heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey (:

Okay, so all my Gallagher Girls subs must hate me right now for not updating WDGF, but I promise, it'll be up soon! I have to finish writing it!
(Look for it, possibly, Friday-Monday?)

HOWEVER! Any Hunger Games/Team Gale subbers must like me 'cause this is my second K/G fanfic! (:

It's a one-shot. My take on one of the popular storylines for HG: when Katniss gets letters from Gale after the war.

Hopefully it doesn't suck as much as I think it does right now.

It kinda sucked in the beginning, but the ending is so random and so hurried that it just ruins the story, really.

ANYWAY! Enough of my blabbing... read on, at your own risk.

[KPOV]

I'm sitting on the bed, contemplating. It's staring at me from the edge of the bed, boring into my eyes. I'm hugging my legs, refusing to touch it, as if I'm protecting myself from an ambush from it. But it's stupid. It's pointless. It's just a few letters.

Peeta always runs out to get the post, and he returns with some letters from my mother, some from District 13, and sometimes … him.

"Got something for you," Peeta says, handing me the letters, "Read 'em."

I read the sender's name and reply, "No, thanks," then set the letters inside a drawer.

I know I won't ever read the letters, but I can't bring myself to throw them into the bin. It's the idea of not wanting to read them but being able to read them if I want to that keeps me from throwing them in there, I guess.

And now, I'm having some sort of staring showdown with a bunch of inanimate letters. And it's winning.

It's odd. Like I said before, I won't ever read the letters, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't think about the content.

Was it him apologizing for … the incident? Was he asking me to come back to him? Or was he just wondering how I was?

And though I think about opening them every day, I just can't open one. It's like I'm letting him back into my life. Letting him come back, giving myself to him, then only to have him take away everything. And though I knew him and he knew me, things change; and you find yourself wanting to hate the person you once loved and trusted with all your heart.

I'm still staring at the pile. Should I?

My heart overrides my brain as my arm reaches out to take one, but my brain regains control as I jerk away and decide to take a short nap to clear my head.

I settle into the luxurious bed, and nestle my face into one of the pillows, hiding my face, as I drift off into a comfortable darkness.

And as soon as I fall asleep, I'm up again. At least, it feels like it. My room's the same; Peeta's still not here (attending to the bakery, most likely); however, Peeta's presence is replaced by a familiar face staring at me from the doorway.

"Did you miss me?"

"Prim?" I croak out.

She smiles, her face still the way I remembered it. She makes her way to the bed, and sits across from me.

"Hi," She smiles.

I reach out to touch her, but my hand drops, because I'm happy at the sight. I'm happy for once in what seems like forever. I don't want to ruin the illusion by not feeling what I'm seeing.

"What are you doing here?" I hear myself ask.

"I missed you," Her blue eyes blink, "So I decided to drop in."

I couldn't say anything. How could you when you see the sister you saw die in your room?

"How are you?"

"I'm good, Katniss," She replies, "No pain."

"Good," I say, wanting nothing more than to reach out and hug her, but knowing I won't feel her warmth on me.

Instead she gives me a hug, and her warmth is replaced with cold spreading through my body. She pulls away; then sits behind me, gathering my hair and splitting it into three sections then proceeds to braid it. Her touch is safe, and I feel relaxed.

"I know, Katniss." She says, her nimble fingers continuing to braid.

My eyebrows crinkle in confusion as I turn my head toward her, and she turns my head back to face forward.

"Read them," She whispers, "I know how much you want to. I know how much you miss him."

My eyes dart to the floor, tears swimming in them, not daring to spill over. I don't want to cry. Not now. I don't want to cry about the man who hurt me worse than before. I don't want to cry about the man who had been my best friend. I don't want to cry about the man who I want to hate but can't.

"Katniss, he loves you. And you love him too. Give him a chance."

She secures my braid with a tie, and makes her way to sit in front of me again. Her blue eyes stare at mine, and I want nothing more than to keep her in my arms, keep her from ever getting hurt again.

"Prim, you don't get it. I can't just forgive him," I sigh, "He killed innocent people. He was a sadistic monster during the rebellion. I would forgive the boy I saw in the woods. Not your killer."

"Katniss," She begins, "He didn't kill me."

"Prim, you don't get it, he even said—"

"Don't say that I don't get it, okay? I get it fully. He didn't kill me. He may have designed those bombs, but he wasn't the only one. He wasn't the one who ordered them to use them. He wasn't the one who started it all. If you want to blame someone for my death, blame the Capitol," She continues, "He was fighting. Fighting against the Capitol. He knew lives would be sacrificed. He knew people would die. Unfortunately, I was one of them."

