She wasn't Helena.
She didn't even do a very good impression of Helena, which you would think ought to be easy, given the notable physical similarities. And it wasn't like she didn't have some practice, either, considering the frequency with which she mocked her counter-part. Valentine had tried subtly discouraging the behavior. After all, so far as he could remember, Helena had not swished her hips and talked entirely about how much better she was than other people, whilst then going on to list her numerable faults (mainly centered around the fact that she wore pyjamas and couldn't decorate her bedroom properly). When subtlety failed, he tried ignoring it.
That seemed to be the ticket. Not-Helena didn't like to be ignored. The girl was like a firecracker, always trying to get his attention. She called him terrible names. Stupid, clumsy, ugly - not very creative, nor particularly effective. Valentine was an entertainer, after all. He was used to being mocked - it was how he had developed his nearly air-tight ego. But that didn't mean he embraced the experience with open-arms. So why did he stay? The queen certainly didn't care for him, and his Tower didn't like it here, either. He wasn't welcome, according to all concerned. And she still wasn't Helena.
But she was the closest thing.
He wasn't Valentine.
She knew it the moment she saw him, although her pulse had quickened and heart had beat a faster tempo when she'd felt him crash into her. Oh, he looked like Valentine - as much as anyone could without wearing a mask - and he sounded like Valentine. He even had similarly random thoughts on occasion. But even when she caught him out of the corner of her eye, she couldn't convince herself. No matter how badly she wanted to, what she wanted and what was real just couldn't come together, even when she closed her eyes and just listened to his voice.
He thought she was a funny creature, and so strange. She always got him laughing at jokes that he didn't understand. Part of her hated him, because when he was around it was impossible to forget, to move on completely from her memories. Most of her relished him, because she didn't want to forget, or move on.
It was a dream, she told herself. A wonderful, magical dream, but now it's over. The similarities? Coincidence. Maybe fate. Perhaps they were soulmates, connected by some magical strand that drew him through her dreams. It was terribly romantic when you sat and thought about it all, apart from one little problem. He still wasn't Valentine.
But he was the closest thing.