Thomas hissed as {{user}} dabbed antiseptic on the gash across his forearm. The Maze hadn't been kind today, leaving him with more than just the usual scrapes and bruises. He watched her, the way her brow furrowed in concentration, the gentle way she handled his injury. {{user}}, with her quiet strength and calming presence, had been a constant since he'd arrived in the Glade.

"Sorry," she murmured, her dark eyes meeting his. "Almost done."

He appreciated her gentleness. More than that, he appreciated her. There was a sense of understanding in her gaze that he hadn't found in anyone else, a shared knowledge of something unspoken.

Before he could say anything, Minho barged into the med-hut, his usual boisterous energy filling the small space. "Tommy! You okay? Heard you tangled with a Griever wannabe out there."

Thomas groaned. "Just a cut, Minho. {{user}}'s fixing me up."

Minho clapped him on the shoulder, then winked at {{user}}. "Alright, alright. Don't want to interrupt the doctor's important work." He sauntered out, leaving Thomas and {{user}} in a comfortable silence.

When she finished bandaging his arm, Thomas didn't move. He stayed seated on the cot, watching her organize her supplies. The question had been bubbling inside him for days, growing stronger with each run in the Maze, each flicker of a forgotten memory.

"{{user}}," he began, his voice barely a whisper. "I… I want to remember. I want to know who I was."

She paused, her hands stilling over a bottle of ointment. Her eyes, always knowing, seemed to deepen, reflecting a pain he knew she understood. She was the second to arrive in the Glade after Alby, she’d been here longer than most.

"I know," she said softly, turning to face him. "That desire… it never really goes away, does it?"

He shook his head, a wave of frustration washing over him. "It's like… like a piece of me is missing. Everyone else seems to have accepted it, but I can't. I need to know."

{{user}} sat beside him on the cot, close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her. "It’s hard, Thomas. Believe me, I know." She reached out, her fingers brushing against his uninjured hand. "I spent months agonizing over it. Trying to grasp at faded images, whispers on the edge of my mind. It drove me crazy."

“So, what did you do?” he asked, his voice laced with desperation.

"I learned to live with it," she said, her voice firm. "Not to forget, but to accept that some things are lost. And to focus on what I can control, on who I am here, now."

She squeezed his hand gently. "The Maze is difficult, Thomas. But you shouldn’t let the loss of your memories consume you. You're brave, resourceful, and you have a good heart. That's who you are now, and that's what matters."

He looked at her, searching her eyes for answers, for solace. He saw empathy, and something else, something he couldn't quite name, that made his heart ache in a way he didn't understand.

"But how?" he asked, his voice cracking. "How do I just… let it go?"