by someone...

She doesn’t know me — not really. Not the whole me. But she smiles like she does, like she sees through all the noise. And it’s… grounding. Like coming up for air after being underwater too long.

Who doesn’t even know what she does to you with a smile?

Sometimes I wish I could stop pretending. Sometimes I wish I could just... reach.

— S.

I blink at my computer screen.

No return email. Typed out in Times New Roman like it was a high school essay. No signature beyond that single letter.

Completely anonymous — which, I suppose, was the point of my corner of the paper.

No clues. Nothing to go on. Just the weight of the words.

It wasn’t important, really. I worked the Heartline column — a warm little space in the paper where people could share their feelings about a lover, an enemy, an admirer. Ask for advice. Spill their guts. Send something into the void and get a response.

And I was the voice of that response.

But something about this letter… it made me ache.

I sat back in my desk chair, the clatter of the bullpen blurring into a dull hum around me.

Across the room, Clark Kent was laughing softly with Jimmy Olsen over something on his phone. His tie was crooked. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows. He looked like he hadn’t slept.

I sucked in a slow breath and turned back to the screen.

Read the letter again.

And again.

This one… this one was going in the paper. The way this person was completely enamored with her — whoever she was — it spoke to something in me. It was poetic. Honest. Painfully intimate.

I hadn’t read anything like it in a long time.

I copied and pasted the text into my layout doc, then pressed Enter. Sat there with my hands hovering over the keyboard, unsure of how to respond.

How do you even answer something like that — without sounding silly?

Whoever they were, they were a better writer than me. God.

I started typing methodically. Slowly.

Trying to find the right tone — to match the weight of their words, without losing my voice. Something a little witty. A little personal. Just enough empathy without sounding like I was swooning.

But maybe I was, a little.

Dear… you? I don’t know why I’m writing this. I shouldn’t be. But your words stuck to me like honey.

Wanting something you shouldn’t — that feels... familiar. Like thinking about someone’s laugh too long. Or staring at a mouth you shouldn’t want to kiss.

Maybe we’re both a little hopeless.

— Still wondering

I read it over. Yeah. That would work.

A response that didn’t shy away from the honesty of what they’d said. Something that let them know they’d been heard.

And maybe — selfishly — something I needed to hear, too.

The bullpen buzzed back to life. Everyone had gone back to work, faces tilted toward their glowing screens, the sound of keys tapping like distant rainfall.

I sighed. You could never really catch up in this place.

I glanced at the clock. 12:23 p.m.

Almost lunch.

Today was my get-out-of-the-office-before-I-lose-my-mind day — once a week, I made myself leave. Get some air. Reclaim a little headspace. And more importantly… eat something greasy and terrible for me.

But as I shut down the tab, I kept thinking about that letter. The way it felt like it was written just for me — even if I knew it wasn’t.

Sometimes I wish I could stop pretending. Sometimes I wish I could just... reach.

Those words stuck in my chest like a splinter.

And I wasn’t sure I wanted them out.

I was so deep in my own thoughts, I didn’t notice someone walking up to my desk.

His smile was the first thing I saw when I looked up — soft, lopsided, warm in that way that always throws me off.

“Hey there,” he said, his dimples flashing with each careful syllable. His lips moved slowly, deliberately, like he knew exactly what they were doing.

“Hello, Clark.” I forced my eyes away from the screen, though I lingered there longer than I should have — still tangled in the letter.

“What’s up?” I asked, catching his gaze as I gently pressed my lips together, smudging the gloss just a little.

His eyes flicked to my mouth.

Brief. Barely a second.

But enough that I noticed.

He hesitated before answering — like he was shaking something off. “I was just wondering if you wanted to join me and, uh…” He glanced over his shoulder, brows furrowing as if Jimmy's name slipped his mind.

“Jimmy,” he said a second later, snapping back to me like his thoughts were caught mid-step.

I smiled. “Sure.” Then turned slightly, nodding back toward the small cluster of desks behind me. “Can I bring Lois?”

We weren’t exactly close, but she was kind. Easy to be around. Better than third-wheeling through lunch with Clark and Jimmy, anyway.

Clark blinked, caught off guard for a moment. Then nodded. “Yeah—yeah, of course.”

“Thanks, Clark. I really need to get out of this office.” The smile tugging at my lips wilted a little at the edges.

His expression softened. That same worried look he always wore like a second skin. Like he felt everything a little deeper than most.

