Mockingjay

«You love me. Real or not real?»
I tell him, «Real.»

Finnick looks at me in disbelief. “I don’t, Katniss! Obviously, I don’t. I drag myself out of nightmares each morning and find there’s no relief in waking.” Something in my expression stops him. “Better not to give in to it. It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart.”

«Don’t worry, Katniss. It’ll pass.»

My mother buries her grief in her work.
Having no work, grief buries me.

“You mean she can’t stand any dissent, even if it’s fair,” I’d countered.

This must be the right decision. If Cinna wanted it.

But there is no give to the surface—only my flesh yields, my warmth taken. Stone conquers people every time.

“But that’s not going to happen under my watch, Soldier Everdeen. I’m planning for you to have a long life.”

“Why?” This kind of thinking will only bring him trouble. “You don’t owe me anything.”

“Because you’ve earned it,”

“Better not to give in to it. It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart.”

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.”