Whenever I Write A Story,

The Damage, The Fatigue, The Imperfections. That's How They Recognize Me; Why I Belong To Them.

And It’s All My Fault, Gale. Because Of What I Did In The Arena. If I Had Just Killed Myself With Those Berries, None Of This Would’ve Happened. Peeta Could Have Come Home And Lived, And Everyone Else Would Have Been Safe, Too.” “safe To Do What?” He Says In A Gentler Tone. “starve? Work Like Slaves? Send Their Kids To The Reaping? You Haven’t Hurt People – You’ve Given Them An Opportunity. They Just Have To Be Brave Enough To Take It.

Cato Kneels Beside Clove, Spear In Hand, Begging Her To Stay With Him. In A Moment, He Will Realize It's Futile, She Can't Be Saved.

Despite What I Feel For Peeta, This Is When I Accept Deep Down That He'll Never Come Back To Me. Or I'll Never Go Back To Him. I'll Die For My Trouble. And He'll Die Insane And Hating Me.

It's Not Easy To Find A Topic. Talking Of Home Is Painful. Talking Of The Present Unbearable.