Helga's POV

Philadelphia at 3 AM feels like a different city. The streets are emptier, the shadows deeper, the silence heavy with promises that won't survive until morning. I move through Simon's apartment like a ghost, mindful not to wake him.

The ring sits cold and heavy in my palm—a perfect metaphor for our relationship. I place it on his nightstand where the streetlight catches it, making it gleam accusingly. Next to it, I leave a note: We both know this isn't right.

Two weeks. That's all it took to remember why I left in the first place. The apartment might be nicer; the job might be stabler, but Simon's still Simon. Still talking about someday and almost, and just one more chance. Still leaving cigarette burns on everything he touches.

As I pull my suitcase through empty halls, the truth settles in—my issues followed me here. Going back was always going to be a mistake. But at least now I know for sure—Simon and I were always just remnants of something broken.

When I slip out, the cab is already waiting. The driver doesn't ask questions; he just nods when I say "airport." I watch the city blur past, thinking about how Arnold would have somehow woken up and fought to drive me himself, would have insisted on making sure I got there safely.

No. I'm not thinking about Arnold.

But of course, that's all I think about on the flight back to Hillwood.

And the guilt clings to me like a sweaty tee.

Three days blur past before I find myself at Harold's Deli, nursing a hangover and a cooling coffee when I see them. His blonde hair blowing in the wind, hers dancing next to his.

Arnold's strolling down the street with some blonde in a sundress, looking to be engrossed in conversation. She's touching his arm, laughing at something he's saying, and he's got that intense look he gets when he's really listening to someone. That look he always gets with girls like her—the ones who seem simple at first glance but probably have some hidden talent or tragic backstory he can't resist trying to uncover.

My coffee cup hits the saucer with a sharp clatter, the sound as jarring as the sight before me. Harold's head snaps up from behind the counter.

"You alright over there, Helga?"

"Peachy," I manage, but my voice sounds strange even to me. "Just... remembered something."

My legs feel gobby as I head out, my head swirling like the remaining coffee I discarded.

Later, I find myself at Sid's bar with Rhonda, who's on her third martini and second rant about Curly's latest grand gesture.

"Can you believe he showed up at my fashion show with a trained monkey? In a tuxedo!" She downs her olive. "The monkey was in a tuxedo, not Curly. Though honestly, both would have been less ridiculous than—" Rhonda stops, squinting at me. "Okay, what's wrong with you? You haven't made one sarcastic comment about my love life all night."

"Nothing's wrong." But I can't help glancing toward the door when it opens, half-expecting to see Arnold wander in with that chick.

Rhonda follows my gaze, understanding dawning on her face. "Ah. You saw him with Krissy."

"Who?"

"The bottled-blonde ditz from the yoga studio." Rhonda waves dismissively. "Please. Arnold would never take her seriously. She thinks Neruda is a type of coffee."

I roll my eyes, but my gut twists anyway. Rhonda might be exaggerating how ditzy this girl is—she usually does—but that's almost worse. Sweet, seemingly simple girls who turn out to have hidden depths? That's exactly Arnold's type. The kind of girl who needs saving until she doesn't. The opposite of someone who comes pre-loaded with sharp edges and walls.

"I don't care who he takes seriously," I snap, but Rhonda just raises one perfect eyebrow.

"Sure you don't, darling. That's why you rush over here in hopes of seeing him." She shakes her head. "Just like I don't care that Curly's seeing his new assistant."

"He's what?

"Exactly," she says, twirling her glass. "Face it, we're both terrible at pretending we don't care." Rhonda sighs, stirring her drink. "Listen... I didn't think you'd actually do it."

I frown. "Do what?"

"The whole 'test Arnold to see if he cares' thing. I was half-joking. And then, next thing I know, you're actually on a flight back to Philly." She exhales sharply. "And then I saw Arnold at the gym…"

I pause, sensing something I never expected from Rhonda: guilt.

"I've never seen him like that before, Helga. He wasn't just upset—he was angry. Like, really angry. That whole 'zen patience' thing? Gone. He was tearing into that punching bag like it was gonna give him answers."

She takes a sip of her martini, avoiding my eyes. "And I just kept thinking... shit, I played a part in this."

My stomach feels like I just took a punch. So it wasn't just me who underestimated how much Arnold actually cared.

