A/N: Hey everyone, thanks so much for your positive, uplifting reviews! I'm very happy you all like this story and I am trying very hard to make it a good one (I hope it is!) Anyway, this chapter is in a different POV, so don't be alarmed! Enjoy!

Helga Patacki.

A weird sensation brewed inside him. He almost wanted to laugh, but at the same time he felt like heaving into the wastebasket at his feet. It had been years. He looked down at her scribbled handwriting and couldn't help but feel strange. More than strange, actually.

He thought she was gone forever, especially after what he did to her. He still hadn't quite forgiven himself for that, but… well, he would just have to deal with that later.

For now, he just hoped to God that she would come to submit her story on Friday. He had to verify that it was indeed her.

The rest of his workday was a guilty, thought-ridden blur. His fingernails were bloody stumps due to the chewing, a nervous habit he couldn't quite get rid of. All because of her. Maybe she had forgotten? She didn't seem too upset, but she also didn't seem to even recognize him.

Feeling helpless, he slipped on a coat and left the office, looking forward to his warm bed. Hopping into his station wagon, he decided to take the long way before going home to Clarissa. Sure, she would be mad but he just didn't give a damn anymore.

He passed by the old elementary school, P.S. 118. He liked to think that this wasn't the reason he took the long way home, but after seeing Helga after all these years… he felt it was necessary.

Slowing down drastically to a pace of five miles per hour, he stared longingly out the window at his past. He could almost see all of his old friends hanging off the monkey bars, poking fun at each other, and laughing. But that image quickly went away when he realized he was twenty-four years old. These things should no longer be a part of him.

He quickened back up to forty, and then to forty-five when he realized how angry Clarissa would be when he came home late for the fourth time in a row. She was probably just upset that she didn't have anyone to scream at while he worked his ass off at the office. But he wasn't bitter, no, not at all.

He parked his car in front of the house and pushed open the door, only to be greeted with a slew of angry words.

"Arnold, how many times do I have to tell you to come home early before you actually do it?" she asked, her fists curled tightly on her hips. He wanted to laugh, as inappropriate as that was, but he kept a solid face.

"Sorry," he mumbled like he always did. It was natural reaction whenever she yelled.

"No, you aren't. Sorry means it won't be repeated. Yet you always do it again!" she exclaimed, throwing her hands wildly into the air. If he had a nickel for every time she said that…

Instead of replying, he hauled his way into the kitchen to get something to eat. She, of course, followed him.

"You just don't seem to care anymore," she mumbled, resting her back on the marble counter. But why should he? They had fought nonstop since the engagement. If this was the way he was going to be living for the rest of his life, he would probably be admitted into an insane asylum, mumbling "sorry means it won't be repeated" over and over again like a madman.

"See? This is what I mean. You don't even reply," Clarissa shouted as she left the kitchen. He didn't ask her where she was going, because frankly it didn't matter to him anymore. When their relationship was still blossoming, he always followed her when she stomped from the room heatedly. When they started getting serious, he wouldn't follow, but he would worry where she went. And now… well, let's just say that he hoped to hear the front door slam shut.

Instead, he heard her stomping up the stairs as if she was making some sort of point. He groaned; it was that type of groan that could only be heard from the ones who have had a truly bad day. This was his life. And tomorrow, he'd have to wake up and live it again.

Friday came all too quickly. He awoke with a stomachache burning deep in the pit of his lower belly, as if warning him of problems ahead. Nevertheless, he hauled himself out of bed and thanked the Lord that Clarissa wasn't up to pester him. He stared at her peaceful, sleeping form and wished she were like that all the time, before taking his briefcase in hand and leaving.

Again, he took the long way, hoping that it would cure his fidgets, but to no avail. Instead, he gripped the wheel anxiously and tried his best to focus on the road instead of what was to come. His secretary greeted him happily and he could barely muster up a reply as he slipped into the elevator.

It wasn't until about noon when there was a knock on the door. Immediately, he felt like someone had jabbed him in the back with a pole, for his back became very tense.

"Come in," he called shakily as he struggled to find something to do with his hands. The door opened ever so slowly, and a small, skinny man entered. He held a paper in his hands hopefully.

"Hi, I'm Peter, I'm here to submit a short story for the magazine," he replied, looking about as nervous as Arnold. Letting out a breath, he took the man's paper and bid him farewell.

The next person to come wasn't Helga. Nor was the next person.

It wasn't until thirty minutes before he was to go home that she came, looking frazzled (but not as frazzled as him). Triumphantly, she slapped the paper down on his desk.

"Sorry I'm a little bit late," she said in frustration. He shrugged.

"Happens to the best of us," he replied as nonchalantly as he could. She looked straight at him with a blank expression; no hint of recollection hid behind those eyes.

"Well, thank you Mr., um…?" she trailed off.

"Call me Arnold," he muttered seriously, looking straight into her eyes. He saw a flash of something, but then she smiled an aloof smile.

"Okay, Arnold."

She stood there for a few more moments, as if waiting for him to reply. When he didn't, she crept out the door, staring at him with a hint of wariness. As soon as the door shut, he slammed his fists down on his desk in a fit of rage. How could she not have even the slightest clue of who he was? He practically ruined her high school experience – not that he was proud of such a thing – and she stared at him as if he was any old guy on the street. It was infuriating.

So he packed his things and left the office, feeling even more defeated than ever. Restless and out of breath, he got in his car and decided not to drive home. Instead, he drove to a house he knew well, Gerald's house.

The drive brought up many thoughts in his cluttered mind. He had to know more about Helga and why she was here, but he knew Gerald had too much going on in his mind. Would it be selfish to ask? Before he could answer that question, he was outside the tall, redbrick house.

