Helder by Ilona Lodewijckx
Trigger warning for boundary violation, anxiety
December 31 falls on a Sunday this year. At midnight, both the week and the year will tie up their loose ends and usher in a new, untouched Monday. Anna likes that. She likes it when things work out perfectly that way.
The swimming pool is almost empty. The water seems brighter and bluer than on other, less remarkable days. The air is heavy with chlorine and the rubbery sound of Anna’s goggles brushing against her swimming cap. Plunging in, disturbing the stillness, feels almost wrong. For a moment, she hesitates at the edge, looking down. Her legs are dry, the hairs on them scraggly and stubborn. Pale feet, toes long, slender, like her dad’s. Anna hates her feet. She doesn’t like this hibernating version of her body. How it withers in this long winter.
To stop herself from looking, from judging, Anna dives in. Parts the water in a simple breaststroke. The relief is immediate. She enters the water a stranger—an obvious intruder, composed of different elements. But it’s not long before she becomes the same thing: something fluid, easy, sloshing quietly. Her mind empties. The chlorine is sharp in her nose. Anna has always loved the water. Its weightlessness, its indifferent blue. She swims until her arms tire. She’s not used to it happening so quickly.
After half an hour, Anna heads to her locker, towels off, and pulls on her clothes, bracing for the cold. Her goggles have left screaming red rings around her eyes. She hides them behind her tortoiseshell glasses, but the disguise feels flimsy. Silly. She hopes she won’t run into anyone. She does, of course. It’s always like that around here, in this village pretending to be a city. At the entrance, as she refills her water bottle, she spots Vera, a neighbour, walking in. Flushed cheeks, bright eyes, emerging from a cocoon of wool.
Still winded from the swim, Anna says, “Hi.”
“Anna! Last swim of the year?”
Anna nods, smiles. “Just moving my body. I’ve been so lazy these days, holed up in the flat.”
“I hear you,” Vera says. “It’s so tempting to veg out this time of year, isn’t it?”
“Sure is. How have you been, Vera?”
Vera exhales, rolling her eyes. “Oh, you know. Same as always. Utter chaos. Having the kids cooped up on winter break is driving me crazy. I can’t wait for them to be back at school.”
“I bet they’re excited about New Year’s Eve.”
“Aren’t they just? Staying up after midnight, eating fried foods, watching fireworks... It’s a kid’s dream. Not so much a parent’s.”
Anna smiles, but her jumper is too warm, the wool itching against her damp skin. She longs to be outside, in the cold.
Vera sighs, shifting her bag higher on her shoulder. “Somehow it’s been extra mad lately. Loads of errands. Things to do, fix, take care of. The cat ran away—found alive and well, thank God. The Prius is acting up again. And then our door was forced a couple of days ago. Had to change the lock.”
Anna raises her eyebrows. Heat prickles at the back of her neck, creeping behind her ears, staining her cheeks. “Oh my God. That’s terrible. Did they take anything?”
Vera shakes her head. A strand of red hair falls onto her cheek, is swiftly brushed behind a flushed ear.
“Nothing,” she says. “They didn’t get in. But it’s unsettling. It’s your home, you know? Your safe space.”
“Totally.”
Vera adjusts her scarf. “Take care now, Anna. I’ve got to run—I’m sweating buckets. Gotta get in the water.”
As Anna spills out of the city pool doors, dusk has already settled. The sky is a tender bruise. Cold air latches onto the damp hairs at the nape of her neck—the strays that escaped her swimming cap, now stiffening in the wind. Her mind ticks through the evening’s to-do list. Stop by the supermarket for wine and snacks. Pick a dress. Take an everything-shower. Dry her hair. Head to Thelma’s for New Year’s Eve dinner. And makeup—she wants to try a winged eyeliner, even if she’s hopeless. She’s desperate to do this right. Bid farewell to the year and everything in it.
In the supermarket, Anna gathers the makings of a cheese platter—Camembert, Brie, grapes, cranberry compote, and two bottles of bubbly. When she steps outside, it’s raining. A cold, midwinter drizzle. Tiny pins of water prick her face and hands, flecking her glasses with droplets. The orange city lights stretch into long, vertical beams. She blinks against the blur, finds shelter outside a corner shop, and tugs up the dry edge of her undershirt to wipe her lenses. She lingers under the canopy for a minute, standing in line with the rain-splattered cabbages. Inside the shop, voices rise and fall in thick, rapid French. Two men, maybe three, murmuring low and tense. Anna strains to catch their words. She understands enough to piece it together. Du fric—money. Something is relou, louche. Dodgy. Not right. They sound tense, but too weary to argue properly. Then, a laugh. Sudden, sharp, too loud for the conversation. It cracks open the air like thunder. Something inside Anna splits with it. The yolk of it warm, spilling in her chest. She doesn’t hesitate. Steps out into the rain. Gives herself over to it. Feels the cold bite at her skin. Shivers. Something in her feels hollow—or is it too full? A week ago, that same laughter had boomed against her kitchen cabinets. It had erupted from the body of a man who’d stayed the night. His name was Helder.
