The glass doors of the office building slid shut behind me with a soft hiss, but to me, it sounded like the echo of another door closing in my life. My shoulders sagged as I stepped out into the sunlight, the weight of disappointment pressing down on me again. My file of certificates felt heavier than usual — like a pile of dreams no one wanted to open.
The city buzzed around me, cars honking, vendors shouting, heels clacking against pavements, but I felt like I was moving in slow motion, stuck in some invisible fog. I went to that interview with hope, not overconfidence, just a quiet belief that maybe this one would see me for what I truly was.
Top of my class. Merit scholarships. Certifications in data analytics and marketing, and in Human Resource Management too. My resume looked perfect on paper, but every time I walked into a boardroom, I could feel their eyes flicker, just for a second, when I mentioned autism. That single word seemed to flip a switch.
The interviewers smiled, polite, professional, and distant.
"We're looking for someone with better communication skills."
"You seem a bit too rigid in your thinking."
"We're not sure you'd fit in with our team culture."
Each phrase hit like a raindrop — soft, but relentless. By the end, I was drenched in rejection.
At the bus stop, I stared blankly at the traffic, clutching my file. A woman beside me was scrolling through her phone; a man was sipping chai from a paper cup. Life moved on for everyone else, but I just stood there, wondering what I was doing wrong.
When the bus finally arrived, I took my usual window seat and let the hum of the engine drown out my thoughts. Buildings flashed past like memories — college gates, coffee shops, the bookstore I used to visit with Rohit after lectures. Back then, everything had felt possible. Now, it all seemed so far away.
By the time I reached home, my chest felt tight — a mix of anger, exhaustion, and something heavier I didn't want to name.
The front door creaked open before I could even ring the bell. Rohit was there, sprawled on the couch, munching chips, scrolling through his phone like it was his full-time job.
When he saw my face, his grin faded. "Hey, Nish. How did it go?"
I opened my mouth, but the words tangled in my throat. My fingers tightened around my file. "They said I'm not a good fit. Again"
Rohit's expression softened. Without saying a word, he walked over and wrapped his arms around me. For a second, I stood stiffly — I wasn't always good with touch — but then I relaxed. His hugs always had this strange power: they didn't fix anything, but they made the world stop spinning so fast.
"Don't worry, Nish," he murmured. "You're amazing. It's their loss."
I gave a shaky laugh. "You always say that."
"Because one day," he said, pulling back to look at me, "you'll finally believe it."
I didn't answer. I just smiled — that small, tired kind of smile that hides how much it hurts.
The next few weeks felt like a blur of interviews, emails, and silence. Some days, the rejection letters came so quickly that I didn't even bother opening them. I'd glance at the subject line — "Thank you for your time" — and hit delete.
Every night, I'd sit by my desk, scrolling through job portals, my heart heavy but stubborn. The world wasn't designed for people like me — people who needed structure, who felt too much, who spoke too honestly. But I still wanted to belong in it.
Rohit never let me drown in my thoughts for too long. He'd call, show up with samosas, drag me out for chai, or distract me with terrible jokes.
"You're not defined by your autism, Nish," he said one evening, leaning back against the park bench as the sun dipped low. "You're brilliant. The world's just slow at catching up."
I glanced at him, half-smiling. "You make it sound so simple."
He shrugged. "It is. You've just got to show them who you are — on your terms."
The breeze rustled the leaves around us, and for the first time in weeks, something inside me stirred. A spark.
A few evenings later, as we sat on that same bench, Rohit suddenly turned to me with a mischievous glint in his eyes.
"I've got an idea," he said.
"Oh no," I groaned. "That look never ends well."
He laughed. "No, hear me out. Remember the video i talked about to make, few days ago?"
"Yes. What about that? What kind of video are you talking about?"
"A video! About you! Your story, your skills, your achievements — everything. We'll show the world what you're capable of. Let them see you instead of judging you from a piece of paper."
I blinked, caught off guard. "You'd… do that for me?"
He grinned. "Of course. You think I'd let talent like yours go unnoticed? We'll make it perfect."
For a moment, I didn't know what to say. The idea was wild — bold, even — but something about the way he said it made me believe it could work.
