Gladers choice | TMR | Thomas | Minho

Chapter Twenty Five

Lyra sat at a wooden table in the Glade's cafeteria, the familiar smell of Frypan's cooking wafting through the air. The comforting hum of chatter from other Gladers surrounded her, yet it felt distant, like background noise in a dream. She was surrounded by Alby, who sat across from her, and Thomas, who was next to Chuck. Minho sat beside her, his presence usually a calming force, but today, even that couldn't quite ease the tension knotting her stomach.

The memory of her earlier conversation with Thomas lingered like a dark cloud, shadowing her thoughts as she absentmindedly pushed her food around her plate. She tried to focus on the comforting companionship of her friends, hoping it would help her move past the uneasy feelings. But the words Thomas had said to her kept replaying in her mind, a relentless echo she couldn't silence.

Every now and then, Lyra could feel Thomas's gaze flicker toward her, as if he was checking on her. Each glance sent a ripple of discomfort through her, making her shoulders stiffen. She avoided looking back, afraid of what she might find in his eyes. Disappointment? Confusion? Or worse, indifference?

His earlier dismissal of her fears had cut deeper than she wanted to admit. She had opened up to him, let him see a part of herself she rarely showed to anyone, and he had brushed it off, as if her emotions were nothing more than a fleeting worry. It stung. She barely knew Thomas, but something about him had made her feel like she could trust him. Now, she wasn't so sure.

"Lyra, you're not eating," Minho's voice pulled her from her thoughts. She blinked, realizing she hadn't taken more than a bite of her food.

She forced herself to pick up her fork, stabbing a piece of the meat on her plate and bringing it to her mouth. It tasted fine, but it might as well have been cardboard for all she cared. Her mind was too tangled up in her thoughts to focus on the meal.

Across the table, Alby pushed back his chair with a slight groan. Lyra glanced up at him, noticing the subtle signs of recovery in his movements. He still looked grumpy, but that was Alby. His usual sharpness seemed to have returned, even if a bit dulled by whatever he had been through.

"See you lot later," Alby muttered, giving a nod to the group before walking away. Lyra watched him go, relieved to see him looking more like himself. At least something in the Glade was returning to normal.

As Alby left, Newt appeared, slipping into the seat Alby had vacated. His usual easy smile was in place, though there was an underlying tension in his eyes that only those who knew him well would catch. Lyra wondered if he was still worrying about Minho and the others, or if something else was weighing on him.

"How's it going, shanks?" Newt greeted, his voice warm as he looked around the table. His gaze settled on Lyra and Thomas. "How's your day been?"

Lyra grumbled something noncommittal, not really in the mood to talk about her day. Newt's brow furrowed slightly, clearly confused by her tone. It wasn't just him; Minho and Chuck both paused, their conversation halting as they looked at her with matching expressions of concern.

Newt's confusion only added to the swirling mess of emotions inside her. She wasn't usually like this—grumpy, withdrawn. She was the one who kept things together, who faced whatever the Glade threw at her with a level head. But today, everything felt off-kilter.

Before anyone could press her further, Minho, ever the one to lighten the mood, cracked a joke about Frypan's cooking being dangerous enough to knock out a Griever. Chuck snorted, and even Thomas managed a half-smile. The tension eased, if only slightly.

Lyra forced herself to join in, giving a small chuckle, though it didn't reach her eyes. She couldn't shake the heaviness in her chest, the lingering uncertainty that gnawed at her every thought. Eventually, the weight of it became too much, and she pushed her chair back, the legs scraping against the stone floor.