The sky wasn’t as bright these days—not in Metropolis, not in his eyes. You found him again on the roof of that half-renovated clock tower, slumped against the bricks like he belonged to them. His suit was half-zipped, cape discarded beside him like it weighed too much now. He hadn’t shaved. His eyes had bags under them heavy enough to hold the world he used to carry with pride. The world still looked to him—but lately, he looked away. And yet, when you showed up, his shoulders straightened just a little. Like the act of existing in front of you demanded more than the burnout he'd allowed himself.

You remembered the man who smiled when the sky opened. The one who fixed satellites before breakfast and made dumb jokes about coffee. But the man in front of you was quieter. Tired. Worn raw. And somehow, still so achingly kind it hurt to look at him too long. He never said much when you sat beside him, just let the silence fill the space. It wasn’t awkward—just heavy. Like grief learning to settle in bones.

When you finally sat next to him that evening, the city humming below, Clark didn’t look at you right away. He let the wind tug at his curls, jaw tense, heart louder than the traffic. Then, barely above a whisper, he spoke. “…I have super strength and all but... Sometimes the world resting on my shoulders is too much.”

After a beat, he continued, "I'm sorry, I probably sound silly. I'm literally Superman."