I open my mouth to say something but she doesn't let me interrupt.

"He didn't purposely kill me. He didn't want to kill me. Don't forget the fact that he saved me, Mom, and about 900 others when District 12 got bombed. A sadistic monster wouldn't do that."

She adjusts herself, her legs crossed. "He loves you, and he loved me too. We were all practically family. Why would he kill his family?"

I'm silent right now, shocked by how wise my little sister sounds.

"You don't have to forgive him just yet, Katniss. But you need him, and he needs you. It's probably taking all of his courage to write these letters to you. Don't shut him out."

She tucks a wisp of dark leftover hair behind my ears. "Just listen to what he has to say."

She retrieves the letters on the edge of my bed and sets them in front of me. My arm reaches out and takes one, and I notice that Prim's not sitting on the bed anymore. Instead, she's standing on the floor, looking at me.

"I have to leave now," A sad smile is plastered on her face, "I'll miss you."

She hugs me one last time, and she turns, walking towards the doorway.

"Tuck your tail in, little duck," I say quietly.

She turns back to me one last time at the doorway. The little girl who I volunteered for the Games was gone. Prim had been forced to grow up quickly, exposed to too much violence than anyone should be exposed to. But I see that little girl in the girl looking at me now.

"Quack," She whispers, and then, she's gone.

I wake up then, though part of me wonders if it was really a dream. Instead of the letters on the edge of the bed, they are set in front of me; my hair's been pulled into its braid. And now, I finally have the courage to tear the first letter slowly, and hear the rustling of the paper as I lift it out of the envelope.

As I lift the letter out, I can smell the scent of smoke and apples; and I can almost see him, gripping the pen tightly as he looks out the window, wondering what to write. Then, I open it up, and see Gale's penmanship.

Dear Catnip,

No, that's too forward.

But then that's scratched out and replaced with,

Katniss,

How are you doing? It feels weird not knowing. We used to spend so much time together, and though it was mostly silence, we knew each other enough to know what the other was thinking.

I miss it sometimes. A lot, actually. I think about it all the time. I think about the woods and the time we spent in it. I guess it goes without saying that those times are what made my time in District 12 worthwhile.

I remember the cool breeze gliding through the trees and the rustling of game futilely trying to escape from your arrows and my snares. I remember you: the first time I saw you, to be exact. You were a gangly twelve-year-old, while I was fourteen. I could tell you were from the Seam: your straight dark hair was pulled into a messy braid; your olive skin was stained with mud and dirt while your eyes stared back with something … different. They were ordinarily silver, but they had a quality: strength, courage to them, saying you didn't trust easily. You weren't innocent. You were an adult trapped in a child's body.

And I liked that about you. You were mature for your age. You didn't need to be taken care of. I guess that's why I agreed to teach you about snares.

You had said your name, barely above a whisper when I said, "Well, Catnip, stealing is punishable by death, or haven't you heard?"

"Katniss," You replied louder and more defiantly, "And I wasn't stealing. I just wanted a look at your snares. Mine never catch anything."

You were carrying a squirrel on your back so I pointed to that when I asked, "What about that?"

"I shot it."

Then I asked to look at your bow and you smirked with "Just remember stealing is punishable by death," and I smiled for the first time since my father died. And I knew that there was something extraordinary about you. No one ever got me to smile so easily.

After, we agreed to trade knowledge; and use it whenever we hunted. I looked forward to our hunting days. I felt … okay in the woods. I felt safe and happy. Most of all, it was the only place where I saw you smile.

From then on, we grew closer. At first, it was an awkward silence, not trusting each other. But later on, we decided to let our guards down and help each other out. It was still silent, but we were comfortable with it. Then we moved on from being hunting partners to friends, the best of them.

I can't help but miss that. The silence is painful now. We're back to the beginning, and I think about our silences in the forest and what I should've said. What I should've done. And it kills me to know that we'll never have that again. I guess what I'm trying to say is … I miss you.

Hopefully waiting for a reply,

Gale Hawthorne

My hands shake after I read that, and I carefully put it back into its envelope, while picking up the next one. The next few are casual, asking me how District 12 is shaping up, asking how I'm doing, etc. Not once does he ask about Peeta and I, and I'm quite relieved. However, Peeta first pops up in the last letter.

Katniss,

Today was one of those days that we both liked in the forest: it was an early spring morning, the breeze was cool and the clouds blocked the sun from shining. I couldn't help but think of you. Of course, I think that's changed. Your preference to the weather, I mean. I don't really know. Maybe now you like sunny days, where there's not a cloud in sight while the air is humid. Maybe you like sunsets (because of him) instead of the sunrise. I guess I don't know anymore.

