Wandering around is weird. Not a lot of people greet me, and if they do, I might not hear it because they're on the wrong side of my body. My legs move endlessly. When I think too much about how they move, I forget how they're supposed to move and I just stand there, waiting until I remember how to walk again.

The walls have understood the assignment and are usually quiet. I don't think the buzzing will ever go away. I've gotten used to it. Kind off. I can walk on the beat of the buzzing— I don't think there's a beat in it, though... whatever. As long as it's not too loud, I'm fine with it.

And the Glade feels off. The boys. I ask myself how many of them are my friends every day. I have a list with all the names. If I find out they're not my friends, I stripe them off the list and stop analyzing them.

But I don't want to cross anyone off. It feels like the action of dragging the pen through their names will make them disappear in real life. That's why my current list is long.

Minho
Newt
Nick
Stan
Ben
Gally
Jeff
Clint
Winston
Corky
Alby
Frypan
Bark

And then I have multiple pages on every person.

NEWT
Positive:
— he is kind to me
— he checks up on me
— a lot of other things
Negative:
— nothing

MINHO
Positive:
— he is trying
— he was my best friend
— he saved me
— I'll never let go of him anyway
Negative:
— has changed
— might never understand
— burned the butterflies
— barely remembers me
— I can't get close again

NICK
Positive:
— always checks up on me
— makes my dreams happy
— a lot of other things
Negative:
— also makes my dreams sad
— he is not alive
— because of me
— he is not alive because of me
— he is not alive because of me
— he is not alive because of me
— he is not alive because of me
— he is not alive because of me
— he died because of me
— he died because of me

CORGY
Positive:
— he is grateful for me
— a lot of other things
Negative:
— it's a pig

STAN
Positive:
— he is adorable
— he goes frog hunting with me
Negative:
— he'll never forgive me
— I buried him

WINSTON
Positive:
— he cares about me
— he taught me how to slaughter
Negative:
— wanted me dead
— hasn't talked to me since

I'm just rounding up Jeff's analysis of the day, when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

"Hi, there." It's Minho. He slides across from me on the picnic table. Folds his arms, resting his chin on them. "What're you doing?"

"Checking who's my friend," I explain. With a final feeling of guilt, I stripe Winston off the list. I haven't talked to him since he voted for me to get Banished. "What do you consider a friend?"

He's thoughtful for a while. "Someone who's there for you. Someone you're convinced your life would be different without."

But most faces pass by in a blur. They're all the same. All their questions are the same. The looks on their faces.

That doesn't mean I don't care about them. My mind just mixes everyone here up, because in certain situations, they're all the same.

Except for Minho. He's always bright and clear, whether I want him to be or not. Yet I don't want him to be. I'm still too attached to the old him.

"What do you think?" He asks.

I look down at my list. "The same, I think."

"You can count me as a friend," he then says. "We made it up, remember? We can talk, just like we did when you woke up. That was nice. You telling the story of us until you fell asleep."

I nod. "Thank you."

"Zee," he sounds more urging. "Talk to me. We made it up. I want to be your friend. But that won't work if you don't talk to me."

"I wouldn't know what to say."

"You don't have to be afraid to repulse me or anything like that."

See? They still know you're crazy.

"And so what? At least you're not boring," Minho responds.

I think I might've said that out loud on accident.

Pressing my lips together, I remain silent. I don't know what to say. I want to hug him, I want to hit him for being so mean to me, I want to tell him I understand why he was so mean to me, I want to tell him I don't mind he was so mean to me.

"Maybe I can braid your hair again," he suggests gently. "That's a start. I'm sure I still know how to do it."

My breathing hitches for a moment before I nod, hesitant and slow. "If you want to."

"I want to. Question is, do you?"

"Sure... I mean— my hair's a mess anyway."

"I like it." He stands up. "Where can I find the equipment?"

"I think it's in the box below my hammock. I'll go with you." I follow along.

Tense, my hands clench and unclench. They're a bit sweaty. My heart's pounding. I can't mess this up— no. He said he doesn't care. He wants to be friends. You can be friends. It's not like he's a whole different person.

"Right here." I click the wooden box Gally made me open, revealing the dozens of objects inside. The second it does that, I look away, cheeks red. "I think the equipment is at the bottom."

