The Hunger Games: Continued

Living With Sorrow

Katniss' POV

2 months later

I roll over in bed—mid-afternoon. I don't sleep. Sleep only drags me into nightmares, each one worse than the last. Today is another bad day. I can't get them out of my mind. Prim. Rue. Finnick. Everyone whose blood is on my hands.

Peeta knows this. He always knows. On days like this, he doesn't press me to talk or do anything. He made me breakfast, told me to rest. Now he's downstairs in the study, painting. He won't go home. He never leaves me alone when I'm like this.

Every so often, he comes upstairs to check on me. He asks if I'm okay, and my silence is answer enough. I don't know how long it is before I hear him again—his uneven steps on the stairs. When he appears, he's smiling. But it's an act. His mouth smiles, but his eyes don't. He carries a tray: soup and water. He sets it on the table and sits at the edge of my bed.

"You should eat something," he says. "Starving yourself won't do any good." A small, genuine smile tugs at his lips. Then he leaves again.

My back aches from lying still. I wander the room until I stop at the mirror. My hair has grown, brushing my shoulders now. The burn scars have faded, but they'll never disappear. I'm no longer skin and bone. My ribs don't show, my cheekbones aren't so sharp. Peeta's food and presence have softened me.

I drift to the bedside drawer. Inside lies the family plant book. I'd almost forgotten it. As I hold it, their faces flood back. An idea sparks. What if we made a new book—not of plants, but of people? The lost ones. Their traits, their stories, their drawings. If Peeta would oblige. That way they'd never be forgotten.

But then I see it. The pearl. The one he gave me in the Quarter Quell.

I lift it carefully, as if it might shatter. Cool against my palm, smooth against my lips. Like a kiss. My chest tightens.

"Are you alright?"

I spin. Peeta stands in the doorway. I shove the pearl back in the drawer, slamming it shut. "Yeah," I mutter.

"So you're talking now?" he teases gently.

"I guess."

He steps closer. Closer still. My pulse stutters. Is he going to kiss me? But no—his chest brushes mine only as he reaches past me to pick up the bowl of soup. I exhale, shaky.

"You haven't eaten," he frowns. "Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yeah, I'm sure." I pat the bed. "Can I talk to you?"

He sits without question.

I pull the plant book from the drawer, careful to avoid the pearl and his locket. "Remember this?"

He nods, puzzled.

"I was thinking... we could make another. Not of plants—of the ones we've lost. A memory book. Their traits, their skills. Maybe drawings."

He considers, then nods. "Yeah. That's a great idea. Haymitch might know people to add."

"I'll need to get paper from the Capitol. But we can start soon."

"Sounds good." He runs a hand through his hair, his eyes dropping. I watch him longer than I should. When his gaze lifts to mine, I don't look away. For once, I just smile. And he smiles back. We stare, and it's comfortable. His eyes flicker to my lips. I'm so tired of hesitation, of not having the courage to bridge the space. So tired. But I do nothing.

⸻

Peeta's POV

I try to break the moment before I can't resist any longer. "Well... I should get back to painting. Want to help?"

She blinks. "Help you? I can't paint. I don't have the patience."

She's right. But I press. "Come on. It'll be fun. Cheer you up a bit. Doesn't have to be serious."

She hesitates, then nods. I take her hand, lifting her gently from the bed.

In the study, I hide the painting I've already started—of her. She can't see it. Instead, I set out a fresh canvas. She stares at it uncertainly.

"I don't even know where to start."

"Think of something you like. Something that means something."

She shakes her head. Then laughs. "Not Buttercup."

"Then what?"

"A sunset. Like the one at the lake."

"Yeah," I breathe. "That was beautiful."

I hand her a brush and a palette of warm colours. She hovers. "Will you help me start?"

I guide her hand, the brush sweeping orange across the canvas. Reds and yellows follow. Soon she takes over, brow furrowed in concentration. It's the same look she wears when she hunts. I watch her, my chest full.

"You're actually good at this," I say.

Her hand slips, smudging the paint.

"Hey! You made me mess up!" she laughs, spinning to face me. Her eyes glint. "I need to tell you something. Come here."

I step closer—only for her to swipe the brush across my face.

A streak of orange.

⸻

Katniss' POV

I laugh, looking over my painting. It's nothing compared to Peeta's, but I'm proud.

"I'm going to get a glass of water. Want one?"

He sits on the desk, orange streak still bright across his cheek. "No, thanks."

I slip away.

In the kitchen, I let the tap run cold. That's when I hear it. A loud thump from the study. I ignore it until a scream rips through the air.

"Peeta!" I sprint back. The study is empty. Panic claws at my chest. "Peeta!" I tear through the house, calling his name. My heartbeat pounds until it drowns out everything.

At last, I find him in my bedroom. Curled on the floor. Trembling. A venom attack.

He hates when I see him like this. Usually, he hides. But now—he's here, broken before me.

I crawl to him on my knees. "Peeta?" I whisper, touching his shoulder. He flinches.

"It's me. It's Katniss. You're here with me." I repeat the words again and again. He doesn't respond.

Desperate, I lift his head into my lap. Too intimate, maybe, but I don't care. I smooth his hair back, kiss his forehead.

Slowly, his tremors ease. His eyes flicker open.

"You alright?" I whisper.

"Now I am," he says weakly. "I'm sorry you had to see me like this."

"Don't be sorry." A tear slides down my cheek. "It's not your fault. It's mine. I should never have left you in the arena. None of this would've happened."

"No," he says firmly. "If you hadn't, we both might've died. You can't change it. We've lived with sorrow before. We can live with this."

"Never sorrow like this," I murmur, running my fingers through his hair.

"We have each other. That's enough. Okay?"

"Okay."

Silence settles. I don't want to move. His weight in my lap feels like an anchor. Like safety.

After a long moment, he speaks. "Katniss... that letter I wrote you. The one asking for friendship. The day after... I could've sworn the night before, you were there. By my bed. I felt you. Heard you."

My heart jolts. He knows. I prayed he didn't.

"You were really there. Real or not real?"

There's only one answer. The truth terrifies me, but I can't lie to him.

"Real."