Helga POV

"A month in New York?" I try to keep my voice casual, watching Arnold pack his veterinary journals into his messenger bag. We're in his office again, the evening light casting long shadows across his medical texts.

"Just three weeks," he corrects, not looking up. "The conference is two weeks, but Dr. Thompson wants me to check out some new surgical equipment while I'm there. Could be good for the clinic."

I sprawl on his couch, attempting to focus on my laptop, where an email from my agent blinks accusingly. Speaking opportunity. New York. Spring Writers' Conference. But I close it without responding. "Three weeks is still a long time. Who's going to handle all the furry emergencies around here?"

"Dr. Wang is covering most of my cases." He finally looks up, that half-lidded gaze making my stomach flip like always. "Though I hear Krissy's planning to wait until I'm back for Mr. Whiskers' next check-up."

Something tightens in my chest at her name, but I push it down. "Of course she is."

"Helga..."

"What? I didn't say anything."

He abandons his packing to join me on the couch, pulling my feet into his lap like he always does. "You didn't have to. Your eyebrow did that thing."

"My eyebrow doesn't do a thing."

"It definitely does a thing." His fingers find that spot on my ankle that always makes me melt. "Want to talk about it?"

I consider deflecting, but we're trying this new thing called honest communication. "It's not about her. Not really." I stare at the ceiling, gathering my thoughts. "It's just... you'll be gone a while. And things have been good, you know?"

"Yeah," he says softly. "I know."

Scout whines from his bed, sensing the shift in mood.

"But hey," I sit up, forcing brightness into my voice. "Maybe I'll finally get some writing done without you and this mutt distracting me."

His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Yeah, maybe."

My phone buzzes - another email from my agent. URGENT: NY RESPONSE NEEDED.

I silence it, turning instead to watch Arnold resume his packing. Three weeks isn't that long, I tell myself. We've been apart longer before.

So why does this feel different?

.

.

.

"You're stirring that coffee like it personally offended you," Phoebe observes, pushing her glasses up with that familiar gesture. We're at our usual corner table at The Green Tea House, where Lila's busy teaching some new barista the difference between chai and matcha. I see evidence that Rhonda's gossiping might be true, with Lila sporting a new ring. But

"Just thinking." I force myself to put down the spoon.

"About Arnold's trip?"

"Among other things." My phone buzzes - another email about the conference. I silence it without looking.

"Helga..." Phoebe's voice carries that gentle judgment I've known since fourth grade. "You haven't told him about the conference invitation, have you?"

"It hasn't come up." I stir my coffee unnecessarily. "Besides, he's focused on his own New York trip."

"Are you avoiding this because of what happened in Philadelphia?"

"What? No." But I can't meet her eyes. "This is different. This is work."

"Then why haven't you responded to the invitation?"

Before I can answer, my phone starts blaring Rhonda's ringtone - Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries" (her choice, not mine).

"Speaking of avoiding things..." I mutter, but answer anyway. "What's up, Princess?"

"Darling!" Rhonda's voice could shatter glass. "Tell me you're free tonight. Curly's trying to convince me to let him cater our anniversary party with something called 'molecular mixology', and I need moral support while I talk him down to normal cocktails."

"Can't. Arnold's leaving tomorrow, so..."

"Oh." Her tone shifts to something more serious. "Right. The New York thing." A pause. "Have you told him about your—"

"No," I cut her off, very aware of Phoebe's raised eyebrow. "Not yet."

"Helga..." Both women say simultaneously.

"Don't double-team me." I slump in my chair. "It's complicated."

"Only because you're making it complicated," Rhonda declares. "Look, I've got to run - these fashion week submissions won't judge themselves - but we're not done with this conversation."

After I hang up, Phoebe gives me that look that always makes me squirm. "She's right, you know."

"Et tu, Pheebs?"

"I'm serious." She leans forward. "This is a huge opportunity. The conference, the fellowship... Arnold would want to know."

"Would he?" I trace the rim of my cup. "He's got his own New York plans. His own life there for three weeks. His own..." I stop myself.

"His own what?" When I don't answer, understanding dawns on her face. "Helga, please tell me you're not worried about Krissy."

I scoff, but it sounds weak even to me. "Please. I'm not worried about Little Miss Perfect 2.0."

"Then what?"

The truth spills out before I can stop it. "What if this is how it starts? Him realizing there's more out there than... this. Than us. Than me."

"Oh, Helga." Phoebe reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. "Have you seen the way he looks at you? Like you're still that girl who used to write poetry about him on bathroom walls?"

"That's the problem." I pull my hand back. "Maybe I'm not that girl anymore. Maybe I need to be more than that."

"You already are more than that." She sits back, studying me. "And I think you know that. I think you're not afraid of Arnold finding something better in New York. I think you're afraid you might."

The truth of her words hits like a physical thing. Behind us, Lila drops something with a crash, but I barely hear it.

"When did you get so wise, Pheebs?"

She smiles. "I've always been wise. You just haven't always been ready to listen."

I check my phone—another missed email about the conference and a text from Arnold about dinner plans for tonight.

"You should tell him," Phoebe says softly. "Before you both start building stories in your heads about what the other person might be thinking."

"Yeah." I stare out the window, watching Hillwood go about its business. "Maybe I should."

But we both know I probably won't. At least not yet.

Eisenmeower watches from his perch on my desk as I delete another paragraph.

