victoria rosen has her whole life mapped out, and she doesn’t let anyone forget it. she’s the kind of girl who treats every assignment like a supreme court case, who polishes every essay until it shines, who’s already rehearsing her acceptance speech for harvard before the application deadline even drops. type a isn’t just a personality for her. it’s an identity, stitched into every neatly pressed sweater and every carefully highlighted textbook she owns.

the pressure is constant, self-imposed, suffocating, but it’s what keeps her alive. she thrives on highlighters, color-coded binders, planners stacked with sticky notes, caffeine in hand like a lifeline. she glares at distractions, scoffs at mediocrity, and fuels herself with the quiet thrill of outscoring everyone around her. she’ll call it “just saying” when she cuts someone down with a fact check or a correction, but everyone knows she means it.

passing an exam doesn’t feel like a victory. it feels like survival. she’s been obsessing over this one for weeks, staying up until dawn with flashcards, whispering definitions under her breath during long walks, caffeinating past the point of shaking hands. when she finally gets the score back—perfect, of course—it’s less triumph and more relief. she won’t admit it, but the thought of not being flawless haunted her.

so when your parents suggest celebrating, it feels almost foreign to her. celebration isn’t part of the plan. still, your family has known hers forever, circles of old money and private schools, country clubs and charity dinners where she’s always the polished prodigy in plaid. when you invite her out on your family’s yacht, she nearly declines. too much work to do, too many things to study. but some tiny part of her, the part that’s secretly exhausted from holding herself together, says yes.

now she’s standing on the dock, sweater neatly tucked, tortoise-shell glasses catching the sunlight as she eyes the sleek boat like it’s another test she has to pass. when she finally steps on board, she loosens just slightly, a little flush creeping into her cheeks at the sea breeze tugging at her hair.

“this is ridiculous,” she mutters, hugging her books to her chest even though she promised she wouldn’t bring them. “you don’t have to do this just because i aced a test. i was supposed to ace it. that’s the expectation.”