𝐓𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐎𝐟 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐖𝐚𝐫

Not enough

***THIRD PERSON***

      Marvel sat in the forest clearing, the night sky casting a soft, silvery glow around him. It was quiet, too quiet, compared to the cacophony of the arena just a few days before. The trees whispered with the wind, the only sound to break the stillness. But Marvel's mind was far from peaceful. His thoughts buzzed with everything he wished he had done differently.

       Glimmer. Her name alone sent a pang of guilt shooting through him. He could still see her in his mind, lying on the ground, her body twisted in pain as the Tracker Jacker venom coursed through her veins. Her eyes—those bright, fearless eyes—had looked up at him, pleading silently for help.

       And he had just...stood there.

       Marvel squeezed his eyes shut, the image of her agony flashing behind his lids. He could have saved her. He should have saved her. But he hadn't. He had waited, waited for Cato to be the hero. That was what Cato did, wasn't it? He saved people, or at least Clove. He was strong, decisive. He always took charge, and Marvel—Marvel had let him.

        Why did I always wait for Cato?

      Marvel thought bitterly, raking a hand through his messy hair.

      Why didn't I do something?

         He leaned back against the tree behind him, trying to ignore the gnawing guilt eating at him. Glimmer had been his friend—or as close to a friend as one could get in the Hunger Games. Maybe more than a friend. He had admired her strength, her beauty, the way she never seemed afraid. She could be ruthless when she needed to be, just like the rest of them, but there was something about her that made Marvel feel like maybe—just maybe—he wasn't so alone in all this.

      But she had never looked at him the way she looked at Cato.

       Marvel clenched his fists, the memory of Glimmer's playful smiles toward Cato twisting the knife in his chest. It was always Cato. Cato with his muscles and his easy confidence. Cato with his natural leadership and that smirk that made everyone believe he could do anything.

        Marvel had always been in Cato's shadow. Sure, they were both Careers, both skilled fighters. But Cato had a presence that Marvel could never match. And Glimmer—she'd always been drawn to that.

        He remembered the times they'd trained together before the Games, how Glimmer would joke with Cato, nudging him with her elbow, her laughter light and carefree. Marvel had laughed too, though it felt forced, because deep down, he knew she didn't look at him the way she looked at Cato.

         The arena had only solidified that feeling. When the Tracker Jackers came, Marvel had been right there, close enough to save her. But instead of acting, he'd hesitated. He waited for Cato to rush in, to be the one to save the day. That was the role Cato always played, wasn't it? The hero.

          But this time, Cato hadn't been there. And Marvel had failed her.

          A wave of shame washed over him, making his stomach churn. He didn't deserve to feel sorry for himself, not when Glimmer had paid the price for his hesitation. She had trusted him, and he had let her down.

         Marvel opened his eyes and stared up at the stars, wondering if she was up there somewhere, looking down at him. He didn't believe in an afterlife, not really—but it was a comforting thought, at least for a moment. Maybe she was in a better place, far away from the horrors of the Games.

         But even that thought couldn't ease the guilt. Marvel could still hear her screams, could still see her writhing on the ground as the Tracker Jackers did their work. He should have been faster, more decisive. He should have been her hero, not Cato.

        The truth was, Marvel had always felt like he wasn't enough. Not compared to Cato. And maybe Glimmer had felt that too. Maybe that was why she never looked at him the way she looked at Cato, why she didn't turn to him for help when she needed it most.

         "Why wasn't I enough?" Marvel whispered to the empty night. His voice was small, barely a breath, but the weight of the question pressed heavily on him.

         The wind rustled the leaves in response, as if mocking him with its indifference. Of course, the world didn't care about his regrets. It didn't care that he had been too slow, too weak, too unsure of himself to save her.

         Marvel wiped a hand across his face, frustration and sadness boiling inside him. He couldn't undo what had happened. He couldn't bring Glimmer back. But he wished—god, he wished—that he had been braver. That he hadn't stood by and waited for someone else to act.

         In the end, no one had saved her. And Marvel would carry that with him for the rest of his life, or what was left of it.

         He stared at the sky again, wondering what Glimmer had really thought of him. Had she ever seen him as more than just another tribute, just another pawn in the Capitol's deadly game? Or had she only ever seen him as the boy who wasn't quite as good as Cato?

          "I'm sorry, Glimmer," Marvel whispered again, though he knew it was pointless. She was gone, and no amount of apologies could change that. "Come back to me, please."

          But maybe—just maybe—saying it aloud would help him forgive himself someday.

        The stars twinkled overhead, silent witnesses to his regret. Marvel stayed there for hours, letting the guilt wash over him, knowing that it would never truly go away. He wasn't the hero. He never had been.

          And now, it was too late to try.

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