The First Runner

A long road to recovery

Newt's POV

The first thing I felt when I woke up was pain. A dull, throbbing ache radiated from my leg, making it impossible to focus on anything else. My mouth felt dry, my head was heavy, and everything around me seemed hazy and distant. As I slowly came to, the events leading up to this moment flooded back, and I felt a crushing weight settle on my chest. I was alive, but I hadn't meant to be.

The days that followed were a blur of discomfort and frustration. Clint and Jess were constantly by my side, checking my vitals, changing bandages, and adjusting the makeshift splint that held my leg in place. The break had been severe—three fractures—and Clint explained that it would take a long time to heal. I listened numbly, barely processing his words. All I could think about was the pain and the emptiness that had driven me to the edge.

Jess was a constant presence, her face etched with worry and something else—guilt, maybe. She was gentle and patient, helping me with everything from eating to getting comfortable, but I could see the weight she carried. I wanted to tell her it wasn't her fault, that none of it was, but the words wouldn't come. I was too wrapped up in my own despair, too ashamed of what I'd tried to do.

The first week was the hardest. I was confined to bed, barely able to move without help. The days were long and monotonous, broken only by visits from Minho, Alby, and a few of the other Gladers, none of which knew what really happened and I was thankful that Minho and Jess hadn't told anyone else. They all wore the same mask of forced cheerfulness, trying to hide their worry and fear. It was suffocating, and I hated seeing them so concerned, knowing I was the cause.

Jess was a lifeline, her quiet strength and unwavering support keeping me anchored. She sat with me, talking about anything and everything to distract me from the pain and darkness. Sometimes, we'd sit in silence, just existing in the same space, and somehow that was comforting too. Despite the heaviness in my heart, I found myself looking forward to her visits, to the soft sound of her voice and the warmth of her presence.

As the days turned into weeks, Clint and Jess began helping me with gentle exercises, trying to keep my muscles from wasting away. It was exhausting and painful, and there were days when I wanted to give up, to sink back into the darkness that loomed at the edges of my mind. But Jess wouldn't let me. She pushed me, coaxed me, and sometimes even scolded me, refusing to let me wallow in self-pity. Her determination was infuriating and endearing all at once.

The physical recovery was slow, each small improvement a hard-won victory. There were moments of intense frustration when I couldn't do something as simple as sitting up without help, but there were also moments of quiet triumph—a day when I could shift my leg without a burst of agony, or when I managed to eat a full meal on my own. Each milestone, no matter how small, was a reminder that I was still here, still fighting.

Emotionally, it was a different story. The darkness hadn't left; it lingered, a constant shadow over everything. There were nights when I'd lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and wonder why I was still fighting. But then I'd think of Jess, of Minho, of all the people who had stood by me, who had fought to save me. They believed in me, even when I couldn't believe in myself. And slowly, that belief started to sink in.

The turning point came one quiet afternoon. Jess was sitting by my bed, reading aloud from a book she'd found in the Box. I wasn't really listening, lost in my own thoughts, when she suddenly stopped and looked at me.

"Newt," she said softly, her eyes meeting mine. "You scared me. We all were scared. But you're still here, and that means something. It means you have a chance to make things better, to find a reason to keep going."