Required Reading
Arnold stared at the pink notebook on his desk, its edges worn soft from years of handling. The morning sun hadn't reached his office yet, but he'd been there since dawn, the notebook untouched in front of him. Eight-thirty now, and Helga would arrive for their nine AM meeting in exactly thirty minutes.
Inside this book were the words she'd tried to tell him all those years ago—the feelings she'd hidden behind aggression and sarcasm. The truth that had shaped both their lives led them here—to an app about helping kids express their emotions, to shared coffee with two sugars, to cautious limitations that kept cracking.
His phone buzzed:
Helga: *Running early. Hope that's okay.*
His heart jumped at her message. Typical Helga, choosing today of all days to break their precise timing routine. His fingers hovered over the phone before typing:
*Door's open.*
When she arrived, the pink volume lay between them like a challenge. Her hair was still moderately damp from the morning rain, and she was wearing another one of those body-hugging blazers that made Arnold forget about their objective here. He found himself remembering how near they'd stood yesterday, sharing his jacket in the rain, how naturally she'd fit against his side. Some of that magnetic pull lingered in the air between them now.
Her eyes closed in on her pink book. "You haven't read it," she said, but not as a question. She moved closer, one hand resting on the back of his chair just like yesterday when they worked on the code.
"I wanted to..." He paused, searching for the right words. "Give you the chance to share it. On purpose this time."
Something sparkled in her eyes—recognition, maybe hope. "Arnold—"
A notification jingle cut through the tension. Their phones lit up simultaneously:
Jamie: *I shared my new poem. The one about finding someone who understands.*
"We should check the new sharing protocols," Arnold said, but neither of them reached for their laptops.
The log commanded all the attention in the room, its faded math label facing up like an inside joke they'd both finally gotten. "Jamie's brave," Helga said gently. "Braver than I was."
"I don't know about that." Arnold's voice was equally hushed. "You wrote three volumes worth of poetry. That takes courage."
"And you found every single one." A hint of her old smirk appeared. "Some expert at hiding I turned out to be."
"Maybe you weren't trying as hard to hide as you thought." The words came out before he could stop them. Their eyes connected across his desk—her desk—their shared area. Arnold tilted forward first this time, his hand moving to rest on hers on the notebook's edge. She responded by leaning in closer, and he caught the subtle fragrance of her perfume, the same one that had made it so hard to focus yesterday when she'd been looking over his shoulder at the code. His hand twitched with the memory of her knee pressed against his as they'd worked.
Rain tapped against the windows, and somewhere downstairs, Harold's morning prep work created a familiar background rhythm. Helga's fingers slipped from under his and skimmed the worn cover. "Do you remember what you said yesterday? About some feelings needing to be shared?"
"I remember everything about yesterday." The memories flooded back: her gentle guidance with Jamie, the crack in her preserved facade when discussing sentiments she tried to get locked away, the deliberate way she'd left these confessions behind. None of it had been accidental.
"The thing about poetry," she voiced, her words a low hum between them, "is that once it's written down, it becomes real. Permanent. You can't take it back."
"Do you want to take it back?"
"Arnold..." Her fingers stilled on the book. "We have investors now. A responsibility to the kids using the app. We can't just..."
"Can't just what?" He leaned forward an inch. "Be truthful about why we really designed sharing protocols and privacy settings? Why every function I wrote somehow ended up being about hidden feelings?"
A slight color touched her cheeks. "Your code was a bit... revealing." "Says the woman who framed her pink bow next to her PhD." Their mutual laughter broke some of the pressure, but the booklet still sat between them, full of expressions authored by a younger Helga to a younger Arnold. Words that might change everything—again.
Jamie's message lit up both their phones: *Mark says he understands the poem. Like, REALLY understands.*
A peaceful smile played on Helga's lips. "Sometimes understanding is scarier than sharing."
"Is that why you left this?" Arnold handled the surface of her childhood revelations. "To be understood?"
"I think..." She took off her glasses, a gesture he'd come to recognize as her letting her guard down. "I think I left it because you already understand. You always did, even when I was disguising behind anger and sarcasm and... deliberately maintained space."
The morning sun finally reached his window, painting her in golden light. She looked both exactly like and nothing like the girl who'd once hidden poetry in math books—stronger now, more certain, but with that same intensity that had always drawn him in.
"Read it," she murmured. Arnold guided her to their code-review couch, where they settled close, his arm naturally finding its place behind her. "Not because you found it," she added, "but because I'm choosing to share it. Like Jamie."
His fingers lightly trembled as he turned to the first page, dated fourth grade, the handwriting achingly familiar in its passionate scrawl:
*How do you tell someone they're the voice in every story,
The heart in every poem, the reason words exist at all?
How do you say I see you, I've always seen you,
When you're too busy seeing everyone else to notice?*
"Helga..." His voice caught. Unable to resist any longer, his free hand found hers again, where it rested on the pink book's edge. When she didn't pull away, his thumb traced small circles on her wrist, feeling her pulse pick up under his touch.
"Keep reading," she breathed softly. "There's a newer one. From last week."
He turned to the last written page, the ink still fresh:
*Now we write code instead of poetry,
Build walls of professional grace,
But every function hides your name,
Every protocol guards this space
Where words still wait to be heard
By someone who's always known
How to read between my lines
And make my truth his own.*
The stillness that followed felt charged with years of tacit feelings. When Arnold peeked up, Helga was eyeing him with that same expression she'd had in her office weeks ago—vulnerable and brave all at once.
