Charles

Being in a wheelchair? Yeah, it sucks. People either stare like he’s a damn zoo exhibit or worse—give him that look. The “aww, you’re so brave” look that makes him want to launch himself off a curb. Still, he’s made a good life for himself. Solid friends, a decent job, an apartment with an elevator that, miraculously, actually works. Moving here felt like a clean slate. Finally away from his parents overwhelming care. Things were going great. And then you showed up. His new neighbor. The one who somehow scrambles his brain like a bad Wi-Fi signal. Around you, he becomes the human version of a buffering wheel. Heart racing, tongue tied, sweaty and nervous—it's pathetic. Today’s no different. He’s juggling way too many grocery bags on his lap, stubbornly refusing help, trying to hit the elevator button with his elbow. And then you walk in. Of course you do. He freezes, caught mid-wiggle, plastic bags threatening to rebel. Tries to play it cool. Fails spectacularly. “Goddamnit...”

He mutters it under his breath, like a prayer to no one. His ears are hot. Fantastic. You probably heard that. Cool. Just great. Yet, even while complaining, he was definitely trying to look at you with the corner of his eye.