Here’s the next part - we’re almost done with the story, but the whole thing is already done so there won’t be any delay between the two stories. I am planning to do the next post on Friday or Saturday.
Chapter 3A good friend can never truly be lost. Their energy lives on in the hearts and minds of those who loved them.
(Source unknown)
I can’t believe I’ll be attending your funeral.
Clark, I should have recognized you, why couldn’t I see through the glasses.
Who would have thought our roles would reverse? I, the risk-taker, will stand by your grave while you, so full of life, are now silent forever. The thought is unbearable - an ache that cuts deeper with each breath.
My gaze falls on an article with our shared byline - a remnant of my former life.
Perry and Jimmy, in town for the service, will escort us to the chapel.
A knock on the door will soon shatter this fragile illusion, the pretense that you’re just outside, tending the farm, your laughter still echoing. But reality is relentless. Perry will come, his words cutting through the silence: “He’s gone, honey.” And I’ll be left to wrestle with love, resentment and a truth I can’t escape.
They say I should get back into journalism, find purpose again. But how can I? It has lost its appeal to me.
Your parents, kind and grieving, invited me into your childhood home - a sanctuary filled with fragments of you.
Since it was Superman who died there’s no body to bury, no closure, only memories.
Somehow, they found the strength to plan a funeral. I don’t know how.
The world mourns Superman, the hero. But I mourn
you - the man of quiet strength, late-night laughter and unshakable kindness. You were my partner, my best friend, my hero. And I realized it too late.
Now, I cling to those memories, even as they break me. You were my everything. And in your absence, the world feels hollow.
This room is a paradox - comfort and torment intertwined. Artifacts of your life whisper stories of your journey in becoming the man I have come to know. The worn football, a reminder of the day you shared its meaning with me. It wasn’t just a ball; it was hope, strength and the spirit that made you
you.
We investigated Menken’s gym. And there, amidst our research, you shared the story of this football. It held more than stitches and laces; it cradled dreams, aspirations, and the indomitable spirit of youth.
~~~
In that moment, as we stood amidst the remnants of my father’s experiments, your question hung in the air. “Why would someone replace a part of themselves just to win a boxing match?” Your eyes searched mine for answers.
“To be the best, of course,” I replied, my voice tinged with a mix of resignation and disapproval. “Regardless of the cost.” I didn't agree with the methods, but I could see the reason they did it.
But your gaze remained steady, unyielding. “Is that victory truly worthwhile,” you mused, “if it isn’t truly yours? If you haven’t earned it through your own sweat and determination?”
And then you shared your own story, a memory etched in the fabric of happier days. Back in high school, when football was more than a game, it was where bonds were created and where home became more than the place you lived. Your team, the underdogs, faced a formidable opponent. Their advantages were many: professional trainers, superior equipment, and a school that breathed excellence.
Yet fate dealt Smallville another blow. The night before the crucial game, a tornado warning swept through the county, leaving the team sleep-deprived, their bodies weary. The odds of victory were slim, even without the tempest raging within them. But they chose not to surrender. Each team member carried the flame of determination.
As the game unfolded, everyone fought tooth and nail and then it happened - you caught the ball, inches from the end zone. Victory seemed within reach. But there was Pete, your best friend, waving frantically. In that split second, you made a choice, to pass the ball to him, to give him the chance.
“Did you win?” I asked, curiosity dancing in my eyes.
“No,” you confessed. “We fell short. But it didn’t matter. We left the field with our heads held high, hearts full of camaraderie. Pete soared that day, our unsung hero. And for me, the joy of friendship and shared effort was better than any trophy.”
~~~
I realized that true success isn’t measured in titles or accolades. It exists in the bonds we forge, the sacrifices we make and the moments when we choose to lift others toward their own triumphs.
As my hand glides over the now familiar contours of the well-worn football, I can almost feel you beside me, alive in memory, covering my hand with yours.
The bridge between past and present, woven with threads of laughter and shared purpose is strong. And though I can’t touch you anymore, I’ll hold onto our shared memories. These fragments of our history are all I have left of you.
Only now I am beginning to understand the importance of your story.
Yesterday evening, we were talking. Your parents filled me in on the parts of the story you left out. Sure, you could have won any game single handedly, but it would have only set you apart from everyone else. Your origin gave you powers with the potential to break every record.
You chose to blend in.
~~~
Jonathan's voice trembled as he recounted your past, the weight of secrets and choices pressing down on you from a young age, bringing you even closer to your parents as your only confidants. The emotional weight from the raw emotions became heavy enough to make the air seem suffocating.
Outside, the storm howled, rattling at the windows, echoing the turmoil swirling inside me. Rain streaked down the glass, as though nature itself was weeping for our loss, shedding tears for the extraordinary soul who had come from the stars to walk among us, who was, in the end, more human than most.
When the memories became too heavy, I whispered your name, softly, as though your name could ease our burden. It felt as if speaking it too loudly would disturb our memories.
