Two knocks on the pole that my hammock is attached to.

"Morning, Pua."

Blindly, I throw a pillow at him.

It wouldn't matter if I had thrown it perfectly. He's not actually there, so it will never hit him.

"Rude," he comments, tossing the pillow back in my face. "So, how about we—"

The second I open my eyes, his voice stops. I look around: he's nowhere to be seen. The pillow is lying on the ground. He never threw it back because he. is. not. real.

All I sense is the smell of eggs. Fry's probably already making breakfast. The Runners will be up soon. Them, Nick, and Alby are the first ones to eat.

Normally, I would've taken this as extra quality time with Minho.

That normally doesn't really feel normal at this point, though. It's been weeks since Minho lost his memories. Or maybe it's been months. I can't tell anymore. Time moves differently when the voices in your head grow louder than the voices of the people outside.

I try to catch some more sleep, but when I close my eyes, the memories flicker—fragments of screams, of blood, of eyes staring up at me, unblinking. Sometimes I think they're mine. Other times, I know they're not. And when the nightmares get too loud, I stare at the ceiling of the Homestead and count the cracks, trying to find a pattern, something that makes sense.

"Morning, Zee." This voice is different. Less teasing but also less comforting. "I don't have any important jobs today. Maybe I can go to the Bloodhouse with you. While Winston does the main jobs, I can help you get back on track. We can feed the animals."

"I think I'm going to sleep for a little bit longer, Nick."

"No freeloaders."

"I don't feel very well—"

"Liar." His fingers wrap around my wrist. "Come on.

Sighing, I drag myself out of the hammock. My body feels like it's made of stone. The sunlight stabs at my eyes. It's blinding. Too bright. I shield my face with my arm.

Nick chuckles. "Let's go. It's still early, but at least we get the warm eggs."

That means Minho is there, too.

It doesn't even excite me at this point. It's just more mental preparation for the looks he's about to give me. More sadness.

I rub the sleep out of my eyes, my muscles stiff. "Can you pass me something to wear?"

Nick throws the cargo pants that are way too big and dirty on my bed, along with a brown plaid button-up that's also way too big and dirty.

I usually make sense of my outfits by adding a belt and leaving the plaid shirt open (don't worry, I wear a white top below it). It's the least thing I can do with my hair looking like a bird nest.

Today, I don't really feel like adding a belt and leaving the shirt open— I just want to stay in bed. But I can't. I have to work.

Thinking of it, we're acting like we're adults. We work, we don't really play games... nothing here reminds us of the fact we're still kids, and we're not helping.

"I'll go take a shower," I say.

The water's cold. It'll wake me up real good.

"You take way too long," Nick replies. "Waste of water. You can shower tonight."

See? He's a father dressed as a boy.

"Fine." I sigh. "Hold the towel, will you?"

Nick spreads the towel in front of me, covering me while I change. Even with no one around and, as far as I know, no creepy eyes, this feels more comfortable. Probably because my body has been changing, too.

I've noticed that the boys are changing too, but it's different for them. Some are getting taller, their shoulders broader, muscles appearing. Others just look more tired, dark shadows under their eyes.

I'm pretty sure Minho is finally taller than me. I should be glad that he doesn't remember, because he always used to say he'd tease me the second he got taller.

Minho's losing his baby face. His jawline is sharper, and his cheeks are less chubby. He's always been strong, but it's only just beginning to show physically.

"We should join Ben," Nick decides as we walk towards the picnic tables.

I freeze for a second. "Ben?" I repeat.

"Yeah," Nick replies casually, glancing back at me. "We haven't really hung out with him in a while."

I force a nod, even as my stomach twists. Ben means Minho, and Minho means... everything I've been trying to avoid. "Sure, why not?" I manage.

After we take our breakfast, we head to Ben's table. Minho indeed sits across from him. Both of them are silent— tense, almost.

Nick sits down next to Ben.

With a silent exhale, I force myself to plop down next to Minho, who visibly... I don't even know, becomes ten times more tense.

"Good morning," Ben greets. It sounds very forced.