December 24th. Christmas Eve morning. It had snowed all night. The world outside was white, hushed. Anna hadn’t slept much; exhaustion sat heavy in her bones. Coffee bubbled in the Bialetti. She poured it into two porcelain cups she had found at a flea market in Italy the summer before. She liked the delicate pink flowers at the bottom—something beautiful, waiting, even after the coffee was gone. They had laughed when Helder joked about them being fit for a princess. Him with gusto, a laugh with nothing to lose. Hers more restrained, polite, careful not to disrupt the delicate balance of the moment.
Anna and Helder had only met the night before. It wasn’t that he was particularly tall or hefty, but there was something big about him. He filled the room. Or was it as if the room shrank to fit him? His eyes were dark, his nose slightly crooked from an old sports injury. He carried a kind of sadness Anna found hard to resist—so much like Old Tom, the tabby she had adopted last year from the shelter. Anna had spent the evening alone, moving through the house without speaking, without expecting to. Helder had appeared out of nowhere, reached for her hand, and even planted a quick peck on the flat of it. He had introduced himself by his full name, though she couldn’t remember it now.
“What are you doing here?” she had asked.
“That’s a tricky question.”
“You should leave,” she said, digging her fingernails into the bedding until her knuckles went white.
“I don’t think so,” he replied. He smiled—a beautiful smile, dimpled and real.
Anna hadn’t known what to make of him at first. It was never easy for her to open up to others. She preferred to observe, to keep her distance. To let people reveal themselves to her, slowly—like a wool sweater unravelling. Helder unravelled eagerly. He was thirsty for conversation, drinking it in like a child gulping from a cup, clutching it with both hands. He had grown up in a small coastal town in Brazil but had moved around a lot as a child. His father, originally from Portugal, had served in the military. His mother—Algerian, French, Brazilian—had been a landscape painter before arthritis took her craft. He had passed through Lisbon, Paris, and Algiers before ending up here. This was the hardest place of all, he said. People are closed-off here. It’s tough when you’re down on your luck in a place where everyone’s heart is walled off. Anna had never met someone with so much to say about themselves.
Around 1 a.m., Helder announced, “I’m starving.”
“What do you want to eat?” Anna asked.
“I’m not fussy.”
“But what do you like?”
He grinned. “What’s in store, princess?”
Anna inspected the fridge. It was stocked with ingredients that required time, care, and creativity—none of which she had in abundance. A jar of tahini. Blueberry jam. A wedge of Parmesan. Hot sauce. A half-finished bottle of wine. A hefty bok choy nestled in the crisper drawer. She checked the freezer. Four ice cubes, a carton of coconut milk, a bag of frozen shrimp, and a knit sweater stuffed inside a plastic bag. She had read somewhere that freezing knitwear killed bacteria and eliminated odours. She sautéed the shrimp, boiled water for the rice noodles she had found in the pantry, then tore off a handful of bok choy leaves and threw them into the pan with a splash of soy sauce before killing the heat.
As Anna set his plate down, Helder said, “You’re beautiful.”
She glanced at her reflection in the stainless-steel fridge. A messy ponytail. A faint smudge of mascara under her eyes. She was wearing an old T-shirt and a pair of boxers her ex-boyfriend had left behind. The elastic had lost its stretch, and the heartbreak still stung, but the cotton was soft, worn. She still liked to sleep in the old comfort. She had gone to bed early that night. Had wanted to be well-rested for Christmas with her family. Now, she couldn’t picture herself sitting at the table, her mother and brother bickering over French onion soup. All she could think was that she could smell her own armpits, and that the room felt overly bright.
After watching Helder devour the shrimp noodles, Anna washed the dishes. His plate, the cutlery, the cutting board, the pan she had used for cooking. She scrubbed the knives left out on the counter. Behind her, Helder sank into the sofa like he belonged there.
“What if I stayed the night?” he asked, stretching his arms overhead. She looked at him. He has a nice body, she thought. Just the right amount of definition, not too muscular. A handsome man. With the heartbreak and everything, it had been so long since she had been with someone. But she shook her head.
“I don't think that’s a good idea,” she replied.
“The idea seems good to me, though. We appear to be at a standstill.”
Anna exhaled. “It’s my house.”
“It’s bitter cold out there,” he pleaded, gesturing toward the window. “I have nowhere else to go.”
“You should leave,” she said again.
Helder sighed, tilting his head. “Anna, darling, I can’t leave. It’s minus three and snowing. If you kick me out, I’ll freeze to death.”