Minho looks inside the box, but it remains untouched until he carefully asks, "Can I?"

"Mhm."

He crouches down next to it. Starts taking things out on by one. Things I'd almost forgotten were there.

The first is a tiny, hand-carved wooden figure of a runner. I'd worked on it for hours, sitting alone with a scrap of wood and a rusty knife. Back when I was allowed to hold knives, at least.

It doesn't look very good, and he might not even recognize that it's a Runner, but it's something.

I remember thinking that if I could make something just for him, maybe he'd remember. But I never gave it to him. The figure just lay at the bottom of the box, collecting dust.

Then he finds a strip of cloth, tied carefully into a bow. It's dyed with a mixture of crushed berries and leaves I'd gathered, just to get it close to the color he liked. I imagined him tying it around his wrist— until I realized he'd burn it, just like the butterflies.

He lifts a small, flat stone that I'd smoothed down by scraping it against the Maze walls for hours. Then I drew on it with a big, black marker. Just a little butterfly.

He turns it over, studying the etching with a faint smile. "This is pretty cool."

Next, he pulls out a dead flower crown. I remember weaving it on one of those endless days, hoping I'd find the courage to give it to him. But I kept forgetting he hated me.

Behind two jars that are filled with paper butterflies, he finds the hair ties, the brushes, and the fake hair.

"Here we go," he says, holding them up. "Ready? We can do it right here. If you sit on the ground and I sit on the hammock, I can reach you just fine. And you can sit on top of a pillow."

Nodding, I sink down in front of him. He moves behind me, gathering my hair in his hands. I'm surprised by how easily he just started. No hesitation.

The world feels quiet as he detangles my hair. Only the soft pull of his fingers and the buzzing in my head. The nice touch on my scalp.

After quite some time, Minho has sectioned my hair, and starts braiding.

Sometimes, he pulls a little too hard, and it hurts, but I don't tell him.

"Ow."

"Sorry."

"It's okay."

"Okay."

A lump forms in my throat, and I swallow it down. The pressure building in my chest is harder to ignore. Each small pull feels like it's revealing something— every hurt feeling, every moment I thought he'd forgotten me. The buzzing in my head grows louder, until it's all I can hear.

I clench my hands together to stop them from shaking. A tear spills over before I can stop it, followed by another. I try to wipe it away quickly, hoping Minho won't notice, but my shoulders start to tremble, and there's no hiding it anymore. The small gasps slip out before I can bite them back.

"Hey... are you okay?" His voice is soft, but there's surprise in it. He pauses, his hands still resting in my hair.

I shake my head, and the tears start falling faster. "I... I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm—"

I can't finish. My voice breaks as I try to pull myself together, but it only makes me cry harder.

"Zee... it's okay," he says, awkwardly patting my back, trying to figure out the right way to comfort me.

He shifts a little closer, wrapping an arm around me from behind in a... half-embrace, and I lean into him without meaning to, my shoulders shaking.

"You don't have to be sorry," he says, voice softer not. "I mean, if you want to cry, you can cry. I'm not going anywhere."

I cling to his arm, clutching it as if he might slip away if I let go. "I- I missed you so much," I choke out, the words tumbling out before I can stop them.

"I'm... I'm here now. And I'm not leaving anytime soon, okay?"

He rubs gentle circles on my shoulder. His hand trembles slightly as he adjusts his hold, and though I can feel his uncertainty, it's nice.

I try to pull myself together, forcing deep breaths, but the sobs won't stop. Every time I try to take a breath, another tear escapes, and my shoulders shake under his arm. The noise in my head, the buzzing, the memories— it's all too much.

"I'm sorry." I want to hide my face, but he sits down next to me just when I raise my hands. So I lower them again.

But he wraps his fingers around mine, so close to my that our shoulders touch. I clutch his hand tightly.

"I'm just happy we can start over," I sniff. "Even though it's stiff and awkward."

"We can start small. Like, by braiding your hair, like I used to. One thing at a time."

I nod, managing a shaky smile. "One thing at a time."

He squeezes my hand a last time before he sits back down on my hammock. "Tell me if I'm pulling too hard."

I nod again, even though I won't tell him. Maybe next time.