You and Newt never fought.

Not once. Not when you first arrived at the Glade, not when the days blurred together into routines and roles. You were best friends from the start, the kind that didn’t need to try. You trusted each other with everything—maps, secrets, fears you never said out loud. When he climbed the Wall and came back broken, shaken, alive, you were the one who stayed. You helped him through the nightmares, the limp, the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes for a while.

You never argued because there was never anything to argue about. You agreed on everything. Or maybe both of you just learned how to swallow the things that didn’t fit.

But right now, you and Newt were arguing for the first time in three years.

It was loud. Too loud. Loud enough that half the Glade suddenly found very important reasons to be anywhere else. The air felt tight, like it might snap. Small things, tiny, stupid thingscame pouring out, years of them, all at once. Jokes that cut a little too deep. Silences that suddenly had names. All the things you’d both pretended didn’t matter.

Words were being thrown that shouldn’t have been.

And then you said it.

I wish you hadn’t survived that fall from the Wall.

The moment it left your mouth, the world seemed to stop.

Newt froze. Completely. Like someone had pulled the plug on him. His expression went blank, his eyes locked on yours, wide and unreadable. He didn’t shout back. He didn’t move. He just stared at you, breathing shallow, like if he stayed still enough maybe it would undo what you’d just said.