If you ask Minho what he thought about her, he would write a love song. He would sing about her golden skin and how it shone like a star under the bright sun, and how her smile resembled a crescent moon. Moonlight—he’d call her that.
He’d hum the tune she’d sing to him at the pond by the deadheads. He’d talk about the nights they’d sit against the tree stumps and look at the idle night sky. When he wanted to spill his heart out and rant, she’d let him. That’s what he loved the most.
The loving look in her eye that held no judgement. The subtle tilt of her head to show she was listening. She always calmed his mind. So, then, in silence or chaos, he’d find her first. He would wait until his hands met hers to relax.
He would tell you how, now, although only left with memories of her, he would smile. He’d tell you how he’d memorised the melody of her laugh; and how he would revise it every night before bed just to relive it again.
To have someone understand your mind is a different kind of intimacy, and its what he had with her. He had someone who knew his mind. In the dark times of the Maze, he found a light—his home.