“Is something bothering you?”

“Meh…” I let out a breath and shrugged. “I’ll tell you at lunch.”

--

The four of you squeeze into a booth at Big Belly Burger — the one across from the Daily Planet, all grease-stained windows and that familiar smell of burnt oil and onion rings.

The hostess doesn’t even glance up as she smacks her gum and tosses a stack of menus across the table.

“Your server today’ll be James,” she mutters with a grunt, already walking away.

Jimmy blinks after her, eyes narrowed. “Jeez. What’s her problem?”

Clark, ever the defender of humanity, offers a quiet shrug.

“Maybe she’s just having a hard day,” he says, soft-spoken and patient, the way he always is. “You never really know what people are carrying.”

You glance at him.

That voice of his could soothe a riot. Always so gentle. Always seeing the best in people — even the ones who throw menus at you and disappear without making eye contact.

There’s a short pause as the table settles into that in-between moment — no one quite ready to pick the next thread. The hum of the restaurant fills the space: clattering plates, a kid yelling somewhere, the sizzle of something deep-fried behind the counter.

Clark reaches for his water. Jimmy absently flips his knife over in his hand. Lois taps a nail against the table.

And then — of course — she smirks.

“So,” she says, leaning in like she’s about to drop gossip in a dorm room, “Y/N. Anything new in your life? Any boys?”

You groan and drop your head into your hands. “No, Lois.”

She doesn’t let up. “Oh, come on. There’s gotta be something. Give us something to keep this lunch from being as painfully awkward as it’s trying to be.”

She side-eyes the two men across from you, who are both silently watching this exchange like it’s tennis.

Clark’s ears turn the faintest shade of pink — which only makes you want to laugh harder.

“I mean,” he says, lips quirking, “you didn’t all have to come. I just thought it’d be good for us to get out.”

“No, Clark,” you say, turning your cheek against your arm instead of your forehead this time, “you did fine.”

You offer him a soft look.

And his smile lingers just a moment too long before he glances down at the table, clearing his throat.

“It’s just — we see each other every day. What’s left to catch up on?”

You sit up finally, eyes falling to the menu. You start flipping through the pages — and immediately regret it.

“Asparagus, jam, and Swiss burger…?” you mutter aloud, blinking at the ingredients. “What the hell…”

Jimmy groans next to you. “Why can’t we just have normal burgers anymore?”

And right on cue — your server appears.

James. With a grin so forced it makes your teeth itch. Notepad in hand, chipper voice full of customer service charm. The kind that’s practically begging for a tip.

You shoot a glare at Jimmy. You jinxed us.

Clark gives a quiet huff of a laugh, but doesn’t look up. He’s still flipping his menu, but hasn’t turned a page in over two minutes.

As soon as James disappears to grab drinks, Clark turns toward you again. He’s sipping his water through a straw, head tilted slightly down, looking at you through his glasses.

“So…” he says between sips, “what’s been going on with work lately?”

“Oh — right!”

You sit up straighter, suddenly remembering the thing that’s been stuck in your head since this morning. You’d been so preoccupied with it that you’d completely forgotten to ask for help — you know, using your journalist instincts. And theirs.

Clark watches you closely now — more closely than the others. His expression is unreadable, but something in his shoulders has gone very still.

“Well, you guys know I work in probably the most thrilling column in the entire paper,” you say dryly.

Lois snorts.

You smirk, but shake your head.

“No, seriously — I love it. But God, the creeps that write in? Sometimes I swear people think they can confess anything just because it’s anonymous.”

Lois cuts in, sharp and ready. “Oh god. Is it another crime confession? Y/N, you have to report those. You shouldn’t be the one dealing with that bullshit—”

“No, no! Nothing like that.”

You stir the lukewarm coffee James had dropped off earlier.

“Actually… it was kind of the opposite.”

Clark perks up. This time, he doesn’t bother hiding it.

Jimmy leans forward. “What was it then?”

You pause. Fingers circling your mug.

“It was… beautiful,” you admit. “Touching. Almost poetic.”

You look up, a little dazed, and find the others exchanging confused glances.

Clark isn’t looking at anyone.

His eyes are fixed on his hands, resting quietly on the table. Not tense — just still, like he’s afraid that any movement might give something away.

Jimmy raises a brow. “Did someone write a love letter to you, Y/N?”

Your glare is immediate. “No! And are you gonna let me finish?”

