You have two (dozens, hundreds, thousands of) fantasies. They go like this:

Superman alights on your balcony. He is withdrawn, tentative as he knocks on the door. You take your time, languidly walking the length of the room before you graciously let him in. He shuffles in and looks as though he has too much to say and no idea how to say it. Then, suddenly, the whole sordid truth comes spilling out of him, the facts behind every lie he ever told. It's everything he knows you've ever wanted to hear and you just sneer and tell him you already know. Too little, too late. He apologizes for everything, all the lies he told and all the wrongs he's done you. You are immovable like a glacier. He begs you to let him be your friend again, tells you how much he misses you. A constant ache that won't go away. You lay out your terms. First and foremost he's never to lie to you again. But you also want him to leave LexCorp alone and stop trying to tell you what to do. You want him to trust you. He earnestly agrees and, with a slow nod you give him another chance.

Superman crashes through the window of your office. He is furious, eye's blazing as he glares at you. He demands to know what you're up to this time. You tell him that you're shutting down all the illegal and immoral portions of LexCorp, that you aren't going to be your father anymore. It's everything you know he's ever wanted you to say, but he just crosses his arms and says he doesn't believe you. Too little, too late. You apologize for everything, all the secrets you kept and all the wrongs you've done him. His rage crackles like the fire. You plead with him to let you back into his life again, tell him how much you miss him. A little hole inside that you can't fill. He puts forth conditions. Most importantly, you're never to try to hide things from him again. But he also wants you not to not re-take up any of your projects and start listening to him. He wants you to trust him. You eagerly comply and, with a slow nod he gives you another chance.

There is one reality. It goes like this:

You have just finished a press conference. LexCorp has discovered a new treatment for cancer just about as effective as chemo, but without the negative side-effects. The positive PR for this discovery is only surpassed by the money you'll make off it. You feel a tap on your shoulder and turn to be greeted by the sight of Clark Kent. He's still wearing the ill-fitting suit but the ugly glasses have been removed and tucked into his pocket. He tells you that you've done a good thing today and you blink in surprise and thank him. You ask him how he's been and he chats about his life for a few minutes before blurting out, in an unexpected show of honesty, that he misses hanging out with you. You respond in kind before your brain can register what you're saying. You ask if he'd like to catch up over lunch tomorrow, but he says he's busy. The hope you aren't supposed to be feeling is crushed. But then he grins at you, the same blinding smile, and says he's free now.

Your fantasies are grandiose and filled with sharp-edged victory and defeat, as is befitting a Luthor. By contrast reality is subtle and soft, lines between winner and loser blurred out of existence.

Much to your surprise, you find you prefer the latter.