Surely even a brief time is better than no time?
Maybe he’s too pretty, or maybe he’s too easy to get, or maybe it’s really that he’d just be too easy to lose.
Lunch makes me feel a bit better.
No, Darius shouldn’t be glad he knew me. If I had.
I’m sorry. About screaming at you yesterday.” “I’ve heard worse,” she says. “You’ve seen how people are, when someone they love is in pain.
I guess this is a bad time to mention I hung a dummy and painted Seneca Crane’s name on it,” I say. This has the desired effect. After a moment of disbelief, all the disapproval in the room hits me like a ton of bricks.
Tenemos que bromear sobre el tema, porque la alternativa es morirse de miedo.
By the time the anthem plays its final strains, all twenty-four of us stand in one unbroken line in what must be the first public show of unity among the districts since the Dark Days. You.
The symbol of the revolution. The Mockingjay.
But even if all of us meet terrible ends, something happened on that stage tonight that can’t be undone. We victors staged our own uprising, and maybe, just maybe, the Capitol won’t be able to contain this one.
People keep talking at me, talking, talking, talking.
I can’t help catching glimpses of us on the huge screens along the route, and we are not just beautiful, we are dark and powerful. No, more. We star-crossed lovers from District 12, who suffered so much and enjoyed so little the rewards of our victory, do not seek the fans’ favor, grace them with our smiles, or catch their kisses. We are unforgiving. And I love it. Getting to be myself at last.
Cover yourself!” I lift my gun.
What I need is the dandelion in the spring. The bright yellow that means rebirth instead of destruction. The promise that life can go on, no matter how bad our losses. That it can be good again. And only Peeta can give me that. So after, when he whispers, “You love me. Real or not real?” I tell him, “Real.
So after, when he whispers, “You love me. Real or not real?” I tell him, “Real.
Trust is important. I think it’s more important than love. I mean, I love all kinds of things I don’t trust. Thunderstorms... white liquor... snakes. Sometimes I think I love them because I can’t trust them, and how mixed up is that?
Peeta. How Foxface stole the food from the supply pile before I blew it up, how she tried to take enough to stay alive but not enough that anyone would notice it, how she wouldn’t.
People aren’t so bad, really,” she said. “It’s what the world does to them.
I have the pearl, though, secured in a parachute with the spile and the medicine at my waist. I hope it makes it back to District 12. Surely my mother and Prim will know to return it to Peeta before they bury my body.
Any last words of advice?” Peeta asks. “Stay alive,” Haymitch says gruffly. That’s.