The first thing Arnold noticed about the teen test group was how much they reminded him of his old classmates. A girl with crossed arms and a skeptical expression could have been Rhonda. The lanky boy hunched in the corner had Brainy's awkward energy. And the blonde girl trying to look uninterested while watching everything—well, that one was obvious.

"Remember," Helga addressed the team, "teenagers are more guarded than younger kids. Let them set the pace."

They'd moved the testing setup to a larger space in the university's tech lab. More professional, Helga had insisted. Better boundaries. Arnold wondered if she'd noticed the parallels to their old classroom, too.

"This is totally voluntary," Helga told the teens. "We're developing an app for creative expression, and we need your honest feedback."

"Creative expression?" The high-society type girl raised an eyebrow. "You mean, like, feelings and stuff?"

"Among other things," Arnold said, catching how Helga's posture tensed slightly at the girl's defensive tone. He remembered that tone well.

The blonde girl spoke up, her voice carrying a familiar mix of aggression and hidden vulnerability. "So what? We just write whatever we want, and you guys analyze us?"

"No one analyzes anything," Helga said firmly. "This is your private space. We're just here to make sure the app works the way you need it to."

The way Helga guided the teens struck him. Her blend of clinical expertise and raw empathy spoke to years of understanding of what it meant to hide behind walls. She'd come so far from being the girl who hid her own feelings behind aggression, yet he could see how that experience informed her approach now.

The teens settled into their stations, initially maintaining their protective shells of disinterest. But slowly, as they explored the interface, things began to change.

According to her registration form, the blonde girl—Jamie—was the first to really engage with the app. Arnold noticed her glancing around furtively before typing, exactly the way Helga used to check if anyone was watching her write.

"The volcano is kind of intense," Jamie commented, trying to sound casual. "Like, why is it so big?"

"Big feelings need big spaces," Arnold said, echoing their younger tester's words. He saw Helga's head turn sharply at that but kept his focus on Jamie.

"Whatever," Jamie muttered, but her fingers were already moving across the keyboard.

Across the room, the quiet boy had discovered the private poetry function. Helga moved to his station, maintaining careful distance while still showing interest. "The poems can stay private," she explained. "Or you can choose to share them anonymously."

"Like, no one would know it's me?" His voice carried that familiar teenage mix of hope and fear.

"Not unless you want them to," Helga assured him.

As she worked with the boy, memories flooded back - pink books filled with secrets, words that had taken years to find their way into the open. Now, here she was, helping another kid find his voice. He must have been staring because when she glanced his way, their eyes met in a moment of shared understanding.

"Oh my god," Jamie's voice broke their connection. "You can make the avatar look however you want? Like, a completely different person?"

"That's the idea," Arnold said, moving to her station. "Sometimes it's easier to express yourself through—"

"Through a different version of yourself," Jamie finished, then quickly added, "I mean, that's what some people might think. I guess."

Helga's soft "Hmm" from across the room told him she'd caught that too.

The afternoon progressed, and slowly, the teens' defenses began to lower. The quiet boy—Mark—had filled three poetry caves with surprisingly gentle verses about feeling lost. The Rhonda-like girl, Sophie, had created an elaborate avatar that looked nothing like her but moved with her exact mannerisms.

And Jamie... Jamie had written a poem that made Helga go completely still when she read it:

Behind my face, there's someone else Who no one ever sees

Sometimes, I think I'll scream so loud

They'll have to hear me, please

"Dr. Pataki?" Jamie asked, uncertain of Helga's reaction. "Is it... is it too much?"

Arnold watched Helga gather herself expertly. "No, Jamie. It's exactly what this space is for."

Later, as the teens were leaving, Jamie hung back. "The sharing thing," she said to Helga, not quite meeting her eyes. "If I wanted someone specific to see what I wrote..."

"There's a feature for that," Helga said gently. "When you're ready."

After everyone left, Arnold found Helga in the empty lab, staring at her notes.

"That poem," he said quietly.

"Don't." But her voice lacked its usual defensive edge.

"Helga..."

"We need to review the data," she said, but she did not open her laptop.

"They're not us," Arnold said carefully. "But maybe that's why we can help them."

She finally looked at him, and watching her, Arnold caught a glimpse of both who she'd been and who she'd become - the passionate writer and the compassionate healer merged into one. "The app works," she said softly. "It actually works."

"Because you understand what they need. What you needed back then."

"What we all needed." She gathered her things, her sharp mask slipping back into place. "The team meeting tomorrow—"

"Helga." He waited until she met his eyes again. "You're amazing at this. Not just the therapy part. The understanding part."

Something flickered in her expression—vulnerability, recognition, maybe both. "I had a good example," she said quietly. "Someone who always listened, even when I pretended I didn't want him to."

Before he could respond, she was gone, her heels clicking down the hallway. Arnold sat in the empty lab, thinking about teenage masks and hidden poems and how sometimes helping others heal meant confronting your own past.

His screen lit up with messages from the team watching the testing metrics:

Phoebe: Initial data analysis shows exceptional user engagement.

Gerald: These teens aren't the only ones working through their feelings...

Rhonda: The success clearly stems from certain developers' personal experience with emotional expression.

Arnold muted the chat again but found himself smiling. Some boundaries, it seemed, were meant to be tested.