Helga.

God, what a bully, what an insensitive blowhard! So emotionally constipated that the only way she knows how to express herself is by being a jerk.

...And yet

His pen clicked and dropped on the page. He wiped his face, brow furrowing at the words in his journal; a damning lead to a thought that couldn't run once pinned, forcing him to face it.

Arnold gripped the pen again, pressing it between his fingers with grueling reluctance to ink a truth.

…Like that's ever

stopped me.

I mean, I'd never really thought about it until recently, but—God. Why couldn't I help myself from hugging her back then? I didn't even think! I just did it! …And, I did it more than once…

Of course it's easy to like the things about her that are nice—now that I know about them.

But… why is it so hard liking things about her that aren't… when I clearly do?

And why?

I'm not even supposed to like her.

How could I like it when she shoves me into my locker? When she gets in my face and threatens me with her fist, knowing she won't deliver?

Going toe to toe anyway, while I'm lost on my way to the high road?

I'm just not the type.

How can I like how bold she is—just the way she naturally claims any space she's in. She doesn't even need to try. And when she would, it used to just bug me, I thought, but I kept noticing. And now, even if she's done nothing worse than dominate the room with a scowl, even if I pretend otherwise, I can't stop noticing. And the way her appearance, both by nature and choice, just strikes. Her attitude just wears through her whole self, radiating her mood, but it's more than that, or her powerful brow, which is…

…I've had mean thoughts about Helga sometimes. Know someone long enough, and it's impossible to avoid. And I'm not one to attack looks—like I'd have any right, as she'd never let me forget it, and through sheer frustration and confusion I've admittedly had more of those types of thoughts about her than others—but I've never let those thoughts touch her brow. She's brave to wear it—it feels like I'm taking a punch in my chest every time her blue eyes pierce me from underneath. It took me a long time to realize it made my heart pound. Why was it so easy to pretend before, to the point where even I was convinced that I wasn't so affected?

And why can't I anymore?

Now when she riles me up but I keep my calm, it feels less like re-centering, and more like pretend.

…And why do I like how she talks? Not always the things she says—truthfully, I've been mortified, but there's always such a strength behind her words, from a tongue as sharp and wicked as it is blunt, and I bet it feels—

Arnold snapped his journal shut before the thought could touch the page. It was a long, labored moment before he tentatively penned the next words.

Of course, she's really not so bad. And I tell her as much.

But, Christ, have I ever met anyone so afraid of truly being seen, that they live their whole lives in a front?

How trapped is she?

How much must it hurt to hide it, when I know, deep down, that she…

He facepalmed, face twisting. His thinning, lingering gaze, traveling slowly under the bridge of his hands, inched their way—all up the length of his built-in bookshelf—to the damning shade of that little pink book.

Arnold's scalp stung, his fist gripped in his hair as he slowly scrawled out the rest.

…I like Helga.

But what good is that, when I'm not supposed to?