The towering glass building of Danieal Designs shimmered under the morning sun, its reflection cutting across the city skyline like a promise. I stood at the entrance, clutching my black portfolio so tightly that the edges dug into my palms. My heart pounded against my ribs, every beat echoing the same thought — you can do this, Nisha. Just breathe.
This wasn't my first interview, but it felt like it carried all the weight of the ones I had lost before. This time, I told myself, things would be different. I had practiced my answers, picked out my outfit carefully, a soft beige blouse tucked into navy blue trousers, neat, understated, and safe. I had checked the bus route twice, even arrived twenty minutes early. Everything was in order. Everything had to be perfect.
The lobby smelled faintly of lemon polish and new paper. The receptionist looked up as I entered, her polite smile easing me for a second. "You're here for the graphic designer position?" she asked.
"Yes," I said quietly, handing over my resume.
"Please have a seat. The HR manager will call you soon."
I nodded and made my way to the waiting area, where four young women were already seated, dressed in crisp outfits, makeup flawless, confidence practically radiating off them. I recognized one of them from LinkedIn, Dhanya Kapoor, a well-known name in college design circles.
As I sat down, I felt their eyes on me. The air grew heavier, quieter.
Dhanya tilted her head, smirking. "What's with the weird clothes? Trying to scare off the interviewer?"
Her friends, Shanaya, Payal, and Khushi, snickered.
"Or maybe she already thinks she's a manager," Shanaya added, flipping her hair dramatically.
I looked down at my hands, trying to keep my breathing steady. Ignore them, Nisha. Just focus on your interview.
Payal leaned in slightly. "I bet she can't even speak properly."
Khushi giggled. "She's autistic, right? I heard they're all socially awkward."
The words sliced through the air like invisible knives. My throat tightened. I wanted to tell them they were wrong, that my autism didn't define my worth, but the words refused to come. They never came when I needed them most.
Dhanya chuckled under her breath. "Hey, freak, what's your problem? Can't even look at us?"
Shanaya snorted. "She's shaking."
Payal's laughter joined in. "Look, she's flapping her hands! Maybe she's trying to fly away."
Heat rose up my neck as my palms began to tremble. My fingers fidgeted involuntarily, a movement I'd done since childhood when my anxiety got too loud.
"Stop… please," I whispered. My voice barely reached my own ears.
But they weren't listening. They were enjoying it.
Dhanya leaned back, pretending to examine me like a specimen. "The weird clothes. The nervous shaking. Honestly, girl, you're not fit for this job. Didn't your parents tell you?"
The room spun slightly. I stared at the floor, focusing on my breathing; one, two, three — but their laughter kept dragging me under.
Shanaya smirked. "You really look like a reject from a thrift store."
Payal and Khushi burst into fresh laughter.
Khushi stood up and walked closer to me, crossing her arms. "Hey, autistic girl, why don't you go play with some blocks? Leave real jobs to normal people."
That word 'normal' it always hit the hardest.
Payal snickered. "Maybe she can't even talk."
Dhanya smirked. "Or maybe she's pretending to be autistic for attention."
My vision blurred as tears welled up. I could feel every heartbeat pounding against my ribs. I wanted to vanish — disappear from that suffocating room where cruelty dressed itself in lipstick and laughter.
Dhanya noticed my tears and smirked wider. "Oh, look. The autistic girl is crying."
Their laughter filled the waiting room, sharp, echoing, merciless. Even the receptionist, who'd looked up once, quickly turned her gaze away, pretending not to see.
I stood abruptly, needing air. The walls were closing in. I walked toward the water cooler, but their voices followed like a cruel shadow.
"You think you can manage this company?" Dhanya taunted. "You can't even manage yourself."
That was the last straw. My voice cracked as I turned around. "Why are you talking to me like this? What did I ever do to you?"
Payal's grin widened. "Oh, sweetie, we're just giving you a reality check. You're not cut out for this world."
Laughter again. I couldn't breathe anymore.
I grabbed my bag and ran. Out the doors, down the hallway, through the glass lobby that reflected my tear-streaked face.
