It crosses my mind that Cinna’s calm and normal demeanor masks a complete madman.
Even if times got bad, he would never again deny himself the possibility that the future might be happy even if the present was painful. He would allow himself dreams.
Telling a story in a futuristic world gives you this freedom to explore things that bother you in contemporary times.
So it’s you and a syringe against the Capitol? See, this is why no one lets you make the plans.
I clench his hands to the point of pain. “Stay with me.” His pupils contract to pinpoints, dialate again rapidly, and then return to something resembling normalcy. “Always,” he murmurs.
Sometimes things happen to people and they’re not equipped to deal with them.
Stupid people are dangerous.
They’ll either want to kill you, kiss you, or be you.
Well, don’t expect us to be too impressed. We just saw Finnick Odair in his underwear.
Fine. Somebody else can arrange to get the stupid goat knocked up.
Hope, it is the only thing stronger than fear. A little hope is effective, a lot of hope is dangerous.
We have to joke about it because the alternative is to be scared.
And to us, we’re more married than any piece of paper or big party could make us.
I realize only one person will be damaged beyond repair if Peeta dies. Me.
If you hit bottom, there’s a whole lot of people here to help you up.
And there I am, blushing and confused, made beautiful by Cinna’s hands, desirable by Peeta’s confession, tragic by circumstance, and by all accounts, unforgettable.
I always channel my emotions into my work. That way, I don’t hurt anyone but myself.
He hasn’t accepted his death. He is already fighting hard to stay alive. Which also means that kind Peeta Mellark, the boy who gave me bread, is fighting hard to kill me.
Don’t. Don’t let’s pretend when there’s no one around.
I poke around in the pile, about to settle on some cod chowder, when Peeta holds out a can to me. “Here.” I take it, not knowing what to expect. The label reads LAMB STEW.