Gladers choice

Chapter Eleven

As Newt quietly left the infirmary hut, Lyra sank back against the pillows, her mind swirling with fragments of the dream that had haunted her sleep. The vivid memory of a younger Thomas, the girl in a coma, and the playful camaraderie among her friends—all seemed so real, yet so impossible. The connection to Thomas and the coma girl gnawed at her, a puzzle she felt compelled to solve.

Why did it all seem so familiar? How did she know them before the Maze?

Her thoughts spiraled, drowning out the present as she tried to piece together the fragmented images. She was so lost in her reverie that she barely noticed when Minho moved closer, his concerned eyes fixed on her.

"Lyra," Minho's voice cut through her trance, snapping her back to the present. He gestured to the bed. "Scoot over, will you? I could use a seat."

Lyra blinked, disoriented for a moment before she nodded and shifted to make room for him. Minho settled beside her, their shoulders brushing lightly as he tried to read her expression.

"You okay?" he asked, his tone softening. "You looked pretty lost in thought there."

Lyra forced a small smile, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "Just... thinking about some weird dream I had," she said evasively, her mind still half-immersed in the confusing images.

Minho raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "Weird dream, huh? Care to share?"

Lyra hesitated, torn between the urge to confide in him and the fear of sounding ridiculous. She shook her head, opting for a safer topic. "Nah, it's nothing. Just some random nonsense."

Minho nodded, accepting her reluctance without pressing further. He shifted slightly, getting more comfortable. "You know, it's funny. Sometimes I feel like we don't really get a chance to talk anymore. Just you and me."

Lyra smiled at that, a genuine warmth spreading through her chest. "Yeah, I miss it too," she admitted. "Seems like we're always running or fighting or dealing with something."

Minho chuckled. "Or all three at once."

They fell into an easy rhythm of banter, trading stories and jokes that lightened the atmosphere. Laughter echoed softly in the hut as they reminisced about life in the Glade a year or two ago—the trials, the mishaps, and the bond that had kept them going.

"Remember when you first got here?" Minho teased, a playful glint in his eyes. "You were so clumsy and mad."

Lyra chuckled, rolling her eyes. "Hey, give me a break. It was a lot to take in."

"You were such a Greenie," Minho continued, shaking his head in mock disbelief. "Couldn't even run a straight line."

"Yeah, yeah," Lyra retorted, playfully shoving him. "At least I didn't get lost in the Maze on my first run."

Their banter flowed easily, the shared memories and light-hearted teasing bringing a sense of normalcy. But even as they joked, Lyra couldn't shake the dream from her mind. She wanted to tell Minho, to share her confusion and seek his reassurance, but something held her back.

Minho laughed, the sound light and genuine. "Touché. But seriously, you've come a long way."

Minho's expression shifted, his playful demeanor giving way to genuine concern. "How's the ankle?" he asked, glancing down at her bandaged foot.

Lyra looked down at her ankle, flexing it slightly with a warm smile. "It's getting better. I should be able to get back to running in a couple of days."

Minho nodded, a relieved smile spreading across his face. "Good to hear. The Glade isn't the same without you out there."

Lyra's heart warmed at his words, appreciating the sincerity in his voice. "Thanks, Minho. I miss running with you guys."