Newt bvl)

The evening at the Right Hand Camp was piercingly cold. The mountain air burned their lungs, and the starry sky stretched above their heads—a clearer sky than they had ever seen in the Glade.

Eli sat on the edge of the roof of an abandoned building, hugging her knees. After her brother's death in the Labyrinth, she seemed to have become a shadow. The ringing laughter, the sparkle in her eyes, had vanished. She barely ate, staring for hours at a time.

Newt was the only one she allowed to be near her. He didn't ask questions, didn't try to "cheer her up" with chatter. He simply was there, sharing the silence.

"Look," Eli said quietly, pointing to the constellation. "I think this is the star you were talking about."

She raised her hand sharply. The wide sleeve of her gray blouse slid down to her elbow, revealing a pale forearm. In the moonlight, Newt noticed crimson streaks and white scars on her wrist.

He froze. The whole world narrowed to these marks. Gently but firmly, he intercepted her hand.

"What's wrong with your hand, Eli?" her voice trembled, not accusatory, but painful.

Eli shuddered and tried to break free, but he held her, stroking the skin near the cuts. The girl cowered, looking away, at the mountains.

"It hurt so much inside..." she whispered, her voice sounding fragile. "And when I hurt her, it became easier. The pain went from my heart to my hand, from my hand to my heart. It's easier to bear that way."

Newt watched, his eyes reflecting both horror and sympathy. He knew despair; he had once jumped from this very wall in the Labyrinth.

"Are you serious?" His voice became muffled.

She saw a shadow cross Newt's cheek and realized she'd startled him, hit him in the gut. She jerked away, quickly covering her secret with her sleeve.

She gave a short, fake laugh:

"Oh, no, what are you saying..." She adjusted her hair, avoiding his gaze. "Just kidding, I slightly cut myself on the metal. Don't worry about it, Newt."