Thomas lay in his bed as one question rang over in his head over and over and over and over. He couldn't get any sleep-and it was four in the morning. Did he like Brenda the way she liked him? Thomas wasn't sure and it was confusing his thoughts. No matter how hard he tried to get Brenda out of his mind she just never went away.
It was aggravating. See, Thomas wasn't ready for a committed relationship. No, he wasn't the king of one-night-stands or whatever the hell people thought it was. In fact, Thomas was a virgin. The only thing was that Thomas had two things that he hadn't told anyone about. Two not-so-big secrets.
He had anxiety and anger-issues. It wasn't a bad thing, but it scared Thomas. The stigma of mental health telling himself he was a freak. He was scared of the things that would go along with relationships. Every where he went and everything he did had anxiety haunting his brain. He tried to ignore it all, though.
The anger issues weren't as bad. He didn't do anything rash, but when Thomas lost his temper, he lost his temper. He relieved all the stress through soccer. There was just something about that sport that healed him; which was weird considering that not many had that as a stress reliever. Maybe that was why he liked soccer so much. Thomas didn't like to ponder on things like that, though.
Thomas turned his body and pulled the crinkled, light-blue sheets higher up his body to the point where it lay right under his chin. Relationships were complicated and he promised himself a stress-free and drama-free summer. Ah, why was teenage life so damn complicated?!
Maybe he would just take it slow...
Yeah. That seemed like an excellent plan, and if not excellent, then perfect. Thomas eventually fell asleep with a small, content smile on his face.
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It was constant noises coming from Newt's small, white-walled bedroom that he shared with his sister Sonya. The glow from the computer casting light and shadows throughout the small room.
This has happened every night with Newt for the past few months now. He just wanted answers. A sense of self-identity, of who he was a person, and the only way he knew how to get answers was through a computer.
Everyday it was a constant worry for him. Do they suspect something? Am I being too obvious? Do they know? Do they know?
Newt hated a lot of things about himself. He hated his hair, his body, his face. Every. Buggin'. Last. Thing. Newt had fears as well as secrets. Big, big things that he wouldn't tell anyone. And he planned to keep it that way. Or so he thought that's how things would stay, but little did he know, everything's going to change.
When Minho went home, he felt a surge of sadness overcome his heart. It hurt sometimes. Everyone assumed him of a big ego and such a crazy guy, but they didn't understand what it was like to be Minho. The reputation and responsibility it came with.
None of his friends knew how strict life was at home, they didn't realize what goes on his household. He wasn't abused his father had big expectations and his mother was always out. It felt like Minho could never truly be himself at home, as if he always had to try to be the "good son." Shuck his life. Shuck his parents.
It's why he found like his only escape was with the Gladers. They didn't understand, but they tried. And they sure were a hell lot of a better family than his real parents were. Yeah, it sure as hell was that.
By 10 P.M. his parents still weren't home and he hadn't eaten a single thing. Nothing new here. His dad was probably still at work and his mom was presumably clubbing.
By one in the morning, Minho's dad came home. "Hey, Minho! Get your ass down here! It's dinner time!" Minho groaned as he paused the Tiktok video he was watching and shut his phone.
"About time! It's one! What the shuck took you so long to get home?! It's six hours past dinner!" "Do you want food or not?" Footsteps are heard and Minho is downstairs at the light-brown, wooden dining table.
Minho's father Randolph is heating things up in the kitchen. Minho takes a seat at the table with silence. He runs a hand through his perfect black hair, not even mussing it up in the smallest way.
Randolph places two bowls of Mr. Noodle's before them and Minho's jaw drops. "You're gone for the whole day and I get starved! Then, you come back with instant noodles that I could've got myself!" He stands up on the table, his hands clenched into tight fists.
His dad grunts. "You could've made your own food, Minho." "What? Like last time when you came home so late? When you yelled at me for using up that last of the eggs?! When I got grounded because I was starved?! Shut your shuck face, dad."
Minho's rant ended and his usual warm, teasing eyes were no longer the same. Those dark brown orbs were filled with a cold and calculating scare, more frightening than any other look Minho had given anyone. It wasn't even a broken look that made it sad. It was because it was a look of past the broken, to the point where he was way past fixable that he learned that no one was going to save him, that he had to learn how to pick himself back off his feet and deal with everything himself, as if he was used to pain and all that remained was a blank, tough-guy look.
Yes, that was much, much worse than the I'm-broke-help-me look. Without another word, Minho stormed back upstairs, taking solace in the loneliness of his bedroom.
