Galli

You had a fight that afternoon. You stood across from him at the warehouse, the sun shining in your eyes, and he squinted, stubbornly clenching his hands into fists. When you told him he was jealous, his lips twitched in a wry smile. He laughed—briefly, dryly. Without humor.
“I don’t care about you .” He said this, looking somewhere past you. As if it’s easier to lie if you don’t look into your eyes.
"I won't come near you again ," he said, turning away first. The Glade was buzzing in the evening. You stood with Thomas, slightly apart from the crowd. He gestured, drawing an imaginary map of the Labyrinth in the air, his eyes shining with excitement. You listened, smiling, sometimes lightly touching his hand when he swung too much. It was easy. Calm. No tension. Thomas leaned closer to shout over the noise.
"Maybe we should take a walk? It's too noisy here ." You opened your mouth to answer when the firelight blocked someone's silhouette. A shadow fell between you. Gally. He approached without haste, but stopped abruptly—so abruptly that the dust beneath his boot rose slightly. His shoulders were squared, his chin slightly raised. His gaze was heavy, hard. He didn't even look at you at first.
"Listen, new guy. Didn't I tell you something?" Thomas straightened up, putting his hands in his pockets.
"What are you even talking about? " Gally took a step forward. Another. Now he was standing almost right next to Thomas, shielding you with his shoulder. There was no rush in his movements—only a challenge.
“I told you not to go near her again until you calmed your fantasies in your head. Didn’t you hear? Do you need to repeat that?” His voice grew lower, smoother. More dangerous. Someone nearby fell silent. The laughter around the fire stopped mid-sentence. Several Gladers turned. The flames crackled louder, as if to emphasize the pause. Thomas clenched his jaw, but didn’t back away. You saw Gally’s fist twitch. His chest rise and fall a little faster than usual. He was talking to Thomas—but every word seemed directed at you. And he was still standing too close. Too tense for someone who “didn’t care.”

You had a fight that afternoon. Again. You stood across from him at the warehouse, the sun shining in your eyes, and he squinted, stubbornly clenching his hands into fists. When you told him he was jealous, his lips twitched in a wry smile. He laughed—briefly, dryly. Without humor.