“Freeze to death,” Anna echoed. The words hung in the air. Then, hearing the cruel command she’d just uttered, she waved them away with a flick of her hand. They mingled with the lingering smell of shrimp. She felt tired, suddenly. A pressure swelled inside her chest. She cupped her ribcage, pressing her palms into her skin, trying to feel its weight from the outside. Nothing. Everything felt the same.
“It’s Christmastime,” Helder said, his voice softer now. “Where’s your humanity? Where’s the spirit of compassion?” He stared at her with his sad, shelter-animal gaze. “Come on, Anna. You seem like such a nice person.”
“I am a nice person.” The words sat like blood on her tongue.
Anna laid out fresh sheets and a warm blanket on the couch. She offered him a shower, and now he was singing Água de Beber as she punched the cushions into some semblance of comfort. The scent of her shampoo drifted out of the bathroom. Juniper and yuzu. It was expensive stuff, a splurge in an otherwise frugal life. For a moment, she had the strange impression that she was the intruder. This is what my room sees every day when I’m in the shower, she thought, suddenly uneasy with the intimacy of the situation.
Helder emerged, shirtless, sighing with bliss. His skin was pink and tender from the heat.
“That was great,” he said. “Excellent water pressure. You have a lovely flat, princess. You must come from money.”
“I’ve made up the couch for you,” she said, gesturing toward it. Helder glanced at the couch, then at her.
“Why can’t I sleep in your bed?”
“Because that’s my bed.” She pointed at it, then wasn’t sure why and let her hand drop. The indentation in the bedding was still there, marking where she had sat hours ago, when she’d first heard him rattling at the door, ears covered, praying to a God she didn’t believe in to protect a life she didn’t even enjoy.
Helder grinned. “Surely, it’s not the first time you’ve had a man in your bed. Or is it?”
“It’s not about that,” she said, flustered.
“What is it about?”
“I don’t feel comfortable sharing my bed with someone I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? I’ve told you everything about myself. What else do you need to know? Whatever it is, I’ll tell you. Ask away, baby.”
“No, that’s not how it works.”
“I’ll tell you anything you—”
“Please, Helder.” Anna felt her heart racing. She tried to sound strong, certain, but the words came out pleading. “Can we just get some sleep?”
Helder studied her for a beat, then shrugged, settling onto the couch.
“Don’t worry,” he said finally. “I’m not pushing you. I’d rather not have to talk someone into sleeping with me anyway.”
He wrapped himself in the blanket she had given him. Her grandmother had crocheted it for her when she was born. Anna regretted giving it to him now. She wasn’t sure she’d want it back.
“Good,” she said. “Good night.”
“Night, sweetheart.”
“If you get thirsty, there's water here.”
“Thanks. Goodnight, Anna.”
Back in bed, the sheets cool against her skin, Anna couldn’t sleep. The night felt too vast, too dark. An endless forest stretching beyond her reach. Only when she heard Helder’s breath settle in the living room—deep, steady—did she close her eyes. Too many thoughts, clamouring for attention. She shushed them away, promising herself she’d return to them in the morning. Like a stack of unopened letters. She couldn’t recall drifting off. But suddenly, she was running—across the fields behind her childhood home. Pure joy flooded her veins. She hadn’t felt this way in years.
Winter rain glistens on the streets as Anna trudges home. The shopping bags are heavy, the straps biting into her wrists. An old Beach House album hums in her ears, magnifying her discomfort. She weaves past the clutter of bikes in the hallway—a real fire hazard, she thinks. Closing the door behind her, she lets the bags drop. The bottles clink, promising immense pressure behind the pop of celebration to come. She counts the steps ahead. Shower. Dry hair. Get dressed. Winged liner? Leave. Get on the bus. Begin a new year. Begin anew.
She showers in a rush, nicking the crease of her knee with the razor. A trickle of blood tinges the water, smears onto the towel. The band-aid she presses on is faintly visible through her tights. Anna rummages through her wardrobe, looking for something sparkly. Something that says: Things are going well for me. She wonders if it has always been this hard to be a woman. The rituals of it all. The lotions, the hair removal, the eyeliner geometry. The pursuit of the perfect curl. She wonders if she can opt out. Maybe just lipstick after all.
Her phone buzzes. She’s late. Thelma must be getting anxious that the cheese platter hasn’t shown up. Anna puts on her coat and seasonally inappropriate shoes. Picks up the shopping bags. At the door, she traces the scuffs with a fingertip. Jagged wood, bent metal. She swallows something down. Makes a mental note. She mustn’t forget to replace the lock.
Image by Alexandra Kollstrem for Pexels
Ilona Lodewijckx (she/her) lives and writes in Brussels. Her debut novel, Donkerkiemer (Dark Germ), was published in Belgium in 2023. Through fiction and poetry, she sorts through the cluttered drawer of human existence, pulling out the things people carry but rarely name—shame, loss, memory, the quiet search for meaning.