"Morning," Nick says. I mutter something inaudible.

Nick and Ben flicker their eyes between Minho and I before they start stuffing their mouth's full with eggs. I keep my gaze fixed on my plate as I eat, chewing slowly and uncomfortably.

I risk a quick glance beside me. No matter the situation, Minho is never this quiet.

He's staring at his food, eyes unfocused like he's somewhere else entirely.

For a moment, I think about staring a conversation, but then I swallow the words away. It won't work.

You're obsessed. It's pathetic.

But he can't burst out now. Both Nick and Ben are with us, and they're not the types to ignore a situation— great, forcing Minho into things is the solution.

"What, eh, what happened to your finger?" I peep, voice too high.

Minho looks up. Then down at his finger as if he doesn't know it's covered with a bandaid. His lips part, but nothing comes out, as if he's weighing down what to reply.

"I burned it," he croaks out.

"I burned it."

My body froze, and the butterfly slid between my fingers, onto the ground. "You... burned it?"

"Oh." I don't know what to say— I don't know what I would've replied in any situation.

Helpless, I look at Nick.

"Eh, how did you manage to do that?" Nick adds quickly.

"With fire."

"No shit," Ben says. "But how?"

Minho hesitates again.

I guess it's better than how he acted at the Bonfire.

"Just an accident," he says, a bit too quickly. "Didn't mean for it to happen."

Ben pulls a face. "How do you accidentally burn yourself out of nowhere?"

His tone becomes harsher. "I don't know. You just do."

I don't buy it.

But he'll probably lose it if I even dare to say another word about it.

Nick jumps back in. "Better not make a habit out of it. We don't want you running around in pain," he says, voice light.

"I may hope you don't," Minho responds.

A short silence falls before Ben shifts the conversation to something else. Nick joins in, but I can't focus.

This is my only chance at making things right. Minho avoids me at all costs and I'm definitely not walking up to him on my own again. But I don't know what to say. It'll irritate him no matter what.

I shove my hands in my pockets. My fingers brush against something crumpled—paper. I pull it out below the table and stare down at it. Another butterfly. This one's blue, the edges sharp like someone cut it out in a hurry. I don't remember if I made it or if Minho did.

When I look up, I catch him staring.

With bigger eyes, I hold it towards him. Not in a way that makes it seem like I'm directly giving it to him, but hinting he can take it if he wants to.

As if he will do that.

He stares at it, conflicted, then looks away. "Stop pulling them out of nowhere every time."

I take a breath. How would I reply to the old Minho? Maybe that will make him feel something— if I talk to him normally.

"Well, you're the one who gave it to me."

"So?"

"Eh... want it back?"

"If I gave it to you, I clearly wanted to get rid of it. Why would I want it back?"

"Eh..." I say again. "Maybe... you can burn this one, too... better than burning your finger... I guess."

He gives me some kind of weird glare, as if I am insane.

I might be.

"Well?"

"Whatever," he grumbles below his breath, snatching the butterfly out of my fingers.

Hm.

Progress?

He remains silent after he has stuffed it in his pocket.

"Eh, remember when you used to braid my hair?" I start again.

"Looks like I did a shitty job."

"No, you did a great job. But they need to be... refreshed once in a while. And that hasn't happened in a while, as you see."

"If that's a request, forget it," he snaps. 

He's just protecting himself from confronting the pain of memory loss. Just a defense mechanism, I tell myself.

"It wasn't a request," I say fast. "I was just wondering if you remember— I... I mean, if you were aware of the fact you can braid—"

"Does it look like I'm aware?"

"Well, not really— no, but," I stammer, "I thought maybe it would help trigger a memory or something."

"More like a headache. It doesn't look like I remember, does it?"

Okay, downfall.

"Sorry." I avert my eyes. "I didn't want to upset you."

"Then stop bringing up stuff that doesn't matter."

"Minho," Ben hisses.

"What?" Minho snaps back, then he gets up. "We should go run."

It obviously does trigger him. The conversation was going decent until I dug too deep into the memories.

So we need to make new memories, I think? Just... forget about the past?