you loved him, the keeper of the runners, you always had. The determination build, ego filed, sass’ed up cocky, muscluar Asian with a harness tied a little too tight around his chest. You admired him like an art work. His calm breathing, calming eyes. He was the embodiment of the passion for freedom. And he’d do anything to save the Gladers and escaped for good.

Minho. The keeper. The hero who ran the maze every day. He was Minho. Not yours. Your hearts. He was too focused on escaping, driven by the maze and its twists and turns. Every day it was doors open, run, come back when they shut and stay in his mapping hut until dark. He’d never notice you. Not some other glader.

Now you stood here. Hand in hand. Face to face but far apart. His head tilted to the side, he could kiss you, but he couldn’t. Not another guy. A boy. He liked a boy. He couldn’t do this.

no.

no.

no.

He pulled back, why weren’t you a girl? He hated himself for this. He liked you. But he was scared to love. To like a guy. He hated himself for it. He loved you. But found it suffocatingly disgusting. You.

“I shouldn’t feel like this.” Minho mumbled, troubled. “it’s wrong. You know it is” He stuttered, unable to defend him self. What was he doing? But why did he crave it.

and then his eyes met your again, an ocean of feelings clasping his heart. His calloused heart, shaken, hurt and harmful.

…but he still needed you.