He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “By all means.”

You exhale and continue.

“It was about a girl,” you say, your voice softening. “Someone this writer is completely — completely — lovestruck by.”

Clark's head lifts. Just barely.

His mouth opens a fraction like he wants to speak — and then doesn’t.

“That’s it?” Lois asks, one brow raised.

“I mean… yeah. But the way he wrote it — I don’t know, it lit something in me. Like he wasn’t just in love with her — he felt her. Saw her. Every little inch of her.”

You try not to smile but you can feel it pulling at your lips anyway.

Across the table, Clark swallows hard. His water is already half-empty.

James returns before he can speak — again — his voice cutting through whatever moment was about to form.

You roll your eyes and look away.

God, his face annoys you. The way he talks. The way he hovers. Why does he have to hover?

Ugh. I’m just in a sour mood today, huh?

Maybe it’s that letter.

Maybe it’s the way it clung to you — that voice, those words. Maybe it’s the fact that in your twenty-six years of being alive, no one’s ever said anything even remotely that tender to you before.

Maybe it’s that… you’ve never been written about like that. Not even close.

And you have no idea that the man sitting next to you already has.

--

The end of the workday begins to creep in. Fluorescent lights hum softly above you, and the newsroom’s frantic energy begins to slow.

You start packing up your things — slowly, absentmindedly — your movements muscle memory by now. The letter sits in the back of your mind. Not gone… just quieter. Fainter.

You hadn’t forgotten about it. Not exactly.

It’s just that the ache it stirred in you earlier has dulled into something… numb. Something folded neatly into the background while your thoughts drifted toward home: dinner, quiet, maybe a hot shower.

The screen glows in front of you. You reach for your mouse and begin closing your tabs — one by one — as the clatter of keyboards and the low murmur of departing coworkers buzzes in the distance.

Then—

That tab. That one.

It’s still open.

Your breath stills.

God.

You’d almost forgotten how beautiful it was. Even after six hours.

The words feel different this time, almost more fragile. You scan them quickly, not to memorize, but just… to feel them again. To see if they still do that thing to your chest.

They do.

You glance around. The bullpen is nearly empty. Only the faint echo of footsteps down the hallway remains.

Your fingers press Ctrl + P.

The printer hums to life somewhere off to the side. You walk over quickly, quietly — like a kid sneaking into a forbidden room.

Warm paper slides out into the tray. You take it. Fold it. Tuck it into the inner pocket of your coat.

The weight of it feels heavier than the single page it is.

Back at your desk, you close the final tab. Click. Log out. Done.

You inhale, deep and bracing, and slip your arms into your jacket. The synthetic lining clings slightly to your skin as you gather your bag, trying to prepare for the cold metallic breath of Metropolis outside.

You make your way to the elevator. The button lights up beneath your touch. You wait.

The hallway is dim. Still.

The ding comes. The doors slide open.

You step inside and turn—

“Wait!”

A voice calls out from the hallway, quick footsteps chasing it.

Your body jolts.

Your hand flutters to your chest, the sound catching you off guard.

The building had felt so still. So empty.

The echo of rushed movement makes your stomach flutter with nerves. You reach for the elevator door to hold it open — but fumble slightly, palms sweaty.

Then— He rounds the corner.

Clark.

Of course.

Something — somewhere inside you — breathes out.

His figure comes into view, winded and just a little bit undone. His tie is loosened, coat creased from being shrugged on too fast, a small streak of ink smudged at the cuff of his sleeve.

You glance down at the letter in your coat pocket. As if on instinct, you reach for it and press it deeper into the fabric, tucking it beneath your scarf before his eyes meet yours.

“Geez, Clark,” you say, a soft laugh breaking from your lips. “You know there are, like, two other elevators, right?”

He huffs, exhaling like he hadn’t realized how hard he was breathing. “Oh… right,” he chuckles. His voice sounds rougher than usual, touched with exhaustion. Maybe something else, too.

“Places to be, I get it,” you tease, reaching for the ‘Lobby’ button.

“W–What?” he stutters.

You look up. His expression startles you. Wide-eyed. Like a deer caught in headlights.

Your brows furrow.

“What’s up with you?” you ask gently. “You okay? You look scared shitless.”

Clark’s face goes pale. Just for a split second. Like he’s seen something he wasn’t ready for. Or like you’ve seen too much.

But then — just as fast — color returns to his cheeks. His throat bobs with a hard swallow.

