Are you, are you coming to the tree? Wear a necklace of rope, side by side with me. Strange things did happen here. No stranger would let it be if we met up At midnight in the hanging tree.
Sometimes when I’m alone, I take the pearl from where it lives in my pocket and try to remember the boy with the bread, the strong arms that warded off nightmares on the train, the kisses in the arena.
An ability to look into the confusing mess of life and see things for what they are.
He frosted under heavy guard.
But I don’t know what to him about the aftermath of killing a person. About how they never leave you.
Because I can count on my fingers the number of sunsets I have left, and I don’t want to miss any of them.
Closing my eyes doesn’t help. Fire burns brighter in the darkness.
Don’t let him take you from me.
But collective thinking is usually short-lived. We’re fickle, stupid beings with poor memories and a great gift for self-destruction.
We fight, we dare, we end our hunger for justice.
Oh, Peeta, Don’t make me sorry I restarted your heart.
Fire is catching! And if we burn, you burn with us!
I must have loved you a lot.
I drag myself out of nightmares each morning and find there’s no relief in waking.
You’re a painter. You’re a baker. You like to sleep with the windows open. You never take sugar in your tea. And you always double-knot your shoelaces.
Oh, my dear Miss Everdeen. I thought we had an agreement not to lie to each other.
No one knows what to do with you, girlie.
I’m going to be the Mockingjay.
Plutarch rushes to reassure me. “Oh, no, Katniss. Not your wedding. Finnick and Annie’s. All you need to do is show up and pretend to be happy for them.” “That’s one of the few things I won’t have to pretend, Plutarch,” I tell him.
Something flickers across his bloodshot eyes. Pain.