Content Note: This story contains complex adult relationships, emotional disarray, and poor choice-making. Sometimes, the path to happiness isn't straightforward—expect complicated feelings, frustrating choices, and moments that might make you want to throw your phone across the room before it gets better. But for those willing to stick it out, sometimes the most difficult love stories are worth the wait.

Helga's POV

The hefty thump of the trash bag echoes as I toss it into the dumpster, pulling my sweater tighter against the chill. Trash duty was Simon's job. Now he's gone, and I'm left locking all 25 locks like some paranoid maniac, clutching Eisenmeower as if he's my only ally.

Seven days ago, I shared these locks with him. Now I'm spending my last night in Philadelphia staring at tomorrow's plane ticket back to Hillwood like it's a get-out-of-jail-free card.

Simon was a whirlwind from the start—he literally introduced himself as "Your New Problem" in some dingy bar, complete with tattoos and random scabs. Reckless, magnetic, and as chaotic as my own thoughts. Two years of trying to build something with him ended in eight days of engagement and a week of silence. The fights always followed the same pattern: me, trying to keep us afloat; him, sinking us faster with every reckless decision. At 6'2", he towered over me, but I never backed down. I yelled about rent, pills, and cigarettes—watching his ashes threaten my hardwood floors like tiny bombs—and he stormed out, leaving me with nothing but a half-smoked cigarette and broken promises, pills skittering across the floor like tiny escapees.

Running is what Patakis do best. At least this time, it feels like running toward something instead of away. But going home means facing everything I've avoided for five years.

Eisenmeower purrs against my chest, his warmth cutting through the chill of my apartment. "It's just you and me now, buddy," I mutter, stroking his fur. His tail flicks, unimpressed, as he jumps down and disappears into the bedroom.

I grab my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I find her name. It rings twice before her voice, warm and tinged with sleep, answers. Rhonda's probably just catnapping between shopping sprees and parties, as usual.

"Hello? … Helga, what happened? What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Geez, why does something have to be wrong?"

Rhonda sighs, but it doesn't sound frustrated. "Because you never call; it's like one of your Pataki rules."

"Look, Rhonda, I'm flying in tomorrow. Can you have your driver pick me up?"

"Say what?" She pauses, and I hear a slight giggle. "Little Miss Independent needs my help?" But her teasing tone softens. "Mkay, Hellgirl," she says, holding off her questions, knowing my flighty moves. "Send me the deets, and I'll text Joel."

We hang up, and I collapse onto the couch. The thought of returning to Hillwood stirs something uncomfortably nostalgic in me—rooftop stargazing, laughter echoing down familiar streets, and a certain football-headed boy who's probably forgotten I exist.

I walk the corners of my new place. The radiator auditions for horror movies and the "artwork" on the building across the street would make Bob blow his remaining gasket. The bedroom barely fits my queen mattress and writing desk, but the window faces east. Morning light for writing, I tell myself, trying to ignore how the fire escape looks one rust spot away from certain death. But hey, one of the few useful things Bob taught me before he left was to live below my means.

The knock on my door comes precisely when expected. I fling it open to find Rhonda in a swanky red dress, her phone in one hand and keys dangling in the other. Five years after college, and she still makes every entrance count.

"Hey, gal," she winks, stepping inside and surveying my cramped apartment. "Where's your fuzzy little lovebug?"

"The hell if I know; he went phantom last week after acting like a complete neurotic ass."

Rhonda straightens, laughing. "Darling, I was talking about your cat, not your trifling man-child."

"Same answer," I reply, waving her off and flopping onto the couch. "Speaking of which, you got a joint?"

"You know I quit after we graduated, Helga." Her voice drips with mock indignation.

I snort. "Sure, Princess. You supposedly quit a lot of things after college. And yet..." I trail off meaningfully, eyeing her. At least she keeps her toxic escapades under wraps, while mine are always on display for everyone to see.

My phone suddenly buzzes with a message from Phoebe.

Helga, I just heard you're back. I understand if you needed space, but I wish you'd told me yourself. My rounds end at 7 tomorrow. Green Tea House? Like old times?

Another message follows: I've missed you.

I stare at the screen, my fingers hesitating over the keyboard. Five years of distance, and Phoebe still knows exactly how to cut through my defenses with just a few words. Finally, I type out a reply.

See you at 7, Pheebs.

"Dammit, Hellgirl, you need a reset," Rhonda declares, standing with her phone in hand. "We're going out tonight. First night back in Hillwood shouldn't be spent moping and missing out on all the action."

I groan. "Why? I hate people."

"That's what makes it fun, remember?" Her grin is mischievous, a flash of all the trouble we used to cause at homecoming parties. "Besides, you've adjusted to your new living arrangements long enough."

"Aren't we getting too old for that crap?" I grumble, but a laugh escapes me anyway.

"Old and Rhonda do not belong in the same sentence," she declares. "Let me text my party contact and see what's happening tonight."

I eye her suspiciously. "This isn't some elaborate scheme to—"

"Relax, Helga," she interrupts with a wink. "You can't hide forever in this charming little hovel." Her voice is teasing, but there's truth beneath it. "Go get changed. You're not showing up looking like you've been writing breakup poetry in your pajamas all day."

"And where exactly are you dragging me to?" I ask, suspicious.

Rhonda's smirk grows as she checks her phone. "My contact... He always hosts the best spots. Trust me, you'll feel right at home."

I narrow my eyes at her choice of words. "He? This isn't another one of your setups, is it?"

"Chill out girl," she says, waving me off. "I've got connections. You'll thank me later."

Eisenmeower weaves between my legs as I change. By the time I return, Rhonda's already at the door, tapping her heels impatiently.

"This better not be one of your schemes to create drama."

"Would I do that to you?" she asks, feigning innocence.

"Yes."

Her laughter echoes down the hallway as I lock up, Eisenmeower watching me leave with the kind of judgment only cats can muster. I shove my hands into my pockets, trying to ignore the uneasy feeling settling in my chest. Whatever Rhonda has planned, it's too late to back out now.