"Okay," I said finally, a smile tugging at my lips. "Let's do it."
Our living room transformed overnight. Tripods, ring lights, microphones; Rohit borrowed half of it from his cousin who worked in the media. I watched him scurry around, full of chaotic energy, while I nervously adjusted my blazer.
He clapped his hands dramatically. "Alright, superstar! Let's show the world what you've got."
I groaned. "Rohit, stop making this sound like a movie shoot."
He grinned. "It is a movie shoot. The Nisha Raj biopic. I'm the director. You're the genius protagonist."
"More like the awkward side character," I muttered.
"Cut it out," he said, positioning the camera. "You're amazing. Now — lights, camera, action!"
I stood in front of the camera, heart thudding. "Hi, I'm Nisha Raj, and I'm here to showcase my skills and abilities."
Before I could continue, Rohit started making silly faces behind the lens. I burst out laughing. "Rohit! Stop!"
He chuckled, holding up his hands. "Sorry, sorry! Take two!"
That set the tone for the whole day: laughter, chaos, and surprisingly, magic. We filmed snippets of me explaining my projects, my coding samples, my certificates. I even showed off a few data visualizations I'd built.
At one point, Rohit grabbed the mic. "And now, a word from the number one fan!"
He looked straight into the camera. "Breaking news: Nisha Raj is an absolute genius. Don't believe me? Watch this."
I rolled my eyes, trying not to smile. "You're ridiculous."
"Yeah, but I'm your ridiculous," he said, grinning.
By the time we finished, the golden evening light was flooding through the windows. Rohit played the final cut on his laptop, and I sat beside him, nervous.
The video started with my introduction, then flowed through my projects, my story, and a montage of moments where I was laughing or focusing intensely. Rohit's voiceover played softly in the background:
"Meet Nisha Raj, a talented professional with a unique perspective. Her autism doesn't define her; it empowers her. Her focus, her creativity, her precision, they make her unstoppable."
When it ended, I was silent for a long moment. My throat tightened.
"This…" I whispered. "This doesn't even feel like me."
"It is you," he said quietly. "It's just the version of you the world's been too blind to see."
Tears stung my eyes, but I didn't look away from the screen. For once, I saw myself, not as a list of rejected resumes, but as someone capable. Someone who mattered.
"Thank you, Rohit," I said softly. "You're more than a best friend."
He smiled gently. "I know."
The next Sunday morning was pure chaos, but the happy kind.
Rohit had somehow convinced both our families to have breakfast together. I stood in the kitchen, apron on, watching him making dosa on the pan.
"Rohit!" I yelped. "That's not even round!"
"It's abstract art," he said proudly.
I couldn't help laughing. "Your dosa is shaped like the map of India!"
Mummy came in, shaking her head but smiling. "Smells amazing in here. You two are a mess."
"We've got it covered, Mummy," I said, flipping an idli with exaggerated care.
Papa peeked in too. "Rohit, burning onions again?"
"Not this time, Uncle Raj," he said confidently. "Chef Rohit 2.0 is in the house!"
By the time we finished, the dining table was overflowing — dosas, idlis, sambar, chutneys, and laughter. Both our families sat together, chatting like old friends.
Vandana Aunty grinned. "This is wonderful! You two could start a restaurant."
Rohit winked. "As long as Nisha handles the cooking and I handle the eating."
"Typical," I muttered, grinning.
As everyone laughed, I looked around the table, at Papa's easy smile, Mummy's bright eyes, Rohit's teasing grin. For the first time in a long while, the heaviness inside me felt lighter.
Rohit leaned closer. "Best Sunday ever?"
I smiled. "The best."
He grinned. "Food, family, and friends. That's the good life."
And he was right.
For a long time, I'd measured my worth in rejection letters and interviews. But sitting there, surrounded by warmth and laughter. I realized I was so much more than the jobs that didn't want me.
I had people who believed in me. I had strength I hadn't realized. And somewhere deep down, I knew this wasn't the end of my story, just the turning point.
Because for the first time in forever, I wasn't chasing validation.
I was finally beginning to believe in me.