Okay, so, two things: 1) I don't own Hey Arnold, and never will, and have come to terms with that, and 2) here's a timeline for reference when you read the story:

Helga left six years ago, when they were all 23 (making the gang at the time of this story mostly 29 years old)

Phil and Gertie passed away nine months after Helga left

I do mention it throughout the story, but I thought I would lay it down explicitly in case there were any questions.

That should about cover it. I was actually listening to two songs when I started writing this: Whiskey Lullaby by Brad Paisley and Allison Krauss, (I'm not a huge country fan, but that song is amazing, you should check it out), and Hallelujah, the Jeff Buckley version. That might give some more insight as to what exactly was going through my emotionally exhausted mind. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

"I can't believe it," Gerald Johanssen said, allowing his wife, Phoebe, to take hold of his arm. "I mean, I know it happened; I was there when it happened, but I still just can't believe it."

Phoebe nodded slowly, biting her lip to prevent the willing sobs from escaping her. She didn't trust herself to speak, but she knew that Gerald was having a much more difficult time than she was. He was his best friend, for God's sake, and he had a front-row seat to the... He had been in a worrying state of denial ever since Valentine's Day. So many bad things had happened on that particular day in February throughout the years that most of the original gang of the fourth grade at P.S. 118 refused to celebrate it. They gave the holiday a chance, the holiday screwed them over, and they gave up.

A lot of people had given up.

Gerald looked up from his obsessively-shined shoes to survey his surroundings. Sheena and Lila were hugging each other and trying unsuccessfully not to cry. Beside them was Rhonda, who was clinging to her husband, Thad, (who was known by the gang as 'Curly'), and openly sobbing, ignoring the fact that her dress cost her thousands of dollars. Nadine was rubbing Rhonda's back, her free hand clutching Peapod Kid's, but she was clearly holding back some of her own tears to stay strong for her best friend. Stinky, Harold, and Sid were standing with their respective wives, Maria, Patty, and some girl that Gerald didn't recognize. All three of the men stood silently, not making eye contact, but secretly thinking the same miserable thought: I can't believe he's gone. Eugene was standing with his boyfriend, speaking to him in a low voice and holding a hand over his mouth every once in a while to stop himself from crying. Iggy, Park, and Lorenzo came together and stayed for a little while but then had to leave, and, judging by the melancholy gazes on their faces, they realized that they probably wouldn't be able to handle so many sad, crying people all at once. There was also a gang of individuals, not speaking with anybody, that nobody would've expected to come, (and Gerald didn't remember inviting them): Monkey Man, Stoop Kid, Pigeon Man, Brainy, (when he confessed his love for Helga on the day of graduation, Gerald thought that it'd be a futile attempt to invite him), and Rachel Williams. Rachel had her hands in her coat pockets and had tear-streaked cheeks but nobody went to comfort her because nobody wanted to talk to her. Gerald refused to look in her direction. After Gerald finished sweeping his eyes around, he blinked a few times, a realization washing over him. "Hey, babe? Where's Helga? Wasn't she supposed to be here?"

Phoebe took a deep breath and drew a tissue from her pocket, drying her leaking eyes. "Yes, she told me she would be able to come, but I didn't expect her to attend. I imagine she would have found... seeing him to be too painful."

"Too painful? For her?" Gerald asked, scoffing. "Well, I'm sorry that Pataki's too weak to handle everything, but she can get over it. If the situation were reversed -" He winced as his wife leaned away from him and punched him on the arm. For such a small little thing, she was extraordinarily strong.

"Don't say things like that," she scolded angrily. "You know how guilty Helga feels. You know she thinks it's all her fault, and she needs support right now -"

"It's good that she thinks it's all her fault, because it is all her fault," Gerald pointed out, a bit of his anger rising in him as well. "And as for support, she's not getting any from me." He took a deep breath at his wife's reprimanding glare, and folded his arms over his chest, staring absently at the closed casket in front of him. The view could've been so innocent; had this been a vampire movie, heck, it might've even been funny! But Gerald knew what was inside of there. He knew, and it killed him inside. He supposed it made sense, though; considering what happened, and how he had passed, he figured the sight would've been too gruesome. Gerald feared the worst when he walked into the funeral home for the wake that morning; he didn't know if he was relieved that the casket was closed, or if he was disappointed that he couldn't even say goodbye to his face. His heart was hammering in his chest and he could hardly breath and he found that he couldn't look away.