We've changed, too. Over the years, I've come to a realization that I don't know you anymore. Watching you fight in the Games: I looked for a shred of the Catnip I knew … and found none. During the Opening Ceremonies, you were holding his hand. During the interviews, he proclaimed his love for you. During the actual Games, you were in love with him. Of course, everyone in the Capitol bought it. Not me. I knew you: I thought it was an act. Just to survive. Just to save your life. But when you were holding those berries in one hand, your other one intertwined with his, I had two thoughts: one, you almost had me convinced you really did love him; two, Catnip was gone.

If I didn't know you well enough to know that you were just trying to survive the Games, I would've believed it. I would've thought that you really did love him. But I knew: you never even spoke before the Reaping, and though the relationship was plastic to you, it was real to him. He loved you. The only thing that kept me from believing it, I guess, was the hope that when you'd come back, everything would be normal: you'd forget him, and we'd be back to normal. But it's the Games … it changes everything.

When you came back, everything was different. We didn't talk. You never looked me in the eye. The only thing I could rely on was our hunting days. Of course, we could only go on Sundays, but it was special to me, nonetheless. I could feel the silence change. I could feel you change.

You had nightmares. Of course, you didn't tell me, but it's a given. I would've healed you. I would've stayed beside your bed, and slept there with you. But I couldn't understand. What you thought you needed was him. He knew what you were going through. You could help each other through it. And I hated him for it.

I was there, wasn't I? But you forgot about me. So that's why I kissed you. To help you remember. To help you see that I loved you and I wasn't going to leave easily. But it didn't work. I had to accept the fact that my Catnip was gone and his Katniss was here.

Sometimes, I think about Catnip. I think about if he wasn't there, would she still be with me here? I miss her. And I wonder if she misses me back.

Gale Hawthorne

I close the letter, and fold it back into its envelope, then setting all the other opened letters into the drawer. I hear Peeta's voice call out to me, and I walk up to him, while he kisses me and gives me a tight hug.

Gale's letter gave me some things to think about. Would I be with Gale if Peeta never came? I think about all the times we shared, and I feel raw. But Peeta looks at me, and I'm forced to mask it with a smile.

Days. Weeks. Months pass. And nothing.

Peeta doesn't give me any post, and I wonder if he knows I read them. I wonder if he read them and hid the incoming letters from me. But that thought is quickly dismissed when he comes up to me and gives me a single letter from District 2.

He looks at me, expecting me to stash it into my drawer, which I do, though I think he knows I'm lying. And when he leaves the house for the bakery, I sit on my bed, with the letter in my hands.

It feels … heavier, somehow. But I shake it, and there's no other sound but the paper inside it. I savour this moment: I carefully glide my finger along the flap of the envelope, detaching it and reaching in to grab the letter.

The smell of smoke and apples overwhelms me, but I carry on lifting the paper out and reading the familiar scrawl I've seen many times.

Katniss,

I don't know why I even started to write these letters. I know you won't read them. I know you won't answer. All it's doing is giving me hope that maybe, somehow, you would come back to me. And I know that will never happen.

I'm fully aware of that, and yet, I still somehow find myself at my desk, chewing on the top of my pen, thinking of what to write in a letter that I know will never be read. I guess I just need someone to talk to … and you're the first one I think of. Force of habit, I suppose.

You were my best friend, Katniss. You were the one I trusted fully. I guess once you get used to having someone there for the longest time, you can't help but think they'll always be there. But that's the thing: you aren't. I'm holding onto a girl that was never mine.

I haven't found anyone yet. That's kind of a lie. I should remove that 'yet'. So: I haven't found anyone, and honestly? I don't think I will. No one is you.

I've said time and time again in these letters that I miss you. I'll take one last time to reiterate that: I miss you. I constantly do and I constantly will.

I once said that I might always be like the man from the Hanging Tree: always waiting for an answer. The truth is: I always did have an answer. I had an answer the day you came back from the Games and couldn't look me in the eye. Even before that, I had an answer when you wouldn't run away with me.

This is my very last letter to you. These letters are pointless and even if you do read them, they won't make a difference to you. Like I've said before, we've changed: You're no longer Catnip any more than I'm Gale. And I have to accept that.

I love you, Catnip. And I always will.

Goodbye,

Gale

I put down the letter and wipe a tear flowing down my cheek. I regretted ever reading these letters: I let him come back into my life, only for him to leave.

Gale kept true to his promise: he never wrote me again. I waited for Peeta to give me any letters, and found none from him.

One day, I read over his letters: all of them, clinging onto his every word. And after, I found myself at my desk, gripping a pen, wondering what to write.

Dear Gale, it began.