The wrought iron gates of Harvard felt…surreal. Maya Rodriguez stared up at them, a knot tightening in her stomach. They weren’t just gates; they were a symbol. A symbol of everything she’d worked for, everything her mother had sacrificed for, and everything she hadn’t even dared to fully believe she could attain.

She’d arrived a day early, wanting to get her bearings before the whirlwind of orientation began. Her beat-up duffel bag, the one she’d carried from middle school field trips to weekend visits with her aunt, felt ridiculously out of place amongst the sleek, designer luggage rolling past her. Even the air seemed different here – crisper, cleaner, and laced with an unspoken sense of privilege.

She navigated the sprawling campus, clutching the folded map like a lifeline. Everything was brick and ivy, grand and imposing. Statues of stern-looking men gazed down at her, seeming to assess her worthiness. She felt like an imposter in a movie she hadn’t auditioned for.