With hope in her eyes, she glanced at her classmates, who had immediately started forming groups the moment the lecturer asked them to do so for the ongoing college festival. They were eager to share their ideas and collaborate. She knew, deep down, no one would approach her. No one would bother asking if she wanted to join. Yet, a small spark of hope lingered within her—maybe, just maybe, one day, she would no longer be invisible in her classroom.
Being a middle-class girl with neither proper status nor good grades, she was often overlooked. Even when someone did approach her, they would quickly move on, making friends with others who were considered more successful, more interesting, or simply better. People rarely spoke to her or even called her by her name, which made her own name feel foreign whenever she heard it from anyone. She was basically a nameless loser among everyone.
When she realized no one was even going to acknowledge her presence, she gathered the courage to approach one of the groups. “I would like to—”
Before she could finish her sentence, they turned and walked away, casually chatting amongst themselves.
As usual, she was unheard, unseen, and undervalued. Every situation seemed to remind her what a loser she was, but still, she wasn’t ready to let go of that fragile hope she carried within her.
Later that evening, as she walked home, she reached the junction that led to her house. But instead of turning, she took a different path, heading toward her dream—the luxurious hotel that only the country’s billionaires could enter.
Standing a few meters away, she tilted her head back to gaze at the towering peak of the building. Her mouth dropped open in awe, as it always did. Even though she had seen it over a hundred times, her reaction never changed.
A smile stretched across her face as she imagined herself entering that hotel, enjoying the country’s finest meals while conversing with billionaires and celebrities. A thin layer of tears gathered in her eyes, not from sadness, but from a deep sense of pride and joy in her imagination.
As she stood there, lost in her daydreams, a voice broke through the reverie. “I knew you’d be here.”
It was her cousin, the one person who would talk to her, even if just for a brief moment. They were the same age, and unlike the others, her cousin always made an effort to talk.
“Done admiring it?” her cousin asked with a playful grin.
She nodded. With her voice filled with hope, she spoke, “One day, I’ll Walk through those doors. One day, I’ll make enough money that I’ll never have to worry about it again. I’ll be seen. My voice will be heard, and I’ll never be invisible again.”
When her cousin didn’t reply—probably tired of hearing the same words over and over—she added, “I know I don’t have talent. I know my grades are bad. I know I’m a loser. I know it might be impossible. But it’s not wrong to have big dreams. I’m still young. Let me dream, even if it seems impossible. Please, let me dream.”
Her cousin only smiled at her, offering the unspoken support they both needed. They parted ways, each heading to their respective destinations.
As she walked away from the shining lights of the luxury street, she was greeted by the darkness of the poorly lit road leading to her rented house. The stark contrast was hard to ignore. She realized, in that moment, that her reality was far from the dreams she clung to.
The moment she stepped onto the street, which reeked of garbage, she felt a deep sadness. The street felt just like her life—dark, stinky, and forgotten.
When she finally reached home, a familiar sound greeted her: the sound of shattering glass, followed by the loud curses of her mother. It wasn’t a warm welcome; it was chaos, the result of her father’s anger.
Although it wasn’t new to her, the sight still made her body tremble. Anxiety gripped her as many thoughts revolved in her head. What’s going to happen to my family? Why can’t we have one peaceful day? Were we always destined to fight, to never find peace?
These thoughts weren’t new either. They had plagued her mind since she was little, the very first memory of her childhood being her parents’ violent arguments.
“Next year, we should enrol her to a bachelor’s degree,” her mother yelled. “We still haven’t cleared our debt! You’re unfit to earn!”
“Then you go earn!” her father retorted angrily. “Don’t talk to me like that!”
They continued to argue, jumping from one topic to the next, ignoring her presence completely. They ignored the tears that welled up in her eyes, the sweat that dripped down her face.
Her father stormed out of the room, leaving her mother to curse him bitterly. The tension in the house was suffocating.
She retreated to her bedroom, where she silently let out her frustration. She was angry—not just at her parents’ situation, but at herself. She was angry that they didn’t have enough money. Angry that she couldn’t do anything to help.
It was in this moment that she turned to her journal, a habit that had always served as her escape. Writing her thoughts was the only way she knew how to cope.
“Oh, to have money to erase these quarrels… to escape… how beautiful it would be.”
She wrote until sleep claimed her.
