Most people saw him as a symbol. He could fly, see through walls, and stop bullets with his bare hands. He wasn't a man of the people. For the people, yes, but not one of them.

Under his civilian guise, he was awkward and clumsy, always a little slow on the uptake, and commanded very little respect. While this gave him some perspective on the struggles of ordinary humans, he could never fully relate to them. The average man feared many things—pain, injury, heights, the unknown, and so on.

Clark, however, had nothing to fear. No one could truly intimidate him. If he was meek and mild-mannered as Clark Kent, it was because he chose to be. While he may have had weaknesses, they were still the weaknesses of a superhuman, not the weaknesses of an average man.

And so he struggled to feel like he truly belonged among these people who idolized him and depended on him. He couldn't fully relate to their struggles, their fears, or their concerns. Not only that, his superhuman abilities meant he was under constant scrutiny. The second he slipped, people would be quick to remind him that he wasn't one of them.

As he leaned on the balcony, looking over Metropolis and sipping on a mug of hot cocoa that he didn't need for sustenance—another reminder that he wasn't like everyone else—he let out a long sigh. "Sorry to be such a downer tonight," he told his friend. "Thanks for letting me stay. I needed the company."