I take one last look in the full-length mirror, barely recognizing the girl staring back at me. Gone are the pink bow and pigtails of my youth, replaced by a sleek high ponytail that showcases my face's sharp angles. My blonde hair, usually wild and untamed, is smoothed back, with a few artfully loose strands framing my face.
I've opted for a black crop top that hints at the toned stomach underneath—a far cry from my usual baggy tees. Over it, I'm wearing a deep purple leather jacket that adds just the right amount of edge. My legs are encased in dark skinny jeans that hug every curve, ending in a pair of black ankle boots with a subtle heel. The outfit is a perfect blend of casual and dressed-up, ideal for a night at The Grind.
My face is where the real transformation lies. I've ditched my usual heavy unibrow for two perfectly arched brows. A smoky eye shadow brings out the blue in my eyes, making them pop in a way I've never seen before. A touch of blush accentuates my cheekbones, and a deep plum lipstick adds a hint of drama.
The finishing touch is a pair of small silver hoop earrings and a delicate silver necklace with a pen-shaped charm—a nod to my poetic side.
As I turn to the side, I can't help but smirk. I look good—damn good. It's a far cry from the rough-and-tumble Helga of yesteryear, but it feels right. Like I'm finally growing into myself.
"Sheesh," I mutter under my breath, "who knew Helga G. Pataki could clean up this well?"
I can't believe it. Picture me primping in the mirror. It must be Evie's influence, or maybe I just care more about appearance in my older age.
I hear the door open and close, but I can't peel my eyes off my reflection at the moment. "You look marvelous! Even though it's a far cry from my style... but it screams you." Evie compliments, and I look at her vanity table full of expensive perfumes in neat rows.
"Do you think I could use some of your perfume?"
Evie pauses and stares at me for a beat like she's astonished before she smiles excitedly. "Yes, of course." Her manicured fingers hover over a few before grabbing one. "Try this; it sets the mood perfectly for an evening date." She says in a sultry-like voice.
I spray a bit behind my ear and on the inside of my wrist. It smells like heaven. "It's not a date," I mumble.
"Well, sweetie, women don't usually put in such effort unless there's a gentleman involved," she says while slipping into her satin nighty. "Are you sure it's not a date?"
I just shrug. For once, I didn't have a retort. I mean, the girl is right. Normally, I don't get dolled up and put on perfume. I am definitely changing... and it's all happening so fast.
(((((((
The dimly lit basement of The Grind, an off-campus coffee shop, is packed wall-to-wall with students. The air is thick with the scent of espresso and clove cigarettes. I lean against a worn brick wall, my eyes fixed on the makeshift stage—really just a slightly raised platform with a single spotlight.
Jason steps up, his presence immediately commanding attention. In a black T-shirt and ripped jeans, he's all lean muscle and casual confidence. The room falls silent as he approaches the mic.
He starts slow, his words a low rumble that builds like distant thunder. His poem—if you can call it that—is raw and unfiltered, a stream of consciousness that flows from love to anger to existential dread in the span of a few lines. It's nothing like the polished verses at the student union.
"In the echoes of yesterday's promises, We dance on the edge of tomorrow's regrets, Chasing shadows of ourselves Through streets paved with broken dreams and discarded coffee cups."
His voice rises and falls, punctuated by sharp gestures and moments of stillness. The crowd is transfixed, swaying slightly as if caught in a trance. I find myself holding my breath, caught up in the raw emotion of his performance.
As Jason builds to his crescendo, his words become a rapid-fire assault, each line hitting like a punch to the gut:
"We are the children of chaos, Born in the spaces between heartbeats, Screaming our existence into a void that echoes back only our own emptiness."
He finishes with a whisper that somehow fills the entire room, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. For a moment, no one moves. Then, the place erupts in snaps, whoops, and stomping feet.
I blink, coming back to myself. My heart is racing, and I realize I've been clenching my fists so hard my nails have left marks on my palms. This—this is what poetry should be.
