Past Tense, Present Tension Chapter 6, a hey arnold fanfic

[Helga's Perspective]

The rhythmic tapping of my fingers on the keyboard fills our diminutive dorm room as I hunker down over my laptop, wrestling with the first major assignment of the semester.

Ever since my reading at the student union, my writing has soared. I'm not as stuck or having a mental block when doing my assignments in general. It's like some unforeseen force controls my hand as the ideas flood onto the paper or Word doc.

Typing away, I can't help but think about how different this feels from the poetry I share—that raw, emotional piece about... well, feelings I'm not ready to face. This academic writing is safer and more controlled, but part of me misses the rush of baring my soul on that stage.

The soft glow of my desk lamp creates a cozy bubble around me, shutting out the world beyond my textbooks and notes. Suddenly, the sharp click of heels on linoleum breaks my concentration. I glance up, squinting as Evie emerges from her walk-in closet in a blaze of sparkles and perfume. She's wearing a crimson designer gown that hugs every curve, her dark hair swept up in an elaborate updo.

For a moment, I'm struck by how different we are – me in my worn lounge clothes and messy bun, her looking like she stepped off a red carpet. "You look great, Evie," I offer, genuinely impressed despite myself.

She preens, turning this way and that in front of the full-length mirror. "I better," she says, her voice a mix of satisfaction and nervous energy. "Michael Duke is taking me out."

I furrow my brow, the name not ringing any bells. "Am I supposed to know who that is?"

Evie whirls to face me, her eyes wide with disbelief. "He's only the most gorgeous creature on campus, and his family owns Duke's Cosmetics, Helga." She says it like I've just admitted to not knowing the sun rises in the east.

"Oh," I mumble, turning back to my laptop. I can feel Evie's exasperation radiating across the room. "Where are you guys going?"

She stands in front of her mirror with a soft smile. "Michael's known for only going to exclusive places. I don't know where exactly, but it's going to be fantastic."

A rapid knock at the door saves me from further fashion education. Evie's friend Freya bursts in, all breathless with excitement. "He's here!

Michael's waiting in the lobby, and oh my god, Evie, you look amazing!" The two girls dissolve into a flurry of last-minute primping and giggling. I watch them out of the corner of my eye, feeling like a nature documentarian observing a foreign species.

"Be careful," I call out as Evie grabs her clutch. "And have a good time." The door closes behind them with a soft click, and suddenly, the room feels twice as large.

Silence settles around me like a comfortable blanket. I stretch, realizing that, for once, I have the place to myself.

"I think every girl must be out on a date except me," I mutter to the empty room.

But as I turn back to my assignment, I can't help but smile. "I'm not mad about it; duty calls."

I crack my knuckles and dive back into my work, the quiet of the dorm a rare and welcome companion.

But after about 45 minutes, the words on my screen start to blur. I need a break. Balancing all my work, tutoring, and, most importantly, having a social life is not easy. But somehow, I've been mastering it.

I do my signature knock on the wall to see if Vinessa is still around. When she doesn't respond, I figure she's also out on the town.

So I slip into some casual clothes and head out.

The cool night air hits me as I step out, a welcome relief after being cooped up. I make my way to The Grind, the go-to spot for anyone with an artistic pulse in this town.

As I push open the heavy wooden door, I'm enveloped by the place's unique atmosphere. The lights are dim, barely illuminating the exposed brick walls covered in local artwork. The smell of rich coffee mingles with hints of cigar smoke and whiskey, creating an oddly comforting aroma that screams, 'Creativity happens here.'

My eyes scan the room, squinting through the haze until I spot Jason at our usual table. He's hunched over, surrounded by a sea of papers, scribbling furiously. I can't help but grin.

Hasn't the guy ever heard of a laptop? But there's something undeniably romantic about his dedication to the pen-and-paper method.

I approach with hesitation because our last encounter with Arnold here was very awkward. But Jason's intense gaze softens when he sees me. "Hey," we say in unison, and I feel a tingle in my stomach. We meet halfway, and his hands find my waist. His lips, soft and warm, graze mine in a kiss that's both familiar and thrilling.

He grabs my wrist, leading me to the table with childlike excitement. "Look at this," he says, gesturing to his scrawled notes.

I lean in, deciphering his messy handwriting. Jason's more of an off-the-dome performer; his words are designed to create a holistic, pedagogical atmosphere when spoken aloud. I can see the frustration in the crossed-out lines and margin notes.

"Can you show me some of your writing?" he asks. "Maybe something from the student union reading."

I feel my bottom lip tremble at the thought of that particular poem and who it's about.

"Nah," I deflect, pushing away the memory. "Let's come up with something new."

We fall into a natural rhythm, words flowing between us like a conversation. Our eyes meet over the paper, flirtatious glances punctuating our creative exchange. The ambient chatter of the cafe fades into background noise as we lose ourselves in the work.

A movement near the entrance catches my eye. A guy with brown hair streaked with blonde walks in, his kind smile lighting up his face. To my surprise, Vinessa follows, her arm wrapped around his. So this is the infamous Mathew. From our tucked-away table, I find myself studying them. They slide into a booth, looking very... couple-y. Vinessa's laugh rings out, sincere and full of life. I feel a smile tugging at my lips, happy for her obvious joy. But there's something else, too, a sinking feeling in my stomach that I can't quite name. Longing? Jealousy? I push the thought away.

