NEO, means, constant movement
The room was quiet except for the soft ticking of the old clock. Neo sat by the window, his hands gripping the wheels of his chair though he hadn't moved in hours. The world outside ran fast,cars rushing, children shouting, people chasing something unseen. Inside, time felt heavy, stubborn.
He let out a bitter laugh.
"Funny, isn't it? Life doesn't wait. Even when you stop, it keeps running."
His voice echoed in the stillness. He tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling.
"They say time heals. Maybe for some. For me, it just…reminds. Every tick is a reminder, you're not who you used to be."
His friend had once told him he should be grateful — he was alive. Neo had snapped back with words that still haunted him.
"Alive? You call this living? Watching the world constantly evolving where I just sits here helpless deprived of every opportunity to work, to everyday face people with their eyes always averting from me.
There was a time when Neo laughed easily. A time when his classmates would gather around him, not to mock, but to follow the boy who could outrun anyone, who wore joy like a crown.
But accidents don't just break bones — they shatter the way the world sees you.
He remembered the first time he returned to school in a wheelchair.
The classroom fell silent when he rolled in. For a moment, he thought maybe it was respect. Then he saw the smirks.
"Careful, don't roll over my foot!" one boy jeered, pulling his leg back dramatically.
Another whispered loud enough for everyone to hear, "Guess our track star just retired early."
Laughter rippled across the room. Neo's fists tightened on the wheels, his face burning. He tried to smile, to laugh it off, but the sound that left his throat felt hollow, cracked. That day he learned silence was safer than defending himself.
Home should have been refuge. But it wasn't.
His father sighed whenever Neo asked for help.
"If only you had been more careful…you wouldn't be like this."
His mother, though softer, let her disappointment slip in unguarded moments.
"What will become of you now, Neo? Who will want you?"
Every word was a needle. Every sigh, a reminder that he is just their burden.
So he stopped asking for help. Even when he fell on ground, Even when he cry out in pain.
On the streets, strangers wore pity like perfume. They slowed their pace when they passed him, smiled with lips but not eyes.
"That poor young man," he heard one woman whisper.
"Such a handsome face, wasted," said another.
Pity, heavier than cruelty. It stripped him of dignity, reduced him to something fragile, untouchable.
And so the boy who once laughed under open skies became a man who stared only at the ground.
The boy with the radiant smile now become cold like stone.
And his heart, once wild and beating fast with dreams, grew cold, guarded, unwilling to let anyone close enough to wound it again.
Neo did not stop living that day. But he stopped shining.
On Tuesday 24th August, 2015,
Neo sat in front of the mirror, staring at the reflection of a man he barely recognized. The suit was crisp, the tie straight, but it didn't hide the weariness in his eyes — the quiet despair of someone who had knocked on thousands of doors and been turned away.
"Another one," he muttered to himself, voice low, almost swallowed by the room. "Another 'no,' another waste of time."
His wheelchair sat ready by the door, polished wheels catching the dim morning light. He ran his fingers over the armrests, remembering all the offices where he had been laughed at, pitied, or simply ignored. Countless applications. Countless interviews. Thousands of doors closed.
And yet… here he was.
Having patience, and a lost hope which died long ago
He headed for the cafe
The café wasn't much — small, with sunlight spilling through its half-open windows, the scent of coffee heavy and comforting. Neo wheeled in, shoulders tense, jaw tight. Around him, people laughed, spoke, typed on laptops, life flowing around him like a river he could no longer swim in.
A young woman approached, clipboard in hand, smile polite.
"Mr. Neo? Welcome, we're glad you could come today."
He nodded curtly, forcing words from lips that rarely opened ,
"Thank you. I… appreciate it."
Neo already settled in a corner table, greeted back
The woman joined him there and settled herself aswell,
He glanced at the barista ,
He observed, how politely she's handling the aggressive and rude customers like she has all the patience in the world.
