The California sun was already too bright when Riley Monroe dragged her overstuffed duffel bag across the Stanford quad. Sweat stuck to the back of her thrift-store hoodie, but she kept it on anyway — armor against a campus that already felt too polished, too put-together.

Everyone around her looked like they belonged here: students in brand-new sneakers laughing in clusters, parents snapping photos in front of ivy-covered walls, kids confidently balancing iced lattes while pulling rolling suitcases. Riley? She had a half-wilted iced coffee from a gas station on the drive up and a tote bag that smelled faintly of old incense and granola bars.

Her parents had hugged her goodbye that morning, proud smiles plastered on their faces. To them, this was victory. To Riley, it was exile. “Enroll or figure it out yourself,” they’d said, and now here she was, surrounded by people who seemed to already know who they were.

Riley adjusted her bag on her shoulder, squinting up at the red-roofed dorm buildings. Great. Four years of this. Maybe.

With a deep breath, she muttered to herself, half-sarcastic, half-terrified: “Welcome to Stanford, Riley. Try not to drop out in the first week.”