You don’t press it. You just glance away.

The elevator gives a soft shudder as it starts to move, and your body sways slightly with the motion.

Both of you straighten. Hands still. Shoulders tight.

The silence swells between you. Not awkward. Not yet. Just heavy.

You try not to think too hard about how tense you feel. How aware you are of him. How aware he seems of you.

Another little shake in the elevator, and suddenly his shoulder brushes yours.

His coat is rough — textured wool against your bare skin where your sleeve rides up. Your heart thumps, just once. Too hard.

You glance up through your lashes — And he’s already looking.

He startles slightly when your eyes meet. You both look away at the same time.

You shift, giving him a bit of space.

“Long day?” you ask softly, pretending to focus on the floor.

Clark lets out a sigh. Not a performative one — a real one. A full-body, bone-tired, soul-heavy sigh.

“Always,” he murmurs.

There’s something in his voice. A tug. A weight. Like he’s trying not to say more.

You want to ask. You do.

You open your mouth—

Ding.

The elevator stops. The doors open with a soft hiss.

You both step forward at the same time, only to hesitate, catching each other’s movement.

Clark laughs — low, warm — and lifts his hand in a polite gesture.

“Ladies first.”

You smile despite yourself. The heat from the elevator hasn’t quite faded from your cheeks.

“What a gentleman,” you nearly giggle, stepping past him into the lobby.

He watches you with quiet amusement, those soft dimples deepening in his cheeks, eyes trailing after you like you’re something he doesn’t want to lose sight of.

And you?

You walk forward, the letter pressing warm against your ribs — your heart still caught somewhere between flustered and thrilled.

What. A. Day.

BONUS:

The elevator doors close with a soft hiss. She’s gone.

And I just stand there — still facing the direction she walked — jacket slung over one arm, tie askew, heart... loud.

Too loud.

God.

She doesn’t even know what she just did to me. What brushing her shoulder did. What her voice did — What a gentleman — like it meant nothing.

But it meant everything.

It always does with her.

I rake a hand through my hair, still damp from wind I shouldn’t have let bother me. The collar of my shirt is askew — I can feel it. My coat’s wrinkled. My pulse is unsteady.

I didn’t look like Superman just now. I didn’t even look like Clark Kent. I looked like a man losing his grip on a double life.

And I am.

Because for four minutes in a steel box between the twenty-third floor and the lobby, she stood beside me — close enough to hear the air shift in my lungs — and I felt... peace. And fear.

Fear that I’m already in too deep.

I don’t think she noticed that much. The letter — was it in her coat pocket? Did she fold it when she saw me? Did she feel the same pull I did?

No. No — she doesn’t know who I am. She doesn’t know who I am.

But she smiled at me. Not Superman. Not the cape or the myth or the man in the sky.

Me.

She smiled like I was someone she could trust. Like I was real.

And that’s the cruelest part, isn’t it?

Because I’m not.

Not fully.

Not to her.

Not yet.

You normally love your job.

Love reading people’s secrets — some scandalous, some sweet, some so bizarre they make you snort into your coffee. You judge a few. Scrunch your nose at most. Then drag your mouse toward that little trash bin icon with ruthless satisfaction and click. Case closed. Heartline isn’t for the weak-willed.

You mean, you are a journalist. Half the job is curation.

And the other half? Noise management.

Some days it feels like you’re a radio station, tuning between static-laced frequencies, searching for one voice sharp enough to cut through. Something strange. Something raw. A story with teeth.

You also happen to be the only person in the bullpen with two work emails — and you lord that over everyone. Silently. Smugly. Righteously.

One account is for coworkers, deadlines, and Perry’s 9 AM “why haven’t you responded to this” rampages. The other?

That one is yours.

It’s the Heartline inbox. The one you monitor alone. The one people use when they’re desperate or drunk or aching in a way they don’t know how to name.

You live for it.

You imagine their faces when they see their words printed in the Daily Planet — buried between obits and classifieds, sure, but still there. Still permanent. Still seen. And beside it? Your reply. Honest, sharp, laced with empathy where it counts.

Out of dozens — sometimes hundreds — of emails, you pick just three for the next day’s paper. Which means your nights look like homework. Screens. Tea gone cold. The flicker of your desk lamp as you scroll through heartbreak, guilt, fantasy, confession.

But lately, your rhythm has changed.

