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.»

So after, when he whispers, “You love me. Real or not real?”

I tell him, “Real.”

“You’re still trying to protect me. Real or not real,” he whispers.

“Real,” I answer.

“No one knows what to do with you, girlie.”

It’s like a game. Repetitive. Even a little tedious after more than twenty years.

But there are much worse games to play.

So after, when he whispers, “You love me. Real or not real?”

I tell him, “Real.”

On the night I feel that thing again, the hunger that overtook me on the beach, I know this would have happened anyway. That what I need to survive is not Gale’s fire, kindled with rage and hatred. I have plenty of fire myself. 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.

“You’re back,” I say.