Helga let out a heavy breath, the faint sound of laughter and footsteps echoing from the dorm hallways as the last few lingering students rushed to their rooms. She glanced at her phone, the recent call from her mother still fresh in her mind. The slurred words on the other end—another holiday drink, no doubt—were enough to tighten the familiar knot in her chest. She'd rushed her off the line, unable to stomach the half-hearted questions or forced cheer.
Her eyes wandered to the empty bed on the other side of the room, its neatly folded blankets undisturbed. Her roommate, always off somewhere more exciting, barely made an imprint in Helga's life. For the first time in years, she truly felt alone. At least in high school, there had been friends, activities, and distractions to keep her from sinking into this quiet, dark energy.
This Christmas, just a few days past, had been no different than the others—except this time, she was far from home. And, if she were honest with herself, that wasn't entirely a bad thing.
She stood and wandered to the window, leaning her forehead against the cold glass. The snow blanketed the campus in a soft, quiet glow, its stillness amplifying the ache in her chest. Somewhere out there, families were wrapping up their festive cheer, and couples were probably stealing kisses under twinkling lights. The thought made her stomach twist.
Her gaze fell to the small pile of unopened gifts on her desk, sent from home out of obligation more than affection. A garish sweater from her dad. A generic gift card from Olga. Nothing from her mom unless the late-night phone call counted.
But then her eyes landed on one package that stood apart—a neatly wrapped box in lavender paper with an elegant silver ribbon. It had arrived earlier that week, accompanied by a handwritten note in Phoebe's precise script:
Helga,
I know the holidays aren't always easy for you, so I hope this makes them a little brighter. You deserve the best, my dear friend.
Love, Phoebe.
The memory of opening it brought a faint smile to her lips. Inside had been a pair of plush socks, a beautifully bound notebook, and a small box of her favorite chocolates. Typical Phoebe—practical, thoughtful, and perfectly in tune with what Helga needed most.
Helga slipped her feet into the socks now, the soft fabric warming her toes as she sank back onto the bed. For a moment, she let herself feel grateful. At least someone out there cared enough to make her feel seen.
She reached for the notebook and turned it over in her hands, letting her fingers trail over the embossed cover. She'd planned to use it for journaling, but the pristine pages stared back at her, daring her to make the first mark. With a sigh, she set it aside and grabbed a pen.
Her hand hovered over the first page. What was there to even say? Her mind drifted to high school when her feelings for a golden boy had consumed her so completely she couldn't not write about him. Now, the words felt trapped inside her, weighed down by the years and the realization that she'd never stopped thinking about him.
Frustrated, she tossed the pen down and leaned back, staring at the ceiling. The faint sound of students still lingering in the dorms echoed in the hallway, reminding her that even here, among people, she felt utterly alone.
The thought made her chest tighten. She shot up from the bed, pacing to the desk and back again, hoping to shake off the unease that clung to her like a shadow. She opened the box of chocolates Phoebe had sent, unwrapped one, and popped it into her mouth, letting the rich sweetness distract her for a moment.
But it wasn't enough. Helga needed something—anything—to pull her out of this spiral.
And that was when she heard it—a light thud just outside her door.
Helga stood and crept to the door, opening it cautiously. The hallway was empty, the fluorescent lights buzzing faintly. She looked down and froze.
There, tucked neatly against her doorframe, was a plain brown package. No label, no name, no note—just a simple red bow tied around it. She hesitated, her mind flashing to old pranks from middle school or forgotten Secret Santa exchanges. But curiosity tugged harder.
Closing the door behind her, she carried the package to her bed and unwrapped it carefully. Inside was a book—not just any book, though. A sketchbook. The worn cover bore a faint mark in the corner, as though it had been carried around for years. Her heart thudded as she flipped it open, the first page revealing a pencil sketch that made her breath hitch.
It was her.
Not her now, but her in high school. She was sitting in the library, chin propped on her hand, surrounded by textbooks. The detail was stunning—down to the frustrated curl of her lip and the way her bow drooped slightly after a long day. She flipped the page.
Another drawing. And another. Each one captured Helga in a moment she barely remembered: laughing with Phoebe, standing on the bleachers at a game, lost in thought near her locker. Her hands trembled as she turned the pages faster until she reached the final one.
Her heart stopped.
It was recent. She recognized the scene instantly—herself, sitting at the window just last week, staring out at the snow. The shading was softer, more careful, as though the artist had spent hours perfecting it. And at the bottom, in the corner, were two small initials: A.S.
Her breath caught, and she pressed a hand to her chest. Arnold.
Helga stared at the sketch, her hand trembling as she traced the faint initials with her finger. A.S. Her mind reeled, trying to piece together the why and how. Why now? Why her? And how had he—Arnold—managed to capture so much of her without her ever noticing?
Her throat tightened, a thousand emotions bubbling to the surface. Embarrassment. Awe. Fear. And something else—something she didn't want to name, but it had been there, buried deep, ever since they were kids.
She flipped back through the pages, her gaze lingering on each one. The precision in the strokes, the care in the shading—it wasn't just talent. It was admiration. Maybe even love.
Her breath hitched at the thought, and she slammed the book shut, clutching it to her chest. No. Don't go there. Don't be stupid.
But the memory of his face, his gentle smile, and his unwavering eyes flooded her mind. She thought of high school, the way he always seemed to notice her even when she didn't want him to, the way he'd been both her torment and her salvation. She hadn't thought about it in years—or at least, she hadn't let herself.
A sharp knock on the door shattered her thoughts.
She froze, her heart pounding in her ears. For a moment, she considered ignoring it. She wasn't ready—not for whatever this was. But the knock came again, softer this time, and she felt her feet moving before she could stop herself.
