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Gentle And Innocent Colors

“Can you walk?” Jordan asks as he guides me up from the bed. I force my feet myself up with every effort that I look like a simple stand is difficult to do.

“Yeah. I’m alright,” I reply, enduring the prickling sensation all over my legs. He maintains his assistive hand on mine until I finally stand tall on my feet. The whole thing feels like an achievement. As if standing is something I have never done since the day I was born. I let out a long gasp of relief—the same manner as a thirsty traveler finally drinking water.

“That wasn't so bad at all.” I grin, which in response he imitates.

“Are you sure you want to walk around? You know you have to take some rest first, right?” says Jordan.

“Laying down for the whole day won't help me get over what happened. I'll just end up thinking about it. I need something to occupy myself with,” I reason.

“And you think in that state of yours you can do something other than walk?”

Before I can ever reply, my limbs suddenly explode in weakness.

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