Characters: Orihime
Summary
: You can't go back. You can only move forward or stand still.
Pairings
: None
Warnings/Spoilers
: Vague spoilers for Hueco Mundo arc
Timeline
: Post-Deicide arc
Disclaimer
: I don't own Bleach.


Needless to say, nothing will ever be the same again. Going down into the not-so-proverbial pit of Hell (and she's sure she doesn't want to know what the real Hell is like) and emerging back out of it is bound to leave residue behind clinging to her clothes. The world simply can not be looked at with the same wide, callow eyes as before.

Orihime can't go back to ignorant innocence or to unknowing happiness, but she fails to see why this should hold her back, why it should prevent her from picking up the pieces of her life and stitch them back together again.

There's nothing to be gained by standing still. Stagnancy in a forest will make moss grow on her; inaction in the ocean will cause her to drown amidst the waves. Standing still won't make her cuts and scrapes heal, only make them fester and abscess. And Orihime's stood enough healing to last a lifetime.

Moving on won't be all that difficult, in the grand scheme of things. Orihime's always had to move on from something, be it the specter of the abusive home that she can't even remember but hangs over her still or the illusion of security shattered by a few girls with scissors or her brother lying mangled and bloody on the road. Hueco Mundo, Ulquiorra, Aizen and everything and everyone else are just memories now, naught but memories. Existing only in her mind they no longer hold any grip or power over the beating of her heart. They can't hurt her anymore. They aren't real anymore.

After the gelid eternal night of Hueco Mundo the watery winter sun of Karakura Town, the assurance that she's finally home for good has so much in common with a warm bath. Wash away impurities on the skin, blood and sweat and tears and emerge clean and fresh. She will never forget, will always remember, but does not have to spend the rest of her life reliving it or laboring under memory's monstrous weight.

It takes nothing more to move on than one footstep forwards.