"Arnold, hey," Gerald greeted him with a weary smile. Phoebe appeared at his side, her arm gently resting on his. Arnold nodded at her. "What brings you here?"

"Just checking in," Arnold said carefully as the couple looked at each other and then back at him. Their smiles were tired.

"Come in," Phoebe whispered, moving out of the way. Arnold nodded graciously and entered the dim-lit house, feeling a sense of eeriness engulf him. The house looked as bad as the couple did, rundown like an abandoned motel. He tried not to notice the half-assembled baby crib in the corner.

"How have things… um, been?" he asked awkwardly, feeling intrusive in their meager, depressing little home. Phoebe's grip on Gerald's arm visibly tightened. Arnold could tell that she was looking right past him when she said, "Fine, just fine."

"You know, same old," Gerald added, trying to seem calm and collected. "Just trying to get through it," he said after a moment to cover up for his first sentence. Phoebe nodded and pulled down on her oversized sweatshirt.

"Good," he replied. The tension was almost suffocating. The couple looked at each other imploringly, as if they wanted to reveal more. But they kept quiet.

"How's the job?" Gerald asked after a few seconds, the amiable look returning to his wilted face.

"It's… well, it's interesting," Arnold replied, scratching the back of his neck. They both cocked their heads to the side, willing for him to go on. "I guess you can say I saw an old friend."

"Helga," Phoebe muttered without missing a beat. Shocked, Arnold nodded.

"She came in to submit a short story, and, well, there's something a bit off about her," he continued, remembering the vague look on her face. "She doesn't seem to remember me."

"How could she not?" Gerald burst out, almost laughing. "After what happened-"

"I know, I know," Arnold said, his voice pleading. "But when I said my name, she just stared at me without the slightest bit of recognition."

Phoebe remained silent, her hands tightly clasped together as if she was holding something between them. Gerald shook his head.

"I don't know what to say," he concluded, frowning slightly. Arnold nodded, trying to think of some explanation. Maybe she did recognize him, but she just didn't want to remember? There had to be some sort of mistake…

"She lives about a block south of the old field," Phoebe stated, looking down at her lap. "In that house with the black fence."

Gerald and Arnold stared at her incredulously.

"I have to go over there," he said finally, feeling suddenly very determined. Gerald shook his head.

"I don't know, do you think that's a good idea?" he inquired, giving Arnold his signature 'look'; the one that clearly said that he should think twice. Arnold ignored it.

"What is there to lose?" he asked. "Anyway, I should go… you know how Clarissa gets."

The two nodded all too knowingly as they stood to say farewell. Uncharacteristically, Arnold hugged Phoebe, enveloping his arms around her withering body. She held on tightly and she exhaled, as if unwinding herself. And then she disappeared into a separate bedroom, wiping the tears that had escaped.

"We're going to try again for the first time tonight," Gerald muttered, barely above a whisper. "She's… nervous."

Arnold nodded slightly and pursed his lips together, surprised about how open Gerald seemed to be. For weeks, he wouldn't say more than a few words about the situation. Arnold patted his shoulder kindly, and left.

It was no surprise that Clarissa was angry. It was no surprise when she threatened to leave him, and it was definitely no surprise when she stomped up to the bedroom and slammed the door, screaming obscenities. Arnold grabbed a soda from the fridge and flopped onto the couch without a care.

He stayed there for a while, thinking. About the dismal, drained looks on his friends' faces and the strain beneath their words. And about Helga and that goddamn infuriating look on her face. And about whether or not Clarissa was going to leave him, and how he hoped to God she would.

Morning came. The sun bled through the blinds and soaked Arnold's body until he sweated. He stood and wobbled a bit before heading towards the kitchen to get something to eat. There was a small note on the counter.

We need to talk.

Each word was underlined harshly. He crumpled the paper and threw it into the trashcan where most of her insufferable notes went. Not wanting to creep upstairs and experience her wrath, he simply straightened out his crinkled shirt and pants before heading for the door. But alas, there she was at the top of the stairs, as if she was just waiting for him to wake up.

"Where are you going?" she asked, and then crinkled her nose. "In last night's clothes?"

"A block south of the old field, the house with the black fence," he replied before yanking open the door and slamming it shut. He loved to push her oversensitive buttons.

Hopping into the car, he felt reckless and daring as he zoomed towards Helga's house. He arrived in just five minutes, recognizing the house exactly as it was described. The black fence creaked as he pushed it open and sauntered carefully towards the front door. He knocked three times with confidence.

He heard footsteps, but no one appeared for quite some time. He almost turned to leave, but the door finally creaked open just like the fence. An eye stared at him through the crack, and then fully opened to reveal Helga. She almost looked relieved.

"Are you here about my story?" she asked hopefully. He shook his head slowly, suddenly unsure of what to say, and unsure of why he was there in the first place.

"Uh," he said. Her eyes narrowed as she stared him up and down. "Do you… do you remember me?"

"You're the magazine editor," she said slowly, as if he was some sort of mental patient. He shook his head.

"No," he said, sounding more forceful than he would have liked. "Do you remember me? Arnold."

Looking like a deer in the headlights, her eyes were wide and her mouth hung slightly ajar. But then she shook her head. He stared deep into her eyes as if that would somehow get her to recognize him, but instead she took a step back and eased the door towards her. In turn, he took a step forward.

"Arnold, Football Head, Arnoldo, Hair Boy, anything at all?" he asked desperately. Her expression remained aloof for a moment, but there was finally a flash of reminiscence beneath her eyes.

Before either of them could say anything else, she slammed the door shut.

A/N: I know you probably have many questions! Don't worry, they will most likely be answered within the next few chapters. I'm sorry this one was short, by the way, but I thought that was a good, semi-cliffhanger-ish way to end it. Let me know what you think!