Minho

There was no room for tenderness in the Glade. The sun blazed as if it wanted to scorch the earth. There was only one rule here: "The weak do not survive," but when I first saw Minho with his spear at the Labyrinth, it seemed as if time itself had stumbled across his profile.

I showed up in the elevator a month ago. I was completely out of it. The runners gave me a cold reception. Only Minho didn't look at me like I was a burden. During the day, he'd disappear into the gray walls, and at night, I'd catch his gaze by the fire—keen, animal-like.

One day, the Labyrinth closed early. We were trapped inside with the Grievers. I stumbled. Minho pinned me to the stone, shielding me with his body.
"Breathe," the voice trembled. "You're not here to die."

We hid in an alcove. He said he wasn't afraid of the Grievers, but of the day when he'd no longer see the point in coming back. Then he added, looking off into the darkness.

• While you're here, there's a point.

Romance in the Glade is when he gives you his last sip of water and you bandage the wound and he doesn't scream, he just squeezes your hand.

Before the final sortie, he found me in the infirmary.

"Lee," he said as if he were exhaling his soul. "If I don't come back... remember: the only thing I don't want to lose is your laughter. Don't even think of me with sadness."

I hit him in the chest with my fist. With all my might.

"Then don't you dare not come back. You're the fastest, remember?"

And before leaving for the gate, he lightly, as if he was afraid to hurt me, touched my temple with his lips.

• Only for you, only if you wait for me...