Watching Vinessa with Mathew, I'm reminded of how I briefly caught Arnold looking at me after my poetry reading. That intense gaze, like he was seeing me for the first time, is so different from how any guy looks at me.

I zoned out for, I don't know how long, seeing only kind green emerald eyes and wild hair.

I feel a soft finger grazing my arm, and I look over to see Jason's searching gaze, successfully coaxing me back into his world.

Jason's smile is warm, his laugh easy, but even as we share ideas, my mind drifts. I glance at his notes, but instead of focusing, my thoughts wander back to Arnold—how he looked at me after the poetry reading, like he was seeing me for the first time.

The kiss Jason and I shared earlier was nice, but it didn't leave me breathless the way... No, I can't think about that now. Jason is everything I should want—cool, talented—but something's missing. No matter how hard I try, a part of me still lingers on Arnold.

I force myself back into the moment. Jason's fingers brush mine as we write, and I smile, but it feels like I'm going through the motions. I'm here, with him, and yet… not fully. The kiss we shared earlier was nice and familiar, but it didn't send that electric jolt through me. Not like—no, I can't go there.

"Helga?" Jason's deep voice, soft and tinged with curiosity, pulls me back. "Are you getting bored?" He chuckles, but I catch the hint of insecurity in his eyes.

"No, no," I say quickly, my voice higher than usual. His blue eyes search mine, clearly not buying it.

The truth is, I'm trying to feel more. Jason is great—sweet, talented, and everything I should want. But something is missing. Something I can't shake. A part of me that still longs for Arnold, even though I try to bury those feelings.

I force myself to focus, determined to shake off the distraction of Vinessa and Mathew's public display of affection. After a bit more brainstorming, inspiration strikes as soft rock music blasts from the stage from a local band. My brows furrow, thinking about Arnold being into this kind of music. I always picture him as more of a classical guy or maybe even Jazz.

"Oh, I have a great idea!" The words tumble out of me, and I watch as excitement lights up Jason's face. There's something else there, too, a flash of attraction that makes my cheeks warm. But I never blush with Jason or feel as dizzy as I do with him, yeah, Arnold. My attraction is there, but it's easier and more surface-level.

As I explain my thoughts, the creative energy between us crackles, drowning out my earlier unease. For now, at least, I'm fully present, lost in the world we're creating together on the page.

As I walked back to the dorm, my mind replayed Jason's words and his touch, but they felt nice but like something important was missing... And there it was again, that nagging feeling that someone else should have been there with me.

I close the door behind me, still buzzing from my jam session with Jason. And also feel relief that I make curfew within minutes. My notebook is practically glowing with fresh ideas, and I can't help but grin at the thought of what we came up with. But now it's time to switch gears and tackle my mountain of schoolwork.

I spy Evie tucked in her bed, but to my surprise, there is no sleep music. Maybe that date with that Michael guy was so good that it put her into a deep sleep, or it could have had the opposite effect. I'm sure I'll hear about it tomorrow.

I drop my bag on the floor and sit at my desk, the clutter of papers and books staring me down. For a while, I've been making progress—powering through like some sort of academic machine. But as the hours tick by, my focus starts slipping. Words blur on the screen, and my thoughts scatter like leaves in the wind. I groan, pushing my chair back and rubbing my temples. I need something—anything—to snap me out of this fog.

My hand reaches for the radio, an old thing I keep on my desk more for nostalgia than anything else. I flick it on, fully prepared to scroll through the stations until I find something tolerable.

I think this is the campus station.

I glance at the clock—2:15 AM. Who else but insomniacs would be up now?

A smooth, mellow jazz tune hums through the speakers, the saxophone's rhythm wrapping around my thoughts like a warm embrace. Jazz? It's not my usual pick, but something about it feels right—calming, even familiar.

I pause, the music pulling me back to those quiet moments in senior year when Arnold and I would study together in silence. Before, things got weird.

Sinking into my chair, I let the music wash over me. It's strange how quickly it works, loosening the tension in my shoulders. The words start flowing, my pen moving effortlessly across the page. The melody seems to carry me, weaving thoughts together as if the music itself understands what I need.

I chuckle at myself. Since when did Helga G. Pataki get so soft over jazz? But something is comforting about it, like a conversation without words.

The DJ's muffled voice comes on, dedicating the next song to "all the dreamers out there." A smile tugs at my lips—it sounds like something Arnold would say.

As the night stretches on, I feel a strange connection to this anonymous DJ. Maybe it's the music, or perhaps it's something more. For the first time in a while, I feel less alone. I make a mental note to tune in again tomorrow night.

[Arnold's Perspective]

As I wrap up another late-night jazz show, I can't help but wonder if anyone's really listening. It's 4 AM, and the studio feels like a cocoon, isolating me from the rest of the world. I remove my headphones and let out a long sigh.

My mind drifts to Helga, as it often does during these quiet hours. Did she hear the show? Would she have recognized my voice? Probably not. She's likely asleep or out with Jason. But the thought doesn't leave: What if she did hear? Would it even matter?

I shake my head, trying to push away the doubt. I can't keep pretending everything's fine. The time apart hasn't made her any less present in my mind. If anything, I miss her more.

Maybe she's moved on. But what if she hasn't?

I need to talk to her and close the gap that's been growing between us. I've been avoiding it for too long. It's time to do something.

As I cross-campus, the weight of all the unsaid things presses down on me. Talking to Helga shouldn't be this hard, but it is.

I pull open the dorm door; my mind made up—no more excuses.