"You don't have to do anything," Phoebe answered, drawing him from his contemplation with practiced softness. "I don't expect you to, and Helga doesn't either. And as for laying all the blame on her... well..." Phoebe swallowed, averting her eyes to stare at her shoes. "I wouldn't say it's her fault, because she was, let's say... misguided -"

"She was a bitch, that's what she was. I can't believe she thought he would -" he sighed, his voice trailing off. "She was blind and stupid and opinionated, like she's always been. She didn't trust him enough." He smirked, as if finding some cynical humor in the situation. "It's amazing, isn't it? To think that somebody wouldn't trust Arnold?"

Phoebe sighed, taking hold of her husband's arm again, and squeezing slightly to offer some mediocre sense of comfort. "It is a strange and rare phenomena, Gerald, but, as this horrible tragedy illustrates, it is possible."

Gerald and Phoebe walked up the stoop to the Boarding House. It really was empty this time around; no Phil and Gertie, no packs of stray animals, no complaining boarders... no Arnold. All the boarders were locked away in their respective rooms to give Arnold's closer friends space to mourn. It was appreciated, but only silently.

It was sunny when Gerald and Phoebe had made their way inside. It didn't seem appropriate; for late February, it was much too warm, and Gerald couldn't stop himself from thinking bitterly, You should be here to see it, Arnold, but he knew that that way of thinking would only lead to madness. Bitterness towards death solves nothing, and, if Gerald learned anything from the past five years, it was that.

Without thinking, Gerald immediately walked towards Arnold's childhood bedroom, but he stopped short when he heard his wife ask in a quiet voice, "Gerald? Where are you going?"

He swallowed, looking over his shoulder and gazing deep in his wife's eyes, trying to tell her something without having to say it out loud. Although she clearly understood, (as she nodded and gave him a small smile), he still felt the need to say, "I'm going to Arnold's room for a little bit. I just... need to be alone right now."

Phoebe nodded. "Of course." She lifted onto her toes and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "Take your time. I'll be down here."

He tried to smile back at her, but his lips immediately fell into their original frown.

The Boarding House was quiet. It had been that way for a while, ever since Phil and Gertie passed away, and Arnold was... in the state that he was in. It was hard to describe what it felt like to watch Arnold deteriorate like that. He wasn't sick, and he wasn't an addict, (well... that was up for debate, depending on who you asked), and he wasn't dying. He was just slowing falling a part until he finally snapped, but there really wasn't anything anybody could do for him. Gerald had tried to keep him company whenever he could; he tried to be around as much as possible, but he had other responsibilities! He had a job, he had a business to run! As much as he loved his best friend, there were irrelevant loyalties that Gerald had to tend to. Now, thinking back on what he could've done to prevent Arnold from... well, he would've done it! He would've done anything!

Gerald sighed, grabbing the rope to the attic and pulling it down so that the collapsible stairs stood firmly in front of him. He glanced up briefly, having difficulty bringing up the courage to actually face the now gaping hole in his heart where Arnold used to live. But he knew that he could never move on if he didn't face his loss head-on. (At least, that was what Phoebe had told him, and he knew better than to argue with his genius wife.) His feet clunked loudly on the wooden stairs, and the metal door knob felt colder than he ever remembered it feeling, but he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and slowly entered Arnold's bedroom.

Memories from their childhood ran rampant through his brain as he looked around. It still looked more or less the same as it always had; the walls were blue, the carpet was orange and yellow, and all the books were in the exact same order. Despite the Purdy Boy novels having been targeted towards children, Gerald knew that Arnold's guilty pleasure all throughout high school and college had been those stupid old mysteries. The only thing that looked even remotely different was the updated, and yet still old, computer that hadn't been touched in ages, and the fact that there was dust covering every flat surface in the room. Before Arnold began to unravel, he had always been such a neat freak; even when his grandparents never explicitly told him to, he made sure his room was spotless. His bedroom was his pride and joy; he would spend whole days cooped up in there whenever he had a real problem that he needed to solve. He would put on his jazz records and lay on his bed, watching the clouds pass by, or observing the patterns of raindrops on the glass if it were storming. Gerald had never been there for that, of course, but he knew his best friend better than anybody, (or, most anybody), and he was well aware of when to leave Arnold alone and for what reason and how he would occupy his time.

