When WCKD handpicked its prizes, it picked people like you, Thomas. The ones who would save the world.
But they also picked people like me, those poor bloody bastards who needed saving.
You and I both know that we have to save Minho. But only I know that you need someone worthy of you in your company. An Immune. Those they put on the pedestal and bow down to, and I really thought that I deserved to be on that pedestal too. Those veins were the threads of reality, knitted into my blood, handmade crochet telling me that I'm not worthy.
That I was nothing special.
Nothing to bother with.
Just another Crank that's going to wreck the world. They yanked me down off the pedestal, but they didn't beat me. They left me on the outskirts of the crowd, and in a way that was worse, because they didn't want to bother. They just wanted to forget me. People like me are often forgotten. By us, and the world.
I think you maybe even need Teresa. I can see the way your eyes still shine in longing, a wish for a life that was shattered long ago. But it's okay. Nobody thinks like that about people like me. Why should it be you?
They'll be chanting your name, riding the hero high, carving your name into stone and marble, and I'll be the one standing on the street corner yelling my name, hoping that someone will hear it and maybe even bother to repeat it back. But nobody listens to people like me.
I'll help you get to the top. You can climb on my hands, tread on my shoulders, step on my head, and it's okay that you don't turn around to pull me up with you.
People like me don't deserve people like you.
I'm sorry Thomas.
I tried.