𝐟𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐫 {𝐧𝐞𝐰𝐭 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫}

sixty seven: the gloom

The funeral was gloomy.

As far as I was concerned, this was my first funeral, and now I can confidently say that I fucking hate funerals.

Everyone from the campsite came, not one single person didn't show. Even Emilio - who I thought would never want to see me or Newt ever again. But, when he came over and spoke to me, he seemed sympathetic. 

He apologised, for many a thing, but mostly for my loss. A lot of people did that at the funeral. 

Newt wouldn't have liked it. He wouldn't have liked that the entire thing was orchestrated for his benefit, and that people took time out of their busy lives to plan something he would consider 'a pointless activity'.

And I'd agree with him of course, adding on the fact that a funeral wouldn't bring him back, and therefore it's stupid and has no real point to it.

But then he'd realise that my mindset to the event was inaccurate, and actually say that he appreciates the time and effort we put into the funeral just for him. And that he was glad I got my final goodbye, even if he wasn't around to hear it.

Leaving him in the city was the worst part. I didn't even get to say a proper goodbye. It was instead just a tear shared at a small headstone, with no body below it.

His last words to me; 'I promise, love.'

He would have hated that he didn't keep the promise. He always kept his promises. He was good like that. 

He deserved to be at least buried. He deserved something greater than what he got.

But then I remember that he'd say 'who cares? I'm dead anyway.' And I'd laugh because he was right, but not because I agreed.

After Newt died, Thomas had barely gotten out alive after he had gone after Teresa, and in turn watched her fall to her death in order to save him.

I still hate her, but appreciate the sacrifice she made for Tom.

When the boy awoke after being shot by Janson, he didn't say anything for a while. He was completely silent for almost an entire day; I think trying to process his best friend and the girl he loved dying all in the space of an hour.

Tom struggled with it just as much as I did – even more so, probably. He showed his emotions much more than I could possibly fathom, and it was clear that he missed them so very dearly.

He, like Newt, deserved better than all of this.

"Hey, Y/n. Can we talk?" Thomas asked, coming to sit next to me at the breakfast table. 

Thomas had been very wary of me after that night. He thought that as he was the one to have actually shot Newt, that I would hate him. But the truth is I don't, and I know that Newt would be angry at me if I were. 

I'm just trying to do right by him. 

I hadn't touched a thing on my plate, not really having much of an appetite these days. But still, I nodded at the boy, and allowed him to squeeze in next to me.

"I was planning to give this to you the day of the funeral, but you didn't seem to really want to talk to anyone so I just left it." He explained, making me confused.

"Give me what?" I asked, watching as the boy reached into his trouser pocket, and pulled out a crumpled piece of paper.

It was folded in two, crumpled and slightly stained.

Thomas placed it carefully on the table and stood up from his seat. "I'll leave you to it. And I promise I didn't read it, even though I really wanted to." The boy said with a slight smirk, and turned away to head out of the council room.

Confused, I stared down at the paper. I have no idea what it is.

Hesitantly, I picked up the paper from the table, and unfolded it.

It was a letter.

My darling, Y/n,

I have a gut feeling that you hate letters. You'd probably say that they're stupid, and that if you really wanted to tell someone something, that you should just do it, before it's too late.

And honestly, I would be inclined to agree with you.

But once I sat down to write this, I realised that I don't believe that at all. There isn't enough time in a day to say everything I want to, so, I figured, that a letter might be helpful to capture at least a little bit of it.

When I was thrown down into the maze, I thought my life, that had barely even begun, was over. My fourteen-year-old self was horrified that I would never get to live a normal life, and would instead be condemned to live with hormonal teenage boys for as long as I was alive.

But then, you were condemned to the same fate with me, and all of a sudden, my lungs felt a little clearer. Misery had started to consume me, but then you appeared in the box six months ago, and gave me a reason to keep fighting.

I never understood it, when it happened. It drove me mad, because, how could this person I didn't even know, have so much power over me? I still don't really understand it now, but I gave up trying to a while ago, and just allowed it to happen. Because I didn't care that I didn't understand it, I was just happy to have it.

A bond so strong that not even erasing our memories could break it.

Out of all the ways our story could have ended, I was sure this way would be the least painful. You're strong, in so many ways, and you know how to keep going. I think the thing I adore about you most is that no matter how many times you get knocked down, you always find a way to get back up.

I don't think I even told you that in person. I'm sorry I didn't.

You didn't allow me to say it before, and while it hurt, I understood.

But I just wanted to say this. The moment I realised for the first time that I love you, was actually when we found out what you had done to Lawrence. And at the time, I thought I was going insane, because why, out of all of the times that I could have come to that realisation, did it occur then?

I didn't understand it at first, but I do now.

It doesn't matter what you do, Y/n. I will always love you. Completely and unconditionally. There's nothing you can say or do that will make me stop loving you. Even in death.

I'm sorry I couldn't be the person you deserve, the person who would fight harder. You deserve everything good in this world, please don't let anybody tell you otherwise.

Goodbye, love. Take care of the others, but most importantly, take care of yourself.

- Your blonde.

I stared down at the paper in my hands, and re read it. I probably read it about 50 times, but I could honestly read it forever. This was Newt. He had written this, as a goodbye. 

I wanted to write back to him. But I couldn't.

So, instead, I folded up the letter my blonde had written me, slipped it into my trouser pocket, and began picking at the food at my plate.

I know exactly how I would end my letter if I were to write one.

I love you too, blondie.