Gerald sat down in the middle of the floor, crossing his legs Indian style and leaning his elbows on his knees. Looking at his feet, those memories came back, as vivid as they would have been if they happened the day before: he remembered go-kart meeting after go-kart meeting, where all the boys just ate ice cream and drank sodas and got nothing done. He remembered the sleepovers where he and Arnold would try to scare each other by telling ghost stories until they passed out, drunk off of Yahoo sodas and popcorn. He remembered countless school projects that Arnold insisted on making perfect, and watching Evil Twin movies when Phil and Gertie went to sleep, and checkers every Friday night, where the two boys would compete for hours and drink Yahoo soda after Yahoo soda. With a wry smile, Gerald thought, We drank so much Yahoo soda when we were kids.

He remembered humoring Arnold's incessant ramblings about how different Helga suddenly was back in seventh grade, compared to how she was in grade school, and he remembered the long, long chat, (that was more like a semi-violent rant), when Arnold finally confessed his rapidly developing crush on the girl. ("I haven't been able to stop thinking about her since seventh grade, Gerald! Seventh grade! We're freshman! What's wrong with me?! I'm going out of my mind! I'm freaking out, I'm losing it! She always wants to spend time with me, and she's always laughing and making fun of me and being all nice, and she's just absolutely perfect all the time, and all I can think about it kissing her, or holding her hand, or just telling her... telling her I... oh God... I think I... dammit, Gerald, I think I love her.") He remembered trying and failing to convince Arnold to just "ask her out, man, I bet she feels the same way about you," and he remembered the celebratory horror movie marathon when the two first started dating their sophomore year. He remembered hearing about the first time they ever did the deed when they were seniors in high school; Arnold had called to invite Gerald over, and the second he stepped in to the room, Arnold swung the door shut behind him and said, "I slept with her. No, wait! I made love to her."

He remembered the solid week six years ago, after Valentine's Day, when Arnold locked himself inside his bedroom and wouldn't come out for hardly anything. He remembered practically dragging Arnold to his bed when Arnold was too drunk to walk. He remembered trying to comfort a struggling and detached Arnold while Arnold clutched that stupid poetry book and sobbed until he passed out from exhaustion. He remembered watching Arnold's sleeping form every time Arnold got too bad, and praying that he would be better when he woke up, but, of course, he never was. If anything, he was worse, and he just kept getting worse.

Gerald rubbed at his eyes, forcing himself to come back to the present, which wasn't, (all things considered), much better. While the past was full of amazing and equally terrible memories, the present was... empty. Vacant. It was an awful lot like the empty room he was sitting in. He sighed, rising to his feet and walking around, trying to distract himself. His eyes landed on the red leather couch, but he immediately looked away. He used to sleep on that couch; he slept on that couch almost as much as he slept on his own bed as a kid. He walked over to Arnold's old desk, running his fingertips over the dusty tabletop, and he made a face as he wiped his hands on his black dress pants. He walked over to Arnold's bed, leaning over the mattress to study the books on the shelves, and he blinked a few times when he noticed something that... wasn't quite right.

There was a book in the middle of Arnold's Purdy Boy collection, (disrupting the numerical order that Arnold had strictly followed, Gerald noted), and he hesitated before pulling it off the shelf. It was a hard-covered book that didn't have writing on it, and, upon leafing through it, he realized that it was a notebook, and, judging by the rough but somehow neat handwriting, he realized it was Arnold's.

Gerald almost thought twice about reading it; for some reason, he had it in his mind that by reading Arnold's writing, he'd be invading his privacy, but, considering the circumstances, that wasn't exactly top priority anymore.

Coming to a resolution, he sighed and sat down on Arnold's bed, opened to the first page and began reading.

I met Helga G. Pataki when we were three years old. I hardly remember it, (I just remember a lot of rain and a strong, new attachment to the color pink), but she liked telling me the origin story of her bow, and I liked listening. She would tell me about how her parents had forgotten her that morning, and that she had to walk to school in a storm by herself, without a rain coat or an umbrella. She told me about how lonely she felt, how neglected, how unimportant. She told me that her life had always been like that, from the very beginning.