"I mean its her job", He thought in mind,
Moving behind the counter, at the couples sipping coffee, at the sunlight catching the dust in the air. For a moment, he let himself imagine a world where things worked out, where someone looked at him and didn't see brokenness first, like the barista overlooked her customers rudeness.
Then he shook his head, bitter.
"Stop dreaming," he whispered to himself. "They'll see the chair, the quiet. They'll see the failure before they see anything else."
But he still prepared, still straightened his tie, still tried to make his face neutral — a facade that had protected him for years. And as the manager approached, clipboard in hand, Neo exhaled slowly, ready to meet another test, another judgment, another rejection.
Because even when hope felt like a lie, he couldn't entirely stop showing up.
The half-hour had flown by. Neo's words had flowed easily, almost effortlessly, as he explained the systems he had built, the projects he had managed, the creative solutions he had devised. For once, the words didn't feel heavy; they were sharp, precise, confident — the man he had been before the accident, shining through in small bursts.
The manager, a tall woman with keen eyes, had nodded repeatedly, leaning forward in interest.
"Neo… these are impressive. Your experience, your problem-solving… it's exactly what we need. Honestly, I wasn't expecting this level of insight. You've clearly put in the work."
Neo allowed himself a small, tight-lipped smile — rare, fragile. It didn't reach the hollows under his eyes, but that was a beginning of new opportunity for which he has strived for so long.
As they finished, he carefully maneuvered his wheelchair, standing up slightly as he pulled the chair back with a gesture of gratitude.
"Thank you," he said softly. "Truly… for giving me the chance to show this."
The manager's eyes flicked to the chair for a moment, then back to Neo. And in that instant, the warmth in her expression froze.
"I'm sorry, Neo,". you're, --- oh my God, she said, voice tight, polite but final. "After consideration… we've decided to move forward with another candidate."
The words hit him like ice. The half-smile drained instantly, leaving his face stone-cold, jaw tight, eyes narrowing.
"No," he whispered, at first to himself, disbelief shaking his hands. "You… you can't be serious. Half an hour? That's all it takes to decide?"
The polite demeanor of the manager only fueled the fire inside him. His chest tightened, breaths coming faster.
"Do you even hear yourselves?" he demanded, voice rising. "I just showed you everything — my skills, my experience! You were impressed! And now you tell me it's not enough?"
A pause. She looked uncomfortable.
"Sir… we have to follow company policy…"
Neo's anger snapped. The quiet restraint he had kept for years shattered like glass. He slammed his fists against the table, the sound echoing sharply in the small café room.
"Policy?" he shouted. "Do you know what it's like to spend years trying, failing, being rejected by everyone? Do you know what it's like to crawl through life just for a chance to be seen as… capable?"
He leaned forward, wheelchair rattling, face flushed, eyes burning with hurt and fury.
"Your approval, your smile, your damn 'impressed' words — all lies? All a game?!"
The manager raised her hands, trying to calm him. "Sir, please—"
But he couldn't stop. Years of humiliation, pity, rejection, all poured out in a torrent of rage. His voice cracked with pain, not just anger.
"You don't know me! You've never seen me! And yet… you decide I'm not enough?!"
Neo's hands trembled, and his chest heaved. The café, once bright and welcoming, now felt suffocating. People stared, some whispering. Their pity, the same he had hated his whole life, was now suffocating him.
The interviewers and manager's left quickly as possible,
Neo's shoulders slumped. The furious heat left him, replaced by the familiar gray of hopelessness. His hands fell to the wheels. He whispered to himself, voice barely audible:
"Maybe… maybe nothing ever changes."
"It's… it's never about me," he whispered to no one. His voice trembled, raw and fragile. "It's never what I can do… it's the chair. It's me in this chair. Always this chair."
A hot tear traced down his cheek, quickly followed by another. He didn't wipe them away. He couldn't. Years of rejection, of pity, of whispered "poor thing"s, came flooding back all at once.
Around him, people moved, laughed, sipped their coffee, oblivious. Neo felt both invisible and exposed — the cruel paradox of being seen only for what made him "less than."