I use a wheelchair now.

My limbs and neck and back can move, I am still able to move them.

I just can’t feel them.

The sun was out and the leaves rustled in the trees; I can still hear. I imagine the cool, silk light touch of the wind, the warm kiss from the Sun’s rays.

I made it a few feet from the hospital exit, my hands, unable to grip the wheels like how they are intended to be used. I tried to push myself forward, but my fingers only flopped and my palm slapped the top of the wheel bar, a sad attempt to push myself along.

I felt nothing.

The sky was gray today. Or at least, that’s how it looked to me. My eyes seemed to have a sort of film over them, much like the filter on a phone, one that turned everything to grayscale.

I was living in a black and white movie, but without the band conveniently hiding off set, playing upbeat music to cheer me on; I was drifting.

The sidewalk was pale white and the wheelchair wobbled over what I assumed were divots and rubble on the path. There was no vibration. No touch. Nothing looked the same. Nothing felt the same. Nothing was how I remembered it.

I closed my eyes, comforted by the solid blackness my eyelids produced; a cozy respite. At least this was the same.

Then I jerked, my eyes flung open and my head bobbed forward. I wondered if I had hit a bump and stopped rolling.

No one or no thing was in front of me.

I turned my head to look over my shoulder, unable to see him before his voice gave him away, “And where do you think you’re going, Pipsqueak?”

I hoped my smile looked as good as it used to. I turned as far around as I could, anticipating seeing that messy head of spiky blonde hair. But, his skin looked pale as snow and his hair was faded. He looked almost sick and flat in this new tone, compared to the tan skin and bright hair I was used to seeing. But his arms were solid and strong, tilting me back into a wheelie. Even in grayscale, he was still as dashing as ever.

He wore his usual weekend shirt, the one with the skull on the front. It, at least, matched one of the only colors I could see: black, like the back of my eyelids.

I spoke soft, this angle, messing with my head. “I was discharged early, so I thought I’d get a head start since I’m not used to…” I looked down at the chair on wheels I’d been forced to sit in. I could have walked, but after one too many falls, the addition of a falling hazard bracelet to my arm—and on my chart, I was given this trusty stead to help in my recovery. They had warned me the seat was uncomfortable; I’d have to take their word for it.

“You were supposed to wait for me.” My friend said in his scratchy voice, pouting his lip in his usual fashion. He wasn’t yelling but I could sense the irritation, and maybe, deep down, a hint of concern.

I tried to raise my hand up, touch his cheek in a sort of apology. But I fumbled, my hand only made it to his nose. I bumped him and swiftly recoiled. “Sorry!” I cried.

His chortle told me all I needed to know: he didn’t care that I’d bopped him in the nose. But for some reason, his eyes didn’t quite meet my own—that was something new. Perhaps it was sympathy in his eyes.

As quickly as the emotion came, it faded, replaced by his more familiar attitude. “C’mon. We got places to be.” A pulsating tinge bloomed in my chest. It was so small, no more than a tiny quiver. It almost felt warm.

I’d felt this before. It had been more intense before my accident, but I could recognize it even with all this numbness.

He dropped me from the wheelie and pushed off with his foot. Away we went, down the grayscale path. That tiny ember, still present in my chest. I clung to it, and slowly, everything seemed to brighten.