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Barbarians At The Planet: Lois Lane
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“Well, tell me now,” you say, all openness and patience and care.

I’ve been itching to tell you, counted down the hours last night as I lay in bed sleepless, impatient to hear your calm counsel. But now, looking at you as you put everything aside to give me your attention, I can’t say anything. The words all bunch up in my throat, trapped and swollen and shuffling bashfully, refusing to march forward into the open.

Tell you. As if it’s easy. As if it’s simple. As if I won’t be breaking your heart.

You’re so clueless, Clark, and I’m not sure if it’s because I’ve stopped really talking about Lex with you or if it’s because you have convinced yourself that it’s not serious. It’d be easy to do, I think, considering I sure hadn’t realized just how serious it apparently is! You have no idea how much I could hurt you.

Or…not hurt you, exactly. Surprise you--yes, that’s what it would do. Take you aback. Of course it wouldn’t hurt you, I don’t know where that thought came from. You and I are friends, and partners, but that’s all. That’s more than I ever thought we’d be, though maybe not quite as much as you once thought (hoped?) we’d be.

I can still remember it, you know. Sometimes I think you assume it’s all swept under the rug and forgotten, but I do have a good memory, and I remember the way you looked at me over Chinese fortune cookies. The look in your eyes the next day when you told me I was all yours (and how was I supposed to know that I was supposed to take that literally?) The confident way you danced with me at Lex’s ball. The hopeful way you asked me out to dinner to celebrate our story.

It all went away right in that moment, too, when I remembered I was supposed to go to dinner with Lex, and got angry and blew you off (anger’s always been easier than risking anything more sincere). You didn’t look at me with that look in your eyes anymore (at least not when you thought I was looking back). You didn’t ask me out to dinner, to celebrate or otherwise (only friendly lunches you always have a dozen justifications for). You turned your confidence into humor and you tell me that we’re friends.

And we are friends. Good friends. You’re the best friend I’ve ever had in my life, and that’s why I couldn’t wait to tell you about this proposal. To tell you that I’m scared but flattered, unsure and confused, and altogether way out of my depth. But now that I’m looking at you, I remember that it’s not just that you’re my friend--I’m your friend too. And I can’t say it. I can’t wade past all these memories of your hand on my back and the hugs you give me and the way you stare at me across the newsroom when you think I won’t notice just so I can tell you this news.

I can’t hurt you like this.

“Tell me now,” you said, as if we’ll still be the same tomorrow as we were yesterday. And I wish that were true.

But I know it’s not.

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