Not stuffy rhymes in a sterile student union, but a primal scream in a smoke-filled basement.
As Jason steps off the stage, his eyes find mine in the crowd. He gives me a slight nod, a question in his eyes. I nod back, a small smile playing on my lips. Yeah, I'm still here. And I'm not going anywhere.
(((
Jason leans against the building, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. My eyes roam his face and move down to his neck. I step back once he takes out a cigarette and begins to smoke. I'm not anti-smoking; I just don't care to get hit in the face by the smell.
"Did you like it?" He asks in between a puff.
I smirk at him. "I'm still here, aren't I?"
"Yeah, you are." Jason breathes kind of heavy, letting one of his hands stroll from my waist to my hip.
I place my hand over his. "Why didn't you swing by the student union yesterday?" I smirk, kind of trolling him. I didn't expect him to come. Traditional poetry isn't his thing, especially since it was on campus. It was too arranged. He is more of a spontaneous kind of guy.
Jason takes a smoke and blows it away from me. His eyes circle my face for a moment, probably trying to read me. He flicks the bud away coolly. "It's not really my scene."
I nod, always appreciating his honesty. He isn't a guy who would just feed me Mack-Daddy pick-up lines. And with his looks and aura, he didn't have to.
We talk more, and an idea pops into my head for us to collaborate in some form. The idea tumbles out of my mouth freely.
"Oh yeah?" he asks, his breath still containing traces of nicotine. "Go on."
I'm not sure if this collaboration is what I need or just another way to keep myself distracted from the things I don't want to face. But for now, it's easier to keep moving forward than to look back.
As Jason and I stand outside The Grind, suddenly, the door swings open. A group of students spill out, laughing and chattering about the performances. And then, like a ghost from my past, there he is.
Arnold.
How does he always do this? Just when I think I've moved on, here he comes, looking like a piece of my past I never finished.
Our eyes lock, and for a moment, the world stands still. Somehow, he looks different this time—slightly older, more filled out—but those kind eyes are the same. My breath catches in my throat.
"Helga?" Arnold's voice is a mix of surprise and something more. He stumbles a bit on the small step but plays it off well. "I didn't expect to see you here."
I feel Jason's hand tighten slightly on my hip. "Friend of yours?" he asks, his tone casual but with an undercurrent of curiosity.
"Old... classmate," I manage to choke out. "Arnold, this is Jason. Jason, Arnold."
The two nod at each other, an awkward silence settling over us. I can feel the weight of unspoken words, of shared history, pressing down on me.
"I, uh, I've been trying to talk to you," Arnold starts, his eyes never leaving mine. "About your poem at the student union. I've been thinking about what you said in your poem, about...—"
"Hey, man," Jason says, still holding my hip. His voice is casual, but his grip tightens slightly. "Helga and I were just about to head back inside."
Arnold's eyes flick between Jason and me, understanding dawning on his face. "Oh. Right. I'm sorry; I didn't mean to interrupt. I'll... I'll catch you later, Helga?"
I nod mutely, unable to form words. When Arnold walks away, I feel like I'm being torn in two. Part of me wants to run after him, to have that conversation we've been avoiding for years. But another part clings to Jason, to the comfort of the present and the promise of something new.
Jason's voice breaks through my thoughts. "You okay?"
I take a deep breath, forcing a smile. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."
He wraps one arm around me. "So, about that collaboration you mentioned..."
As Jason guides me back into The Grind, I can't help but glance over my shoulder. Arnold is still there, at a safe distance, watching us go. His hands stuffed into his pockets, and a flicker of something in Arnold's eyes—disappointment, maybe even hurt. It's the same look he used to have when things didn't go the way he planned, back when everything was simpler between us.
Our eyes meet one last time before the door closes. For a brief moment, the noise from The Grind fades away, and all I can see is the quiet question in his eyes. I turn back to Jason, but the weight of that look lingers—like a door I should've walked through but didn't.