Over Again

Cato's grip on her hand was slack, as it had been for the last few days. It wasn't until 8:04pm on Wednesday that he felt a squeeze back. His eyes shot up, the smallest sliver of hope present. "Clove?" he whispered. For the first time that week, he felt like he could breathe. If only the look in her eyes when they landed on him showed any sign of recognition.

Or: How Clove hit her head during a training battle and woke up with no memory as to who Cato was, and everything they had gone through together for the past six years. The Games, the PTSD, the relationship, the laughter, the tears. All of it gone.

Rated M for language and explicit content.