"So," she managed, though her voice wasn't quite steady. "Any feedback on the technical implementation of emotional expression?"
Arnold couldn't help smiling. Even now, she was giving him an out, a chance to retreat behind their roles as co-developers. But he was done pretending this was just about code and therapeutic frameworks.
"I think," he ventured, "some feelings don't need security protocols anymore."
"Arnold—"
"And some poems," he continued, moving around the desk to stand in front of her, "deserve to be framed next to PhDs."
Her breath caught as he stepped closer. "The investors—"
"Will probably appreciate knowing their development team has personal experience with emotional expression."
A ghost of her old smirk appeared. "Is that what we're calling this?"
"What would you call it?"
Instead of answering, she reached for the notebook, her fingers brushing his. But this time, neither pulled away.
"I'd call it," Helga declared gingerly, "the longest code review in history."
Arnold chuckled, the tension breaking slightly even as the charge between them remained. "That's one way to describe twenty years of secret odes."
"Not all of them were concealed." Her fingers were still grazing his on the dull exterior. "Some were just waiting for the right moment. For both of us to be ready."
"Like now?"
"Like now," she agreed. "When we've built something that helps kids do what we couldn't back then. Be honest about difficult feelings."
"You were honest," Arnold said. "In your own way. Every time you left a
stack of dedications where I might find it."
"And you were understanding. Every time you found one and never made me feel..." She gestured vaguely with her free hand. "Like this was something to be embarrassed about."
"Is that what this is?" He shifted slightly closer. "Something to be embarrassed about?"
"This," Helga started slowly, "is something that could complicate our very proficient career association."
"I think we complicated that the moment I named a function 'processUnspokenFeelings.'"
Her giggle was mild, almost shaky. "Or the moment I framed that pink bow."
"Or when you kept calling me Football Head in front of the investors."
"Or when you spent twenty minutes picking out that blue shirt."
They were standing close now that her collected verses bridged the space between them like a bridge between past and present. Outside, the morning bustle of the neighborhood created a nostalgic soundtrack—Harold's voice calling orders, Patty's coffee grinder whirring, and the distant sounds of kids heading to PS 118.
"So," Arnold spoke quietly. "What do we do now?"
Helga's eyes met his, and he saw both Dr. Pataki and the girl who'd loaded pages with his name. "I think," she said, "we stop pretending this app isn't about us. About giving kids what we didn't have—a secure way to be sincere about emotions."
"And us?"
Her free hand raised to feel his cheek, the gesture both new and achingly etched in their memories. "I think we have some readings to catch up on. Starting with that last one."
"The one about writing code instead of poems?"
"The one about someone who's always known how to read between my lines." Her voice eased. "Even when I was trying my hardest to hide them."
This time, when their eyes locked, neither glanced away.
His phone whizzed insistently in his pocket—probably the group chat with running commentary—but for once, Arnold didn't reach for it. Not when Helga was glimpsing at him like that, all her careful walls finally down.
"You know," he said smoothly, "we're going to have to explain this to the investors."
"Mmm." Her thumb outlined his cheek. "I'm sure Rhonda's already updated the app's color scheme to reflect the situation."
"And Phoebe's probably graphing our proximity metrics."
"While Gerald collects on that betting pool."
They were so close now that he could see the flecks of gold in her eyes, the same ones he'd noticed all those years ago when she'd accidentally revealed her feelings on the FTi roof. But this time, there was no pulling back, no pretending it was heat of the moment or adrenaline or anything but what it had always been.
"Helga—" he started.
Her other hand came up to nestle his face. "Football Head," she called him tenderly, "for once in your life, stop analyzing the therapeutic implications."
When she kissed him, it felt like every lyric she'd ever written, every function he'd ever named, every meticulous boundary they'd tried to keep dissolving into something much more genuine.
His hands found her waist as hers slid into his hair, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered that they were definitely going to have to revise their conduct guidelines.
A chime from both of their phones finally made them break apart. Jamie's message glowed on their screens:
*Mark says sometimes the scariest feelings turn out to be the best ones. When you share them with the right person.*
Helga laughed timidly against his shoulder. "Out of the mouths of babes."
"Think we should tell her she's not the only one being brave today?"
"Maybe." She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, her smile mixing Dr. Pataki's confidence with young Helga's wonder. "After we figure out how to label this in the project documentation."
"We could start with dinner," Arnold suggested. "Away from the office. Without discussing user engagement metrics or sharing protocols."
"Just us?" Her fingers played with his collar. "No workplace propriety?"
"No workplace anything." He grabbed her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. "Though we might want to keep that notebook handy. For reference."
"Already planning a thorough review, Football Head?"
"Well," he smiled against her skin, "you know how I feel about research."
This time, their kiss held the weight of every verse she'd penned, every function he'd named after her, every moment they'd hidden behind facades and finally let themselves be understood.
His phone buzzed again in his pocket, probably their friends wondering why neither of them had shown up for the morning team meeting that should have started five minutes ago. But Arnold was too busy learning how Dr. Pataki's laughter felt against his lips to care about appropriate workplace behavior anymore.
Some feelings, it turned out, were better expressed than obscured.
Even if they did convolute the employee handbook.