Third time tonight. The cursor blinks mockingly on my screen while my agent's email sits minimized but not forgotten.

"Don't give me that look," I tell my cat. "I'm working."

He yawns dramatically, padding across my keyboard to add his own contribution: kkkkkkkkkkkkkk

"Thanks for the input, Shakespeare." I lift him off my laptop, but my eyes catch on the corner of an old notebook peeking out from my bottom drawer. I shouldn't. I really shouldn't...

Ten minutes later, I'm sitting cross-legged on my floor, surrounded by old poetry notebooks. Some from college, some even earlier. My fingers trace words I wrote years ago:

Green eyes that see through walls I build, Football head that haunts my dreams, Love unrequited, yet unstilled, Nothing's ever what it seems.

Criminy, I was melodramatic back then. But looking at these old verses - some angry, some loving, all intense - I realize something hasn't changed. I'm still writing about him. Still trying to capture what he means to me in words.

My phone lights up with a text from Arnold: Scout's sulking because you missed dinner. Something about promises of extra treats?

I smile despite myself, then notice the conference invitation email has moved to the top of my inbox again, like the universe's most persistent reminder.

"Distinguished voices in contemporary literature..." I read aloud to Eisenmeower, who's now curled around my rejected drafts. "Career-defining opportunity..."

The thing is, it's not just the conference. There's been hints of more - a fellowship, a residency program, connections that could launch my career in directions I've only dreamed about. But New York...

I flip to a blank page in my current notebook, trying to sort out my thoughts:

Home is not a place, I used to say, When running was all I knew. But now home has green eyes, And I'm not sure what to do.

"Well, that's garbage," I mutter, ripping out the page. Eisenmeower bats at it as it falls.

Another text from Arnold: Heading to bed. Early surgery tomorrow. Miss you.

My fingers hover over the phone. I should tell him about the conference. About all of it. But then I think about him in New York, about Krissy's flawless smile and designer cat carrier, about how many times I've watched good things slip away.

Miss you too, Football Head; I text back instead.

I look around my apartment - at the mix of my books and his medical journals, at Scout's spare leash hanging by the door, at all these little signs of how our lives have tangled together. On my desk, the conference invitation seems to glow in my laptop's light, offering a different kind of future.

"What do you think?" I ask Eisenmeower. He responds by knocking my oldest poetry notebook off the desk. It falls open to a page from high school:

Forever's just a word until It has a face, a name But love's a leap that terrifies When falling feels like shame

"Yeah," I sigh, scooping him up. "That's what I thought you'd say."

I minimize the email again, telling myself I'll decide tomorrow. But as I crawl into bed, my mind keeps circling: New York, Arnold, career, love, choices that feel bigger than they should.

Sleep doesn't come easily.

Now it's his send-off day, Arnold's insisting he can take a cab, but I'm already grabbing his bag. "Criminy, Football Head, just let someone help you for once."

The drive to the airport feels both too long and too short. Arnold keeps checking his phone - probably last-minute clinic stuff - while I try to focus on traffic instead of the knot in my stomach.

"You've got everything?" I ask for probably the third time. "Laptop? Charger? That ridiculous herbal shampoo you can't live without?"

"Yes, yes, and yes." His hand finds my knee. "Though I notice you didn't ask about my actual conference materials."

"Please, you probably packed those a week ago and checked them twice."

His laugh is soft. "You know me too well."

Do I? I want to ask. Instead, I say, "Well, someone has to."

His phone buzzes again. I catch Krissy's name on the screen before he silently declines the call. Something cold settles in my chest.

The airport comes into view too soon. I pull into short-term parking, ignoring Arnold's protests about just dropping him at departures. If we're doing this goodbye, we're doing it right.

Walking him to security feels surreal. All around us, people are having their own moments - tearful goodbyes, excited reunions, the whole spectrum of human drama played out under fluorescent lights.

"So," he says, adjusting his messenger bag.

"So." I rock back on my heels. "Try not to bore all of New York with your veterinary stories."

"I'll save those just for you." His smile is gentle, but something flickers in his eyes. "You sure you're okay?"

It's now or never. "Actually..." I pull out the conference invitation I printed this morning. "I got invited to speak. In New York. At the Spring Writers' Conference."

He takes the paper, scanning it quickly. "Helga, this is... this is amazing." His smile is genuine but there's something else there too. "When is it?"

"Next month. After you're back." I leave out the part about the fellowship, about the literary magazine that's shown interest. One bombshell at a time.

"You should do it." He pulls me close, and I breathe in his scent - clean soap and that underlying Arnold-ness I've never been able to properly describe. "They'd be lucky to have you."

The final boarding call for his flight echoes overhead.

"That's me." He pulls back, and for a moment, I see that same uncertain nine-year-old who used to try to solve everyone's problems. "I'll call when I land?"

"You better." I punch his arm lightly. "Go save New York's pets, Football Head."

He kisses me - soft and quick, but with an urgency that gives me intense butterflies. Then he's walking away, pulling out his boarding pass, becoming just another traveler in the crowd.

I watch until he's through security, until I can't see that stupid football head anymore. Only then do I pull out my phone and open my email.

RE: Spring Writers' Conference and Fellowship Opportunity Dear Ms. Pataki, We eagerly await your response...

My finger hovers over the reply button. Through the massive windows, I watch Arnold's plane begin to taxi down the runway, becoming smaller and smaller until it's just another speck in the vast sky.

I start typing: I would be honored to accept...