Gladers choice | TMR | Thomas | Minho

Chapter Fifteen

Lyra sat in the map room, her fingers deftly sharpening her knives. The rhythmic scrape of metal against stone was soothing, a comforting sound that kept her grounded. She felt a familiar surge of excitement mixed with a hint of fear. Running had always been her escape, her way to feel alive, especially with Minho by her side. As she worked, she couldn't help but imagine herself sprinting through the maze again, the wind in her hair and the adrenaline pumping through her veins.

Her thoughts were interrupted when the door swung open, and Minho tumbled in. Their eyes met, and an awkward silence hung in the air. Lyra broke it first. "Sorry," she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper, not looking directly at him.

Minho shrugged, sitting down beside her. "You're fine," he replied, his tone neutral as he started flipping through the maps of the week. His movements were mechanical, lacking his usual energy and flair.

Lyra tried to ease the tension by asking about runner stuff. "How are the routes looking this week?" she ventured, hoping to spark a normal conversation.

Minho responded, but his answers were short and clipped. "Same as always. Few changes here and there." He didn't look up from the maps, his focus entirely on the parchment in front of him.

Their conversation lacked its usual ease, each word feeling forced and heavy. The silence in between was thick and uncomfortable, filled with unspoken words and unresolved tension. Lyra glanced at him, noticing the tightness in his jaw, the way his shoulders were stiff with barely contained tension.

After a while, Lyra huffed, putting down her knife. "I'm sorry for not telling you why I was upset yesterday," she said, her voice strained. "I just had to tell... someone else first."

Minho's eyes narrowed, and he rolled his eyes. "You mean Thomas, right?"

Lyra hesitated, her silence giving him the answer. Minho's expression hardened, a flash of anger crossing his face. "Why are you being so weird about this?" she demanded, frustration bubbling up inside her.

Minho leaned forward, his voice rising. "We've been friends for two years, Lyra. Isn't that enough for you to confide in me?"

Lyra felt a pang of guilt but also anger. "I haven't even confided in Newt lately," she retorted, crossing her arms over her chest defensively.

"That's different," Minho snapped back, his voice louder. He leaned closer, his face inches from hers, eyes blazing with frustration.

"No, it's not!" Lyra shot back, her voice rising to match his. She stood up abruptly, knocking over her chair in the process. They bickered, their voices overlapping in a heated exchange.

Minho stood up too, his fists clenched at his sides, the maps forgotten. "Two years, Lyra! Two years, and you still don't trust me enough to tell me what's going on with you?"

Lyra jumped to her feet, her heart pounding. She could feel the heat rising in her cheeks, the anger making her vision blur. "It's not about trust, Minho! Sometimes things are complicated, and you wouldn't understand!"

Minho's face flushed with anger, his eyes blazing. "Wouldn't understand? Try me, Lyra! I'm your best friend. Or at least I thought I was."

"Stop yelling at me!" Lyra shouted back, her own anger flaring. "Everyone can probably hear us by now!" She glanced nervously at the door, half expecting someone to burst in.

Minho took a step closer, his voice lowering but still intense. "I just don't get it. Why Thomas? Why not me?"

Lyra looked away, her hands trembling. "Because... because I was scared. Scared of what you'd think." She wrapped her arms around herself, as if trying to protect herself from his words.