Minho

She stopped coming to breakfast. At first, Minho thought she'd overslept. But after three days, he realized: after roll call, she'd disappear, remain silent, and barely eat. At dinner, he had to drag her away, but she picked at her food with her spoon and left.
That evening, he found her by the fire. The Glade was quiet; someone was playing cards near the barn. Mia was sitting on a log, her legs tucked under her, staring into the fire. There were fresh abrasions on her arm, the bandage had slipped.
Minho walked up and kicked the stone.

• What are you doing here?
  — I'm breathing.
  — You can breathe at the table. Food helps too.
  He sat down next to me.
• You haven't eaten for three days. I've been counting.
  “You didn’t count anything,” she snapped, but her voice trembled.
  — I was counting. You came twice in three days. Yesterday you weren't there at all.
  — My stomach hurt.
• You're lying.
  Mia turned sharply, her eyes filled with anger and fatigue.
  — What business is it of yours? I eat when I want.
  "When did you last eat?" he asked, looking straight into her eyes.
  — I don’t remember.
• That's exactly it.
  She turned away, her knuckles white. Minho exhaled, pulled a cloth bundle from his pocket, and tossed it into her lap.
  "Bread and an apple. Newt gave them to me," he lied. In fact, he stole them from the kitchen an hour ago.
  Mia looked at the package, then at him. Her eyes were a mixture of stubbornness and confusion.
• I'm not hungry.
• I didn't ask. Eat.
• Eat the bread and I'll leave you alone.