Your mouse scrolls slower now. More deliberate. Your eyes skim past the subject lines and sender names, searching for one thing:

No Subject.

It always comes from the same blank return address. No footer. No salutation. Just words — strange and staggering, like poetry punched into the body of the email. And every time you read one, your heart lurches. Like it forgot how to beat in the right order.

It’s not professional.

It’s not supposed to feel like this.

The newest message lands at 1:14 AM. You read it curled sideways on your couch, a blanket twisted around your knees, your laptop hot against your thigh. The email is already open. But the printout — the one you’d made before brushing your teeth like some shameful ritual — is in your hand. The paper is still warm.

“You don’t speak loudly, but you speak completely. Some people fill space. You fill silence.”

He’s writing to you now.

Not just about his lover. Not about grief. Not abstract hypotheticals, like before.

You.

And that? That’s not something you know how to catalog.

You tell yourself — firmly, out loud, like that’ll make it stick — that he probably just likes having someone to talk to. A faceless inbox. A blank slate. You’re a sounding board, that’s all.

You say it again when your chest tightens.

Again when your fingers reach for your notebook.

Again when you hesitate.

Because no matter how many times you say it… you don’t believe it.

And worse — some part of you hopes you’re wrong.

You thumb the edge of the folded paper in your lap. It joins the others now, wedged between the pages of your half-used notebook — three, maybe four of them — pressed flat, marked at the corners from being read too often. You place the newest one gently on top.

It shouldn’t make your chest feel like this. Tight. Private. Dangerous.

You’re the one who posts anonymous advice every week. You’re supposed to be the safe one — the filter between people’s secrets and the public eye.

You’re not supposed to be the one keeping secrets.

You’re not supposed to carry someone else’s words like they’ve been written directly on your skin.

But here you are.

You read it again on the train.

Then again in bed, phone glowing pale blue in the dark, pulse in your ears.

And then… you write back.

Not to him. Not directly. You draft something for Heartline — neutral, distant, barely coded — as if it were any other stranger’s letter. As if you weren’t burning from the inside out.

"What makes you so sure that silence needs filling?"

You submit it under your '-heartline'

And you don’t sleep that night.

--

The newsroom breathes around him. Phones ring. Papers shuffle. Laughter barks from Jimmy’s desk across the way — something about a dog wedding gone viral.

But Clark can’t hear any of it.

He only hears the hum of your footsteps as you walk in, shoulders hunched just slightly from the wind outside. Damp hair clings to your cheek, curling where it shouldn’t, and he watches you swipe at it absently, like it’s not your first annoyance of the morning.

You look tired. Not just physically — although he notes the dark smudges under your eyes, the sluggishness in your gait, the way you yawn into your fist when you think no one’s looking. It’s deeper than that. Something wound tighter in your ribs. Something quiet and worn.

He feels it in his chest like an echo.

You don’t notice him.

Of course you don’t. You’re thinking — planning — already mentally a mile down the to-do list. Your bag hits the floor by your desk with a muted thud. You move like you’ve done this a thousand times, and he’s watched you do it maybe half of those. Could chart it like constellations now. The way your pens go in a certain order. The way your chair squeaks when you sit too fast.

You line your coffee up with the edge of your mousepad.

Perfect. Always the same.

He knows how silly it is, to love someone for the way they place a cup on a desk. But he does. God, he does.

He forces his eyes back to his screen. Pretends to type. Nothing of use comes out.

He should stay seated. Should keep his hands on his keyboard, his eyes on the screen, pretend to be deep in a story he isn’t writing.

But he doesn’t.

He stands.

Smooth. Quiet. Like he’s stretching his back. Like he’s headed toward the coffee machine by your desk. Maybe he is. That’s the story he’ll stick to.

But he knows it’s a lie.

He doesn’t want coffee.

He wants you.

So he crosses the floor, casual as anything. Loops past Jimmy with a nod, drops a file on Lois’s chair just to look busy, and then —

He’s there.

At your desk.

At you.

Your screen is already on. Fingers moving. You haven’t looked at him yet. You’re focused, teeth tugging at your bottom lip, eyes rimmed with tired determination. And still, somehow, you’re the most luminous thing in this entire newsroom.

He leans a hand against your desk.

Close enough to touch.

“Rough morning?” he asks.

It sounds innocent.

But it isn’t.

It’s the only question he knows how to ask when what he really wants to say is, Please. Just look at me. Just once, like you mean it.

You blink up, surprised by his voice.

