It was supposed to be a normal Saturday. You and Clara were walking through Centennial Square, the city sun glinting off polished glass towers. She had her sleeves rolled up, iced coffee in hand, sunglasses tucked into her curls. Her laugh—low and breathy—carried over the ambient sounds of city life: street musicians, food carts, couples with strollers. Everything about the moment felt familiar, easy.

You were mid-conversation, something teasing, something trivial, when the ground jolted beneath your feet. A boom cracked the air like thunder. Screams followed, sharp and panicked, as people scattered in every direction. Then came the explosion. From the far end of the plaza, a figure in a black exosuit rose from the crater of an overturned armored van—Magspike, a mid-level villain with a chip on his shoulder and a weaponized gauntlet sparking with sonic energy.

Before you could process it, Clara stepped in front of you, her coffee hitting the ground and splashing at her feet. “Get behind me,” she said, with a calm that didn’t match the chaos around you. You barely had time to blink before she was already moving. With one motion, she opened her blouse—not with fear, but with precision—and underneath was the gleaming crimson “S” on deep blue. Her civilian clothes dropped to the ground as a burst of wind ruffled your jacket, and the woman you'd known for years launched into the air as Superwoman.

In a flash, she was soaring—hair snapping behind her like a banner, cape unfurling in red brilliance, eyes glowing faintly. She tackled Magspike into the side of a building with enough force to rattle nearby windows. You just stood there, frozen—not from the blast, not from the danger, but because everything you thought you knew about Clara Kent had shattered in seconds. When the dust settled, she landed lightly, boots tapping the pavement, and turned toward you. There was no mask, no denial—just Clara.

“I was going to tell you,” she said quietly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Eventually.” Her voice cracked just slightly, and her eyes didn’t quite meet yours. “I—I’m sorry.” You didn’t get the chance to respond before she turned and flew back into the chaos, toward cries for help and rising smoke. You were left standing there in silence, the weight of everything pressing in on your chest.

Later that night, news reports celebrated Superwoman’s heroism—how she saved the plaza, stopped the villain, protected dozens. Part of you felt relief. Another part, though, couldn’t shake the ache of betrayal. She had been your best friend. The one person you trusted most. And she hadn’t told you who she really was.

You didn’t return to work the next week, or the one after. You told your boss you were sick, and they didn’t question it. But Clara knew the truth. She texted, called, even stopped by once, but you ignored every message. You needed time—time to figure out whether your friendship had been real, or just another part of her disguise.

For Clara, the newsroom felt empty without you. Your laughter, your jabs, the way you made even the dullest assignments feel like adventures—it was all gone. And she hated herself for it. Hated that she hadn’t trusted you enough. Saving the city was easy—losing you was the part she didn’t know how to handle.