Newt

The Glade's sun beat down mercilessly, but Mia had felt nothing but a cold void beneath her ribs since the Lift had delivered her into this stony captivity. Her armor—prickly glares and sharp retorts—kept her separated from the catastrophe. The Gladers saw her as a bratty "newbie," and she did everything in her power to make sure they kept thinking that.

The truth was too dangerous: every sideways glance sent a tremor through her hands, and every harsh word pierced her heart.

"Shank! Can't you do anything right?!" Gally nearly ripped the shovel out of her hands. "If you don't know how to dig, go scrub Frypan's pots!"

Mia snapped her head up.
"I'll do just fine without your advice, Gally!" she spat, though a bitter lump formed in her throat.

She turned and walked away, trying to maintain a steady gait until she disappeared around the corner of a hut. There, against the wall, she collapsed to the ground and sobbed silently.

The rustle of footsteps made her freeze.
"Go away," she croaked.

"I don't think that's a very good idea," Newt's calm voice rang out.

He sat down opposite her, leaning against the wall.
"Gally's a klunk. He's not worth killing yourself over."

"I'm not killing myself!" Mia looked up.

"It's hard," he finished for her.

She quickly looked away.
"Everything's fine, Newt. Go back to the others."

Newt looked at her intently.
"'Fine' is the biggest lie in the Glade. You don't have to be strong all the time. Don't let yourself turn into stone."

His words hit the mark. Mia let out a sob. Newt slid closer to her and pulled her into a tight hug. She tensed up at first, but quickly relaxed.

"Don't cry, it's alright," he whispered.

She didn't know how to ask for help, but Newt knew how to offer it in a way that made asking unnecessary.