I blink, still a little caught off guard. "Arnold? Angry?" I had only seen fleeting glimpses of that side of Arnold.

"Anyway," Rhonda mumbles, shaking off those emotions and easing back into her usual self. "Whatever you think he feels for Krissy, it's nothing compared to what he feels about you. Trust me, that guy's been in knots since the day you got on that plane."

I stare at my drink, the rim clouding in my vision. "I didn't think he cared that much," I mutter, my voice barely audible.

Rhonda sucks her teeth. "Seriously? Helga, you've been his kryptonite since middle school. The guy might not always show it blatantly because what guy does besides Thad." she pauses with a pained look on her face for a second. "But trust me, he's never been indifferent when it comes to you."

Her words settle over me like a heavyweight. I replay every private moment we've shared, every gentle touch, and I feel the sharp sting of regret. Why didn't I realize it sooner? Why didn't I let myself believe he might actually feel as tangled up in this as I do?

Criminy, maybe I've been the dense one between us this time around.

"But I left," I whisper, more to myself than to Rhonda. "And he didn't stop me."

Rhonda sighs, leaning back, maintaining her patience against my stubbornness. "And did you give him any reason to? You've got walls higher than Fort Knox, Hellgirl. Maybe he's just waiting for you to give him something real to hold onto."

"I didn't think he'd need one," I say, though even as the words leave my mouth, I know how unfair they sound.

I swallow hard, staring at the rim of my glass. I left. Just like I always do. Just like I told myself, I never would.

And the worst part? Arnold let me go because he's Arnold and trusts me to figure it out. Plus, the guy's got self-worth—something I'll admit I want but don't know if I'll ever have.

"It's not that easy," I mutter, gripping my glass a little tighter.

Rhonda gives me a look, unimpressed. "It's never easy," she says, her tone softer now. "For anyone. But it's worth it. Just think about it, okay?"

Her phone pings multiple times in a row, and she scrolls through it, responding to text messages. Her face tells everything without her having to say anything.

"Well, at least you got to keep that damn job. And you don't even have to deal with Philly traffic."

I scoff, but my fingers loosen slightly around my drink. "Yeah. Guess that's something."

And it is. Even if everything else is a mess, at least I didn't lose that, too.

She signals Sid for another round. "Speaking of our charming bartender..."

Sid saunters over, that practiced smile in place. "Ladies, you're looking particularly devastating tonight."

"Save it, Romeo." Rhonda rolls her eyes, but she's smiling. "Don't you have other customers to harass?"

"None as interesting as you two." He winks at us, and I notice it lacks the usual Sid sleaze from yesteryears. It's almost... friendly. "Hey, Pataki, you still like that Vietnamese place on 4th?"

"Pho King? Yeah, why?"

"They've got this new spicy noodle thing. I thought maybe we could check it out sometime. As friends," he adds quickly, seeing Rhonda's brow raise. "I need someone with actual taste to try it with. These Philistines," he gestures to his regulars, "think hot sauce counts as a food group."

I find myself saying yes before I can overthink it. It's just Sid, after all. We've known each other since we were kids. And it's not like...

The door opens again, and this time, it is Arnold with her. They don't see us heading to a table in the back, but I watch him pull out her chair with that old-fashioned courtesy that used to make my teenage heart flutter. Of course, she probably loves it - all his little gentlemanly gestures that my younger self mocked because they were easier to ridicule than admit how much they meant. Girls like her know how to appreciate that stuff openly without turning it into a defense mechanism.

"Another round," I tell Sid. "Something stronger this time."

Sid glances over his shoulder, then back at me. Something like understanding crosses his face. "Coming right up."

Rhonda squeezes my hand under the bar. "Want to get out of here?"

"Yes," I say, but we stay for another hour anyway, watching them from the corner of my eye. They don't kiss or even touch, but there's an ease to their interaction that makes my chest tight.

Sid sets my drink down, and my fingers tighten around the glass. I tell myself I'm just thirsty, that the warmth sliding down my throat has nothing to do with the girl across from him.

Except now I'm standing.

I don't even realize I moved until my chair scrapes against the floor, too loud, too noticeable. My pulse spikes as I glance at Arnold again.

