Mockingjay
Peeta and I grow back together. There are still
moments when he clutches the back of a chair and hangs on until the flashbacks
are over. I wake screaming from nightmares of mutts and lost children. But his
arms are there to comfort me. And eventually his lips.
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.
So after, when he whispers, “You love me. Real or not real?” I
tell him, “Real.”
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