Please Tommy: Maze Runner One Shots & Imagines [On Hold]

In the Mind of Minho

Running.

What shuck-faced idiot came up with the idea of running?

Minho didn't know, but if he ever met the guy he would be sure to give him a solid punch in the nose. Right after he finished personally murdering each and every one of those shucking Creators. Flopping down on the cool grass, Minho looked up at the stars and began to count, just like he did each and every night.

One, two, three, four. What a horrid day this had been. The run had seemed longer than usual and the walls closer in. Minho would never admit he was claustrophobic, but some days the walls seemed suffocating.

Five, six, seven, eight. With each number, Minho began to relax. The stress of the day began to melt away.

Nine, ten, eleven, twelve. All near death experiences, all the twists and turns, the maps, the walls, the Maze. None of that mattered.

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen. All his worries about his friends began to build up. Newt and his shucking limp. Alby and his anger issues. Thomas and his motivation. All of them were bound to break sometime. Newt already had.... Tears found their way into his eyes. Where had they come from?

Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty. The tears left, he could see the stars again.

Twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four. Just him and the stars.

He looked forward to this time every evening, relied on it. When it was just him and the stars. The stars were the only thing which connected him to the outside of the Glade. The only taste of freedom he had. Perhaps the only taste of his old life he would ever get.

Had he loved the stars in his old life? He hoped so.

A Minho theory. Is it just me or are these getting shorter?
>>Adry Grace