I. Arthur
The chirping of birds and the distant hum of traffic filtered through the glass, indifferent to the state of my room. I woke with the previous day's sluggishness still anchored to my bones.
"I shouldn't have played games until dawn again…"
I squinted at the brightly lit curtains. I already knew, instinctively, that half the day was gone. I pulled back the tattered drapes, and the sun confirmed my suspicion. It was three in the afternoon—the orange-tinted sky waited for no one.
"Great. I still haven't done laundry." I looked toward the kitchen sink. The sight of it drained what little resolve I had left, replacing it with a heavy, leaden procrastination. "...or the dishes."
I collapsed back onto the mattress sprawled on the floor. I could physically feel the "wrongness" of my life, but my mind couldn't seem to wrap itself around the effort of mundane chores.
Tomorrow. I'll do them tomorrow.
I closed my eyes, but the thoughts lingered like wildfire. The weight of living alone was a high price to pay for freedom. I stared up at the ceiling, tracing the cracks.
"Nothing good will come of this. Why am I even trying?"
These thoughts plagued me so often I'd forgotten when they started. It wasn't always like this. My gaze drifted back to the sink, to the mountain of porcelain and dried sauce.
"Best in class," I muttered. "My ass."
I tried to drift off again, attempting to ignore the world, until a knock sounded at the door. I snapped awake. My heart hammered against my ribs.
Who? I forced myself up. I paid the landlord on time this month. Surely…
I walked to the door and raised my voice, trying to sound firmer than I felt. "Who's there?"
"Is this Arthur? Arthur ***?"
A woman's voice. Unknown. A chill crawled down my spine. A salesperson? I didn't buy things. A neighbor? In this run-down building, neighbors didn't knock; they complained through the walls. A scammer? That felt the most likely. Who else would have my full name?
"I don't want to buy anything, thank you."
"Art? Is that you?"
The chill turned into a cold dread in the pit of my stomach. "Who wants to know?"
"It's me. Helena. Your high school classmate. Remember?"
It took a full thirty seconds for the name to register. Or rather, for me to reconcile the name with the person standing behind a door in a slum.
"Lena?"
"Yeah. It's me."
I carefully unlocked the door, peeking through a gap just wide enough to see her.
Lo and behold: Helena. My self-proclaimed 'nemesis.' We had spent four years competing for every decimal point on a GPA. But the woman outside was a ghost of that girl. Her long chestnut hair was shorn to her shoulders. Her eyes, once sharp and predatory with confidence, were despondent. She wore a baggy gray hoodie, black cargo pants, and worn sandals.
"Lena…?" I hesitated. "Is that really you?"
I widened the door a fraction more, suddenly and painfully aware of the smell of stale air and the mountain of dishes behind me. If this were the Helena I knew, she would have had a biting remark ready.
"Do I look that different?" she asked quietly.
"N-no, it's just… it's been a long time." I wanted to keep her outside, to keep my shame hidden, but the way she stood there—shoulders slumped, looking at the floor—made it impossible. "Do you… do you want to come inside?"
"Can I?"
"Yeah. Just… don't mind the mess."
I opened the door fully, hoping for a breeze to clear the room. Instead of the judgment I expected, Lena simply stepped inside without a word.
I closed the door and went to the window. The latch was thick with dust; it smeared onto my fingers as I wrestled with it. Finally, it gave way. The stale, warm air rushed out, leaving me painfully aware of just how stagnant my life had become.
Over my shoulder, I saw her walk across the room and sit on the floor, her back against the wall. There was something profoundly wrong. I wiped the dust from my hands onto my shirt.
"Do you want water?"
"Huh? Oh. Yeah. I'd like some."
I went to the sink and scrubbed a single glass cup until it was clear. I stared at the tap. This probably tastes like lead. I should let it run.
I dumped the first fill and let the water rush, discreetly glancing at her. She had her hands buried in her pockets—an old habit from when she was stressed—but her silence was unnerving.
"Here." I brought the cup to her.
"Oh… thank you." She gripped it with both hands, taking small, guarded sips.
I sat back down on my mattress, offering a tired, hollow smile. "So. What brings you here? I doubt my former 'rival' came all this way just to check on me."
At the word rival, a faint, ghost-like smile touched her lips. She let out a dry chuckle.
"I… I'm looking for a place to stay for a bit." Her thumb rubbed the side of the glass, polishing the spot where she'd sipped. "I was wondering if you'd let me sleep here."
Sleep here? My heart skipped. Is she homeless?
The thought shattered when I met her eyes. It wasn't just a favor. It was a plea. A desperate, final-option prayer.
"I… ahem." I looked at my single, worn mattress. Then at the dishes. If I couldn't take care of myself, how could I house a legend from my past? "I can't guarantee you'll have a good time. But if it's just a place to stay… you're welcome to it."
Her eyes lit up, a small spark in the dark. "Thank you, Art." She closed her eyes and let out a long, shuddering sigh. "Honestly. Thank you."
I looked away, scratching the back of my neck. "You're welcome, Lena."
I stood up. The mountain of dishes wouldn't clean themselves, and the stench was no longer something I could ignore now that she was here. As I worked, I kept glancing back. She didn't look at me, but the tension had left her frame. A weight had been lifted.
I wanted to ask what happened. But deep down, I already knew. She was living my life, and I was living hers. I didn't want to pry into her broken pieces, because I didn't want her touching mine.
We stayed there in the quiet—me with my dishes, and her with her silence.