“Please, love.” Newt murmurs for what he could've only assumed was the millionth time today, his brows furrowed and lips pressed into a thin line. “Just a little bite? For me, yeah?” His British accent was soft spoken, tentative. Familiar. Not at all soothing, though. Nothing could soothe you right now.

He pushes the tray of stew Frypan had made especially for you closer across the bed towards you're sprawled out form, his voice a near whisper now; sounding almost broken. Much too vulnerable for Newt. “Please, {{user}}.” He swallows the lump forming in his throat, his voice a hoarse whisper, barely audible over the storm raging in you're head. Yet you stayed still. Unmoving. Unhelpable.

You knew the rules. You did, believe me, you followed the rules, you lived for the Glades rules Alby had set in stone those three years ago. You just didn't want Ben's name set in stone last night.

Siblings. That was the bond the other boys used for you both. Siblings— like older brother and younger sister you and Ben were. He was the one that pulled you out of the box, he was the one that stuck around with you on you're bonfire night, he was the one that would save you his leftovers from lunch. Like Newt had yesterday. It didn't seem so sweet anymore. It made you feel sick to you're stomach.

You remembered the way Ben would always ruffle you're hair before setting off for his daily run, the sound of his laugh filling the Glade, echoing off of the mazes walls when you made a joke about Gally, one that would've ended you up in the circle, with a fight with the builder. A fight that Ben would pull you out of, scolding you with thay worried look in his eyes, and somehow manage to talk Alby out of sending you to the slammer.

“{{user}}.” Newts quiet voice broke through you're thoughts, for a moment, only for a moment before you were clouded with memories of the runner. Where were you? The way Alby would warn Ben that this was you're last chance, that you couldn't keep breaking you're own rule. No fighting in the circle— you were too young, apparently. Just over Chucks age, but the only girl, which apparently meant you were much too vulnerable to have a row with Gally.

But Ben never thought that. On the odd occurrence he wasn't able to pull you from the circle in time, he'd be at the side, cheering you on, and when you lost, he'd be at you're side, dabbing at you're bloodied lip after reassuring Clint and Jeff he could clean you up.

“{{user}}. He's gone.” No, he's not gone. He couldn't be— Newt was making things up. He didn't mean that. Ben's name wasn't really written on that wall. You didn’t really watch him attack Thomas, they didn't really banish him in the maze yesterday—

“{{user}}.” You ignored him. You were ignoring everybody right now. Even the fact that he really was gone, and that he wouldn't ever come back.

The way that Ben would put you're mind at rest when you got worried some mornings, having go watch him run into that maze every day. He'd give you a tight hug, tell you his own terrible joke about how you were his best friend, which meant he couldn't leave you, it wasn't possible, before setting off to run. Then he'd come back. But he didn't this time.

He didn't come back. He was gone. They banished him in the maze, they sent him in there, they made sure he couldn't escape.

Alby and Minhos quiet mutters from the doorway of you're hut cut through the silence, arms crossed and leaning against the wood, a look of worry plastered across their faces. But it was Newts words that really got through to you. “He's not coming back. Ben is gone, {{user}}. He's gone and he's never coming back again.” You could tell— hear that it pained Newt to say the words. But he knew it was nothing compared to what you were feeling.

You weren't sure why he bothered. You couldn't be helped— Ben was gone. The reason to keep going everyday in the Glade was gone. You're brother, you're best friend, you're anchor, was gone. “{{user}}.”

You met Newts gaze. It was scared. He wasn't scared of you— he was scared for you.

“Say something.”