He's mid-sentence, his expression open and engaged, the way he gets when he really listens to someone—the way he used to listen to me.

I could walk over. Say something casual, like I just happened to be here, like I'm not still half-stuck in my own head over him.

Maybe make a joke. Or just say hi. Maybe—

I take a breath. One step.

"Oh no, absolutely not." Rhonda's hand clamps around my wrist before I even realize she's moved. "Hellgirl, sit your ass down before you do something incredibly self-destructive."

"What are you—?"

"Please. I know that look." She drags me firmly back into my seat, her grip surprisingly strong. "You're either about to start a bar fight or do something deeply regrettable, and you are not ruining my martini with either."

I exhale sharply, shaking her off, but I don't move again. I don't even let myself look back at Arnold.

Coward.

Instead, I grab my drink and down half of it in one go. "It was nothing."

Rhonda eyeballs me for a beat, then smirks knowingly. "Sure it was."

She's right. If he wanted to talk to me, he'd come over, right?

I nod to myself, taking another sip.

But Arnold isn't that guy. If he wanted to talk to me, he would. And if I wanted to speak to him… well, I wouldn't be sitting here making excuses.

When we finally leave, Sid calls after us. "Don't forget about those noodles, Pataki!"

I wave without looking back. But I know those green eyes are watching. I can feel it, just like I felt it when I left for Philly.

And just like then, I don't let myself turn around.

I'm a big coward.

The next day, I'm slurping noodles across from Sid at Pho King, and I have to admit—the new spicy dish is worth the hype. I look across at him, and he's making some wisecrack about a guy's boots. It's kind of nice hanging out with a guy, and it isn't romantic - like he doesn't expect anything from me and isn't trying to analyze my every move.

"Told you it was good," Sid grins, already halfway through his second bowl. "Though I gotta say, watching you eat is terrifying. Where do you put it all?"

"Shut up and pass the sriracha." I drown my noodles in red sauce while Sid makes an exaggerated, horrified face. "What? Some of us didn't peak in fourth grade when we ate that live worm."

"Hey, that worm made me a legend." He points his chopsticks at me. "And I distinctly remember you being the one who dared me to do it."

"Please, you were looking for any excuse to impress Rhonda. I just provided the opportunity."

"Yeah, and how'd that work out for me?" He steals a piece of beef from my bowl while I'm distracted. "At least I didn't write love poems about it."

I flick a noodle at him. "I will end you, Sidney."

Our phones buzz simultaneously. Sid checks his first, raising an eyebrow. "Lila's having people over next weekend." He looks up at me. "You going?"

I stare at my own phone, reading the same invitation. "Nothing fancy," she writes. Just friends chatting up! It would be ever so lovely to see you.

"You know," Sid says carefully, stirring his noodles, "since we're both invited, we could head over together. As friends," he adds fast. "Strength in numbers and all that."

I can't help but think about Arnold and Krissy at the bar and how natural they looked together. "Yeah," I say, surprising myself. "Why not?"

I send Lila a quick I'll be there and then turn back to Sid. "Fair warning though—if she tries to make us eat that kale-quinoa thing again, I'm bailing."

"Deal." He holds up his water glass. "To survive Lila's health food?"

I clink my glass against his. "To whatever organic, gluten-free nightmare awaits us."

Later, alone in my apartment, Eisenmeower jumps into my lap, purring. "At least you're consistent," I tell him, scratching under his chin. "Unlike some people, we know." ... me.

My eyes find my computer, filled with sticky notes from my training at Gilded Pages. I can't help but feel my tummy bubble with excitement—perhaps even pride.

At least, that's something.

A higher-paid remote job sounds miles better than temping at that fluorescent-lit nightmare.

I hear a group of guys talking outside my building who sound to my ear like Arnold, Gerald, and Sid. It's not—just the resident neighborhood hooligans.

I tell myself it's just a lingering habit—this thing I have where I look for him in crowded rooms, in conversations that aren't mine. But deep down, I know better. I just don't know what to do with it yet.

Then I find myself drifting off to sleep with my phone in my hand, dreaming of football-headed boys and blonde girls in sundresses who know how to let themselves be loved, of engagement rings left on nightstands, and of all the ways we hurt the people we're afraid to let love us.