And there it is.

That look.

Like you’re not sure whether to smile or sigh. Like part of you’s been waiting for this, even if you didn’t know it.

It knocks the air right out of his lungs.

The corners of your mouth twitch upward, barely, like smiling costs too much right now. But you do it anyway.

He catalogues everything: the smudge of mascara just under your right eye, the faint pillow crease on your cheek, the way your collarbone shifts beneath the neckline of your sweater when you adjust your shoulder bag.

Every detail is sacred.

"How’d you know?" you ask, rubbing your arm.

"Sleep creases," he says gently. "And… you just typed your own name into the password box."

Your head snaps toward your monitor. Sure enough — there it is. Your full name blinking bold in the password field. You groan under your breath and delete it.

He lets himself smile — just a little.

You’re so human. So real. And he’s half-mad with the ache of loving someone who doesn’t even know who he is.

"Need stronger coffee," you mutter.

"I could run to Jitters?"

It comes out too fast. Too eager.

Your eyes flick to him, surprised. Then polite. You shake your head.

"Don’t bother. I’ve already had plenty. Nothing’s going to help if I’m bouncing off the walls all day."

You turn to your screen, already slipping away again.

Still, he doesn’t move.

He’s not ready to let you go.

He shifts a little closer, one palm flat on the desk near your wrist. His pinky is an inch from yours. Half an inch. And then —

Contact.

The tiniest brush.

You stop typing.

So does he.

Your hands still, hovering over the keyboard. Your breath catches — and he hears it. Of course he does. His entire nervous system lights up like someone just whispered a secret into his bloodstream.

But then your screen flashes. Inbox.

His breath stutters.

There it is — the message he sent just hours ago. 8:02 AM. Subject line empty. Return address still a blur of numbers and hyphens.

He knows every word. Every line he wrote with trembling fingers.

And he watches — barely breathing — as your eyes land on it.

You hesitate.

He sees it: the pinch of your brow. The flutter of your pulse at your throat. The way your tongue presses to the back of your teeth.

You click.

It opens.

And he watches you read it.

I don’t think silence is empty. I think sometimes it’s the only place left where truth fits.

— S.

He memorized those words. Slept with them sitting in his drafts folder. Typed and deleted them twenty-seven times.

Now they're in your hands.

He watches the way your face changes — not drastically, but in layers. Slow. A single breath held too long. The way your lashes lower. The quiet exhale through your nose. You read it like it’s something you’ve been afraid to need.

And then you close it.

Slow. Gentle. Like it might bruise if you moved too fast.

He swallows.

"Reader submission?" he asks, already knowing the answer.

You look up, smiling quickly. Too quickly.

"Yeah," you lie. "Just one of the odd ones."

It punches him in the gut. Not the lie — he understands that — but the way you so carefully distance yourself from whatever that message stirred in you. The way you act like it didn’t change something.

He wants to scream.

But he smiles instead. Soft. Careful.

"Sometimes those are the best," he says.

You stand up abruptly, notebook in hand, and make your way to the printer. You don’t look back.

He doesn’t need to follow.

Because he already knows.

You’re printing it.

You printed his.

You folded it.

Kept it.

That should be enough to carry him for days. For weeks. Some part of him dares to be grateful. To feel triumphant.

But the rest of him just aches.

Because you don’t know it’s him.

You don’t know that the man two rows away — the one who just offered to fetch you coffee, who touched your pinky like it might shatter him — is the same man who wrote those words at 1:43 a.m. with his heart in his hands.

You don’t know it’s his voice in both places.

And he doesn’t know how much longer he can stand that.

He sits, hands limp in his lap. Tries to breathe through the weight pressing on his sternum.

You read it. You didn’t delete it.

You folded it.

You kept it.

That means something. It has to.

But he wants more.

He wants you — all of you — looking at him with the same longing he pours into every unread letter.

He wants to tell you. Everything.

But for now, all he can do is watch you from a distance.

And pray that someday soon, you’ll see him.

Not Superman.

Not the coworker with the awkward smiles.

Just him.

The one who’s been writing to you in silence.

--

The cold air hits you like a tide when the sliding doors part.

Not harsh. Just… bracing.

Clean floors. Fluorescent lights. The sterile tang of citrus cleaner clinging to the air. You blink once, twice, like stepping from one life into another.

You’re not even sure why you came.

The fridge at home is fine. You’ve got leftovers. Half a loaf of bread. Tea.