Opening the door, she found herself face-to-face with the boy—no, the man—she'd been trying not to think about. Arnold stood there, his hands tucked awkwardly into his coat pockets, his cheeks flushed from the cold. His green eyes met hers, flicking nervously to the sketchbook she still clutched against her chest.
"Hey," he said, his voice soft but steady. "I—uh—sorry to show up unannounced."
Helga's lips parted, but no sound came out. She tightened her grip on the book, her mind racing. Say something, idiot.
"I, um—" Arnold hesitated, his usual confidence faltering. He glanced down the hallway as if gathering his thoughts before turning his gaze back to her. "I wasn't sure if you'd get it. The book, I mean. I didn't know if—if you'd want to see me."
Her chest felt like it might explode. She took a step back, letting the door swing open wider, and gestured for him to come inside. She couldn't trust herself to speak—not yet.
Arnold stepped in, his movements careful, like he was afraid of breaking something. He pulled off his coat and rubbed his hands together, avoiding her eyes.
"I know it's kind of weird," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I just… I didn't want to let another year go by without saying anything. Without showing you how much you—" He stopped, exhaling sharply. "How much you've always meant to me."
Helga felt her knees weaken, and she sank onto the edge of the bed, still clutching the sketchbook like a lifeline. "Why now?" she finally managed to ask, her voice rougher than she intended.
Arnold's eyes softened, and he stepped closer, sitting on the chair near her desk. "Because I couldn't keep pretending," he said simply. "Not after all these years. I thought maybe if I just showed you—if I gave you the book—you'd understand. But then I realized I needed to say it, too. I needed you to know it was me."
Her heart twisted at his words, at the raw honesty in his expression. She opened the book again, flipping to the final sketch, and held it up. "You've been drawing me. For years."
He nodded, his cheeks turning pink. "I couldn't help it. You've always been… you. And I've always—" He stopped, taking a deep breath. "I've always cared about you, Helga. More than I ever let on."
Helga stared at him, her mind a whirlwind of emotions. She wanted to yell at him for keeping this from her for so long or laugh at the absurdity of it all. But mostly, she wanted to let herself believe him—to let herself feel the way she'd been too scared to feel since they were kids.
"Why didn't you say anything back then?" she whispered.
Arnold smiled faintly, his eyes meeting hers with a mixture of regret and hope. "Because I wasn't ready. But I am now."
Helga's heart thudded painfully in her chest, and she dropped her gaze to the sketchbook in her lap. The weight of his words—of him sitting there, looking at her like she was the only thing that mattered—was almost too much to bear.
She flipped to the earlier pages, her fingers trembling. "You've always cared about me?" she asked, her tone sharp despite the crack in her voice. "Is that why you kept this to yourself? Why you just… sat back and drew me instead of saying something?"
Arnold winced, but he didn't look away. "I didn't think you'd believe me," he admitted. "And maybe I was scared, too. Scared you'd laugh, or worse—push me away."
Helga let out a short, bitter laugh, the sound harsher than she intended. "Push you away? Arnold, you have no idea what it was like for me back then. To feel so much, to care so much, and to never think it would matter. And now, you just—" She gestured helplessly at him. "You show up with this," she said, holding up the sketchbook, "and expect me to know what to do with it?"
"I don't expect anything," Arnold said softly. "I just wanted you to know how I feel. How I've felt for a long time."
His calm, steady voice broke through the wall she was trying to keep up, and Helga felt the burn of tears threatening to spill. She shook her head, standing abruptly and pacing the room. "You can't just—ugh, you—" She pressed her hands to her temples, her voice rising as she tried to put her emotions into words. "You don't get to be this perfect, thoughtful, annoyingly kind guy and waltz in here acting like I'm supposed to… I don't know… believe it."
"I'm not perfect," Arnold said, standing too. His voice was quiet but firm. "And I'm not here to waltz in and fix anything, Helga. I'm here because I care about you. Because I always have."
The raw honesty in his voice made her stop in her tracks. She turned to face him, her arms wrapped tightly around herself like armor. "What if I don't know how to believe you?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Arnold took a tentative step closer, his green eyes searching hers. "Then let me prove it," he said gently. "Let me show you, Helga."
The tears spilled over before she could stop them, hot streaks trailing down her cheeks. She laughed bitterly through them, wiping at her face with the back of her hand. "You really don't know what you're getting into, do you?"
Arnold's lips curved into a small, understanding smile. "I think I do. But I also think it's worth it."
Helga hesitated, her heart hammering as she looked at him—really looked at him. The boy she used to pine for, the man sitting here now, offering her something she'd always been too afraid to hope for.
She swallowed hard, her voice trembling as she finally asked, "What do we even do now?"
Arnold's smile grew soft and reassuring. "We figure it out. Together."
Slowly, as if testing the waters, Arnold reached for her hand. His fingers brushed against hers, and when she didn't pull away, he gently laced their fingers together. His hand was warm, enduring, and so achingly familiar that it sent a shiver down her spine.
Her gaze lingered on their joined hands as she whispered, "You really mean it."
"I do," Arnold said softly, his voice grounding her.
Helga stared at their hands, her breath catching as a lump formed in her throat. She felt the weight of everything in that simple touch—his patience, his sincerity, his quiet determination to be there for her, no matter what. For the first time in a long while, she didn't feel so alone.
Her gaze lingered on their joined hands, but then, slowly, she looked up. Her eyes met his, and in that moment, she saw everything—emotions he didn't need to say aloud, feelings he'd been holding onto for years. There was no hesitation in his gaze, no doubt, only the quiet, persistent truth of how much she meant to him.
Her lips curved into a small, tentative smile, and she nodded. When he smiled back, the kind of smile that reached his eyes, it was further confirmation. This was real, and for once, she was going to let herself fall.