Still it seemed to echo from the walls, lingering in the room where you once were so alive. You were just a boy then, yearning to participate in something as simple as a high school football game. But your powers again proved to be both a gift and a curse and shaped your life in ways only your parents ever could comprehend.
An unspoken question lingered, its weight pressing down. “Why didn’t he use them?” The words escaped, barely audible, almost swallowed by the furious howl of the wind.
Your father met my gaze, his eyes haunted. “He wanted to belong,” he confessed, his voice thick with the regrets of opportunities long past. “He wanted to be just another kid chasing after a football, not some unstoppable force. So he held back, clenched his fists and ran beside his friends. Just another boy in the fields.”
I leaned forward, drawn deeper into your father’s memory. “Jonathan, how did he manage to keep his control? It must have been frustrating to always hold himself back…” I inquired with a cracking voice. “Clark once told me about that game, after the storm, you know?”
Jonathan hesitated, his mind clearly wrestling with old memories. “He had lived with his powers almost for his whole life.” he finally said. “By twelve, he’d already decided to hide them, to keep his origin a secret. He wanted to fit in, to be normal. He knew if his friends ever found out, they’d either expect him to win every game single-handedly, making their own efforts meaningless. Maybe they’d exclude him, not out of cruelty, but because they wanted a fair game. Or worse… because they feared him.”
Jonathan’s voice faltered, his gaze slipping away, lost to the storm outside, as though he could still find you in its depths.
“He didn’t think it was fair.” Martha cimed in softly. “That’s why he eventually stopped playing. Holding back took more strength than winning ever could.”
Sensing their mood becoming heavier, I tried to change the subject. “And journalism?” I prodded.
“His words became his power,” Martha replied. “Through ink and paper, he found a way to be both Clark Kent and the man who would later become Superman. He traveled the world, seeing humanity in all its triumphs and flaws. But he never stopped moving. There were times… times when he couldn’t just write the story, when he had to intervene, had to save someone. He could never stand by when his powers could make a difference, even if it meant risking exposure.” Her voice broke, filled with unshed tears, her eyes clouded by the gray skies outside. “He was always torn between being who he was… and who the world needed him to be.”
I glanced down at my hands, feeling the gravity of your powers, their true weight finally starting to sink in.
Martha placed her hands over mine. ”That’s why he sacrificed so much,” her gentle voice filled the room. “Settling down, finding love… those were dreams he thought he’d never achieve.” She paused, waiting until my gaze met hers. “Until Metropolis. Until you. He came home, not long after starting at the Planet, and he talked about you. We knew right away. He had fallen for you the moment you stormed into Perry’s office.”
A fresh wave of guilt washed over me. “I never knew… A few weeks before, he…” I couldn’t even say it. “We spoke in the park. He told me he loved me.” My voice trembled. “But instead of accepting his feelings, I turned him away… I… I asked him to bring Superman to me. How could I be so cruel? I told Superman that I would love him even without his powers.” The tears came unbidden, stinging my eyes.
“You didn’t know, Lois.” Jonathan reached for my hand, his face lined with guilt. “It’s my fault he never told you.” He said softly, regret woven into every word.
I shook my head. “Why would you say that?”
His grip tightened, his voice barely audible. “Because, even after his decision to not tell anyone, I told him to keep his secret. Convinced him that if anyone found out they’d try to dissect him, to tear him apart in an attempt to understand how his body works. I just wanted to protect him.” He closed his eyes and went on, sorrow etched into his features. ”But maybe… maybe I stole something from him too – those simple joys, the camaraderie, the thrill of success. I’ll carry that burden forever.”
Martha pulled her husband close, trying to ease the heavy guilt he carried. I gently turned my hand in his, holding it tighter to share the weight of our common burden. I wished I could lighten it somehow.
In the end I realized - the decision had always been yours to make.
Outside the storm continued its course. I could only hope that it carried our thoughts to you, wherever you had gone.
To the boy who could have used his power to conquer any field, but chose to be guided by his heart. Your legacy in the world lives on, not just in the words you left behind, but in every moment when the world feels a little less bright without you.
And in our hearts, Clark, your legacy will live forever.
~~~
I settle on the bed, looking outside at the fields around the farm.
You were always willing to step back to give to others.
Even if it meant for you that you couldn’t win the game or write the story. You gave me all those Superman stories because of that, didn’t you? And I thanked you by insulting you, or turning you down, ignoring you and at last - breaking your heart.
My eyes burn with fresh tears.
Superman was supposed to be invulnerable. I thought nothing could harm him! So how COULD you die and leave me here? Without you I feel alone and confused!
How can I merge the two sides of you and find a way to be okay with it when you are not present to be yelled at?
The ache in my chest is like a relentless storm, thundering through my soul. Every thought in my head cuts deeper than a thousand knives.
How can I heal if it feels worse every second?
T. B. C.