The city outside was a blur of honking cars and chatter, but all I could hear was their voices — cruel, mocking, looping in my head like a broken record.
By the time I reached the park a few streets away, my legs gave out. I collapsed onto a bench, gasping for air, clutching my chest as if that could hold me together. My portfolio slipped from my hand, the pages scattering across the ground — my dreams, my hard work, all lying there like discarded paper.
"Why can't they understand me?" I whispered, voice trembling. "Why can't they see past my autism?"
Their words kept replaying — weird, freak, awkward, not fit.
"You're weird, Nisha," I whispered to myself, the words tasting bitter. "You're not normal. You'll never fit in."
A sob tore through me. I shook my head furiously. "No, no… I'm not weird. I'm just… different."
But the world didn't seem to care.
"What's wrong with me?" I choked out. "Why can't I be like everyone else?"
My hands began to flutter again — instinctive, repetitive. I tried to still them, but they wouldn't stop.
"Stop it, Nisha," I muttered to myself, pressing my palms together. "You're making it worse."
The sky was turning orange as the sun dipped lower. Children laughed somewhere in the distance, their joy feeling like another universe away.
"I'm smart," I whispered shakily. "I'm talented. I deserve a chance."
But the words felt empty. Hope drained out of me like air from a balloon.
"Why did I even try?" I whispered. "No one will ever accept me. I'll never make it in this world."
The thought hit hard, a hollow ache blooming in my chest.
"I'll just stay hidden," I said softly. "No one wants me anyway."
The breeze picked up, rustling the fallen leaves, carrying away my voice.
For a long while, I just sat there, silent, hollow, watching the light fade. My tears dried slowly, leaving behind a dull ache in my chest. My portfolio still lay scattered, papers fluttering against the bench like little white flags of surrender.
I reached into my bag for my phone, my fingers trembling as I typed.
Nisha: Rohit, I'm falling apart.
The reply came almost instantly.
Rohit: What's wrong, Nish? You're scaring me.
I stared at the message for a long moment before typing back.
Nisha: Nothing. Just forget it.
Rohit: No way. You can't just say that and expect me to ignore it. What's going on?
I wiped my tears, typing quickly.
Nisha: Just leave it, Rohit. Please.
Rohit: Nish, I can see you're hurting. Don't shut me out. Is someone bothering you?
My throat tightened. I didn't want to tell him. I didn't want him to see me like this — broken, humiliated, small.
Nisha: ...no.
Rohit: Nisha, tell me! What's wrong? You're really worrying me now.
Nisha: You won't understand.
Rohit: Try me! I'll do whatever it takes to help.
I swallowed hard. My fingers hovered over the screen.
Nisha: Just forget it, okay?
Rohit: No, Nish! I won't forget it. You mean everything to me.
That did it. Tears rolled down again, blurring the screen.
Rohit: Nish, please! Talk to me!
But I couldn't. I didn't want to break down over text.
The silence stretched. The park grew darker.
Rohit: Nish, what's going on? You always tell me everything. Why the silence now?
Nisha: Rohit, please. Just drop it.
Rohit: No way! We've shared everything since childhood. What's changed?
Nisha: Nothing's changed. Just forget it.
Rohit: That's not possible! I know you too well. Something's bothering you.
Nisha: You can't help me this time.
Rohit: Try me. I'll do anything.
Nisha: You can't fix this, Rohit.
There was a pause. Then his next message came — firm, urgent.
Rohit: Nish, you're scaring me. Is someone threatening you?
I couldn't answer. I just sat there, numb.
Rohit: Fine! Stay wherever you are. Don't move. I'm coming.
Before I could even process it, another text popped up.
Rohit: I'm tracking your phone. Don't go anywhere, Nish. Please.
I set my phone down on the bench and looked up at the sky. The first few stars had begun to appear, faint and distant. My heart ached with exhaustion, from running, from pretending, from fighting every single day just to be accepted.
And for the first time that evening, I felt a quiet kind of relief wash over me. Rohit was coming. Someone cared enough to find me in the dark.
Maybe, just maybe, I wasn't as alone as I thought.