The next day, she saw an advertisement for part-time jobs. She was under eighteen, so she couldn’t apply, but that didn’t stop her. She wasn’t about to give up just yet. The thought of earning money haunted her, even in her dreams. Sometimes, she considered lying about her age just to get a shot.
In the midst of her turmoil, she stumbled across one of her former classmates’ social media profiles, which was flooded with likes and followers. This could be the fast track to fame, she thought. She decided to give it a try. Why not? One viral post could change everything.
But she wasn’t sure what to post. She wasn’t a dancer. She wasn’t a content creator. She didn’t know what she was doing, but she tried anyway.
Her first post was a dance to a trending song. Her nerves wouldn’t settle as she stared at the screen, hoping for likes and comments. But the views were few, and the disappointment was overwhelming. Instead of launching her into the spotlight, it led to a wave of criticism from her family and classmates.
Her confidence shattered. Once again, everything seemed to confirm what she already believed—that she had no chance of changing her fate. She was a loser.
Months passed, and she started her undergraduate degree at a low-tier college. Despite the overwhelming urge to give up, something always kept her going—her dream of entering the luxury hotel.
When she was thinking about accepting her fate, one of her lecturers pulled her aside.
“Your article on the college wall is excellent,” he said. “You have a knack for writing. Keep it up.”
That was all it took. She understood what she needed to do. She decided to pour her energy into writing. It would give her everything. Money, Fame, and Visibility. She knew it wouldn’t be easy, but she couldn’t give up on it.
She learned about self-publishing platforms and began publishing her work online. In a vast ocean of talented and recognized authors, she had little chance, but she kept going. She knew what she needed to do. She needed to learn and understand. She studied the trending genres and marketing strategies.
This time, when she posted her stories, the feedback was different. Instead of mockery, she received positive comments, and the first positive review brought tears to her eyes. For the first time in a long while, she felt like she wasn’t just a loser—she was something.
Though it didn’t bring her money, it gave her something far more valuable: hope.
She didn’t just write anything. She took workshops, honed her skills, and connected with online author communities. She participated in competitions, sometimes winning, but often facing setbacks. Still, she refused to give up. Even though she started it for earning money, she understood how much she enjoyed penning her thoughts. She realized she wasn’t writing just for money—she was writing because she loved sharing her thoughts, because she loved being heard.
In the meantime, she graduated and had to take up a job to support her family.
Although it was hectic, she dedicated her time after work to her stories. She was no longer an amateur; she had gained experience in her field, which made her feel she was getting closer to achieving her goals. Additionally, winning a few competitions helped stabilize her hope.
She attempted traditional publishing and production houses, but it was never easy. Each time she reached for more, she only received rejection emails.
Then came the big competition. A publishing house was offering to represent the top ten winners. This felt like her last shot. If she didn’t succeed now, she might never get another chance.
She poured her heart into her submission. She didn’t want to write any story. She wanted to pour her feelings, emotions, and struggles into it. Instead of fictional characters or fictional emotions, she decided to pen her own life. She submitted her story, combining her true emotions with fictional elements. The competition had three levels: initial selection, social media popularity, and the final round. She didn’t believe she could win, but she held onto the hope that somehow, this would be her moment.
When she passed the first level, she celebrated as it was not a small win. Among thousands of stories, hers reached to second level.
The second level was more crucial, though, and she worked tirelessly to market her story. She checked her story’s stats obsessively. Her hard work paid off when she was selected as one of the top fifty.
The final round was nerve-wracking, but she felt more confident. She knew the readers loved her story. As she waited for the results, her cousin could hear the pounding of her heart.
When the results were announced, her heart sank. Her name wasn’t on the list. She felt not just disappointed but utterly lost. This was her last chance, and she had failed.
Tears welled up in her eyes, but she didn’t know if they were because she had lost the competition or because she had lost her confidence. She walked away from the computer, convinced it was the end. Her dreams felt like nothing more than illusions.
But little did she know it was just a beginning. It was just a few minutes away for her to receive an email from a small production house, expressing their interest in working with her.
She had always doubted herself, until eight years later, she looked outside the window of her dream hotel, enjoying the delicacies, still unsure of what the future held, but content in the present.
She had once thought of herself as just a loser. But the print of her name on every book she wrote—each one admired by readers—told a different story.
She wasn’t a nameless loser. She was Vrishti Choudhary, an author with a dream that finally became a reality.