But she would also tell me all about a kind, adorable, football-headed boy that protected her from the rain and made sure she was alright. She would tell me about how sweet she thought his smile was, and how much she wanted to express to him the extent of her love, but it was complicated, she said. It was always complicated with her; she dramatized everything. She made everything out to be a bigger deal than it really was. It was only fitting that she be a playwright, as well as a poet; all her drama had to go somewhere. Sometimes I felt like she lived for the drama, like her inspiration thrived from her constant burning passion. I loved her passion; it was one of my favorite things about her, which is really saying something, because I loved everything about her. I still do, and she loves me.

Well, she used to, anyway.

It happened about six years ago, but, even now, I don't really talk about her to other people. After all this time, it seems as if people have lost interest; it's not a fresh tragedy, therefore not a pressing tragedy, therefore not worth anybody else's time. I can't blame them, really. At times, I know I'm being ridiculous. I mean, holding the poetry book of a fourth grader whenever I get sad isn't exactly normal and healthy behavior. Yes, that was Helga's poetry book, the one that Gerald found on the bus way back in fourth grade, the one everybody made fun of. She apparently forgot it at my place when she came to take back all her stuff, (she did that when I wasn't home so that she didn't have to see me), and it doesn't seem like she misses it. It was a testament of her love that she would fill volumes and volumes of poetry, all dedicated to me, and it seems only fitting that she leave behind the very first. Well, maybe not the first, but the first one I ever read. It's almost like she planted it on purpose; like she was trying to make me miserable by dangling her withdrawn love in front of my face. I wouldn't put it past her. She was always slightly evil, but I love that about her. More so than I probably should.

Gerald's been supportive, and from the very start, too; he's my best friend, but even he told me that I've been pining for a lost love for too long. He always tells me shit like, "Arnold, man, I'm worried about you. You look like a tan-colored pipe cleaner, and you hardly ever leave the house. You can't still be hung up over Helga; it's been years!"

And then, (if I was sober enough to be coherent), I'd always say something along the lines of, "Gerald, you don't understand. She was a part of me, and now she's gone." Losing Helga was like losing a limb, or like losing half of a necessary organ that I can't live without. Probably the heart; Helga was always the sort of person to go big or go home, and if she didn't seize the romantic control center of the body, she would've kicked herself for the rest of her life for not going for the gold. Sometimes I find myself wanting to hate her, but I can't bring myself to it, and the reason for that is very simple. I love her. I love her and it hurts so much that she's gone.

I don't know what I'm supposed to get out of writing all this shit down. I don't why I'm doing it; nobody's going to read it, and it's not like I'm going to want to look back on any of this or anything, but I found this notebook at the store, and here we are.

I'm Arnold Shortman, I'm twenty-nine years old, and my life is a fucking disaster. In seventh grade, Helga G. Pataki, my bully from our P.S. 118 days and the peewee terror of Hillwood, had somehow battled her way to the center of my soul and hasn't let go. Not a day goes by... I've always been Helga's favorite victim, and yes, I am a victim, and I didn't stand a chance.

When Gerald came to Arnold's bedroom, he wasn't expecting anything this... revealing. He was looking for closure, not more questions, but that was Arnold for you. As unpredictable as everybody knew Helga was, the poor, dense, adventurous man always had a surprise up his sleeve. It almost made Gerald smile, but then he remembered the actual situation he was in, and he stopped the action halfway through. He sighed, rubbing the bridge between his nose and trying to put things into perspective.

He suddenly felt like, somewhere out in the world, Arnold's body was still alive. These words written by his deceased best friend were all new to Gerald and this terrible hope grew inside him that Arnold's death was all a hoax and that at any second, he'd walk through his own bedroom door. He knew this hope was ill-based, and a sick part of him wanted to burn the notebook so that it was gone forever, but he couldn't do that. He wanted nothing more than to close the book and put it on the shelf and leave. That way, there would still be some of Arnold left undiscovered, therefore meaning Arnold could possibly still be around. He wanted to squash that bit of him as soon as possible, and he felt that by reading the notebook, he was comforting the Arnold from the past. The Arnold that actually truly was alive.

So, he turned to the next entry and continued to read.