Your relationship was like walking through a thunderstorm barefoot—every step uncertain, every word laced with the fear of misstep. One step forward, three steps back. That was the rhythm Clark Kent had come to know.

He was Superman. But with you, he felt anything but invincible.

You had him second-guessing everything. Was he too eager? Not enough? Did he overwhelm you with his intensity? Or maybe he hadn’t done enough to show you how much he cared? He hated that you had that kind of power over him—but he let you have it, every time. Voluntarily.

Because when it was good, it was everything.

You'd call him the love of your life, press your lips to his and tell him no one had ever made you feel safer, softer. And for a moment, he’d breathe easy. Think maybe this time, it would stick. Maybe this time, it wouldn’t fall apart.

But then the wind would shift.

And suddenly he’d be sitting alone, staring at his phone, wondering what he’d said wrong. Wondering why the same lips that called him love were now silent, angry, distant.

“Do you even want me?” “Was I just convenient?” “Why do I always end up feeling like the villain in your story?” His mind was a mess.

He’d never say those out loud. But he thought them. Every time you pulled away without warning. Every time the temperature dropped mid-conversation.

He knew it wasn’t healthy.

But in a twisted way, the drama became a drug. The ache became familiar. Addictive. What version of you would show up today? Would you be smiling, reaching for his hand? Or would you leave, again, without saying goodbye?

He was exhausted. But still, he texted.

"Hey, are you coming over today?" He hesitated before typing a new one.

"I cleaned the place. Thought maybe we could grab ice cream or something. I just, you know, miss you. Please come."

He waited, phone in hand, heart in his throat.

Because no matter how much it broke him, this rollercoaster was all he had left of you. And he wasn’t ready to let go.

Not yet.