But your apartment was too quiet. Too still. Too full.

Not with noise — not with anything physical. Just with… everything else.

Thoughts. Feelings. Questions you haven’t figured out how to ask, let alone answer.

So you’re here.

With a plastic basket hanging from your wrist like a tether and no list in your head. Just motion. Just habit. Just enough to pretend like you’re not unraveling by inches.

You start in produce. Not because you need anything. Just because it’s closest. And colorful. And alive.

A bag of blood oranges catches your eye. The deep red rind split at one edge like it’s been bruised by something tender.

You remember something from one of S.’s letters — something about them tasting like memory.

“A sting of sweetness, but fleeting. Like desire. Like how a moment can turn to ache before you’ve even finished tasting it.”

You pick one up. It’s heavier than you expected. Cool against your palm.

You press your thumb gently into the skin, then let it go. It rolls back into the pile without protest.

You’re not thinking about oranges.

You’re not even thinking about food.

You’re thinking about the way Clark said your name this morning. Soft. Surprised. Almost like it meant something.

Which is stupid. Because Clark is just Clark. A little shy. A little awkward. Kind in that quiet way that sneaks up on you.

Still — you haven’t been able to stop replaying it. The way he lingered. The way his voice dropped when he said—

“You’ve got sleep creases on your cheek.”

You lift your hand to your face now, fingers grazing your jaw as if to erase it. The mark is gone by now. But something else lingers.

Not embarrassment exactly.

Not affection either.

Something… else.

You drift toward the shelves like a ghost in a museum.

A half-loaf of sourdough. Sharp cheddar. Olive oil. A tin of lemon ginger tea — the same one S. once called “a flavor that tastes like quiet done right.”

It’s stupid. But you put two boxes in your basket.

Your mind is a ping-pong table between two names: S. and Clark.

One fills you with questions. The other keeps showing up in the answers.

You don’t want to tie them together. That would make things messy. Impossible. Unreal.

But the lines are starting to blur in ways you don’t have language for yet.

At the soup aisle, you stop.

You don’t even know why.

Rows and rows of labels. Tomato bisque. Chicken noodle. Something called “Autumn Harvest” with too many adjectives.

You’re just standing there. Basket at your side. Eyes blank.

And you feel it again — that odd, unplaceable ache. Not quite sadness. Not quite hope.

Like you’re on the edge of discovering something, …but you don’t know what.

You haven’t cried in months. Not really. You’re not the crying type. Not unless something breaks.

And lately… Everything feels like it’s just about to.

S.’s letter is folded up in your coat pocket like a secret.

You printed it. You don’t know why. Maybe because part of you wanted it to be real. Tangible. Something you could touch when the world gets fuzzy.

“She keeps looking for him in all the wrong places. Not because she doesn’t know better, but because she believes he only exists when she’s not looking.”

You read that line again after work. Again after dinner. Again before you left your apartment and came here.

You don’t want to be her. Not really.

But you want to know what it feels like — to be written about like that. To be seen. Entirely. Even the unlovable parts.

You want someone to look at you and not flinch.

You toss a can of bisque into your basket without looking.

You move on.

The man at the register doesn’t speak. The store is mostly empty. Someone’s kid is crying near the deli. A woman fumbles with the self-checkout screen.

You swipe your card. Bag your things.

Walk out into a sky that can’t decide if it wants to rain.

Outside, the wind is damp and soft.

You pause beneath the awning, adjusting your coat with one hand, the other slipping into your pocket.

Your fingers find the edge of the folded letter.

You don’t take it out. Just feel the crease. The shape of it.

You’re not in love.

You’re not stupid.

But you are caught in something. A pull. A question. A soft unraveling.

You start walking. Slowly. No destination in mind.

Your coat collar pulled up. Bag rustling at your side.

There’s no real reason to feel like this. You know that. You’re not the one in the letters. Not really.

But still — You feel like someone is watching. Not in a dangerous way. In a knowing way.

And somehow, that might be worse.

You don’t know who he is.

You don’t know what he wants.

But part of you wants him to keep writing anyway.

Let him unravel the mystery. You’ll meet him halfway.

If you ever find the path.

If you ever stop circling.

If he doesn’t disappear first.

And if he does…

You’ll still be walking.

Wondering.

Looking.

Even when you tell yourself not to.

Even when you know better.

Even when you’re not sure what — or who — you’re looking for.

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