A/N- Ok, so I've had this idea for a while now... and I finally decided to write it! This isn't my usual style, as I mainly write longer stories... But, I hope you like it anyway, especially those Gale fans :D I am totally with you!

Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games, I would show you my birth certificate to prove it, but I'm not sitting beside you so you'll just have to take my word for it. x

I'm walking. In the dark. The moon has decided against me; cruelly ducking behind buildings and refusing to share its limited light with me, to guide my way on this dark, forbidding night. But, I suppose, even if it weren't hiding, I would still be walking in the dark. It's winter and the clouds have gathered in the deep night sky. So even if by chance the moon hung high, it's short beams of white light would be suffocated, swallowed by the blanket of clouds.

I'm walking in the dark, surrounded by ebony shapes and shadows. Everything merges together; all one huge black hole of emptiness. Sort of like my heart.

I'm trudging. In the cold. The bitterness of mid-winter hangs in the air. It encases me, traps me, holds me. The deathly claws, as cold as death itself, swipe at my face and snag at my clothes. They send shivers down my spine. My breath, though I cannot see it clearly, puffs white clouds that linger in the icy stillness of the night and then gradually fade to remake the hole in the black abyss.

I'm trudging in the cold, stalked by winter's hands. They pull at my feet, they pull them down to the crisp ground; sunken and unable to rise. Sort of like my mind.

I'm stumbling. Alone. The District is sleeping. Children; tucked up in itchy blankets, four siblings squashed up on one flattened old mattress, whose springs gave up a long time ago. Parents; tired, weary after tough days of hard labour, soaking up the night like sponges and dreading the time when the sun will rise.

I'm walking alone, followed only by the creaks of swinging sign posts and the occasional scuttle of rats' paws on wood. Everything else has gone, diminished into nothing but thoughts; drifted away silently. Sort of like my soul.

My boots, worn and battered, scrape the ground I walk on. The soles are dotted with gashes and crevices that allow the cold and the wet from the puddles I step in to soak into my equally gappy socks. My toes are numb from the murky water that sloshes around my feet.

And my clothes; they're not what you would call winter wear. My t-shirt is loose and rumpled, creases forming unscripted patterns and hanging lazily from my shoulders. My trousers are stiff; rigid as my legs move within them. And my jacket is the only thing good about my clothing. Thick, durable, brown leather. It's really made for hunting; a comfortable stretch where needed and a leather that stays cool in the summer, but insulates in the winter. I guess it's the only thing keeping me from freezing to death in this bleak mid-winter night.

A dim light catches my weary eye. It flickers steadily and it's somehow beckoning. Like a moth to a candle. Another sense calling me in; whispering for my presence. So I find myself chasing it.

It's not much of a chase, as the light never moves to challenge me. It stays, like a beacon. And I'm merely to meet with it.

My boots scuff the crackling road and my t-shirt flaps in the harsh wind. I pull my arms around my torso tightly, sealing in the warmth and barricading out the cold.

The wind howls down my ears and slaps at my face. The deathly chills slip through my nostrils and the stinging whips scald my eyes. It's testing, but I push on.

The shadowed buildings become nothing and the scurrying rats become simply a distant memory. It's as if the District has vanished and that one light is the only thing left to stand. I'm unsure how or why, but I feel a strong connection with the light. Maybe I'm just tired, worn out by the night and subconsciously seeking shelter. Or maybe there really is something waiting for me. Like the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.

Stepping in yet another puddle, I ignore the wave of water swashing my feet. A dampness crawls up my leg; at first I think it's a snake, like the ones I used to find in the woods, but then I realise that it's just water soaking in my trousers.

When I look back up from the raven coloured ground, I see the light. Hovering, just a hundred yards away, it waits patiently for me. Its easy glow urging me onwards even though my shoes are swamps, my clothes are battered and my body is trembling with cold.

Just a short distance to go. Not too far now.

I break out into a clumsy run. My feet hit the ground like bricks and rainwater sprays up at my face. The wind screeches down my ears and the winter snarls around me. It's hardly bearable and I almost feel like giving up. But why should I quit now when I'm so close?

So close that I stop running. I stop jogging. I stop walking.

The light is merely steps away. And I can see now that it is not a beacon, nor any sign for that matter. It's simply a soft candle flame behind a frosted window. It shouldn't have looked so bright, except the darkness of the night made it ever so bold and noticeable. Like black ink on white paper.

Gently opening the gate with trembling fingers, I recognise the shaping of the wood. Its carved and curved frame tells me where I am. Yet I carry on.

Passing the neat shadow of the low built stone wall and the smell of damp moss, I continue towards the window. I finally come to a halt as my face is parallel to the translucent glass and the light behind.

Pulling the sleeves of my jacket over my palms, I rub a small circle onto the window. The frost wipes away easily and a small peep hole is left. Crouching slightly, I peer inside. I don't want to. I don't want to see what's inside. But I look anyway.

A lounge. With a cosy fireplace, sofas draped in coloured blankets, a low table decorated in stained mugs and a warmth that deepens all the way to the hearts of the people inside. Not like me, who shivers outside, standing and watching like a nobody. A nobody that no-one wants. Who no-one remembers. That's me. I'm not like the people in there.

I'm not the gentle husband, whose hands tenderly run his wife's aching feet. I'm not him, who sits in the warmth, staring lovingly into his wife's grey eyes and strokes her long, brown hair. I'm not him who has all this.

I don't have the lounge with the roaring fire. I don't have the cluster of mugs, all stained with tea and lip marks.

And I don't have the beautiful wife.

No, not anymore. She belongs in there, all warm and cosy, with her usual braided hair released from its twining style and left to flow behind her. She belongs with the gentle husband, with the soft hands and kind nature.

Katniss belongs with Peeta now.

Not with me.

I lost her a long time ago.

A/N- Yay, so that was it. I hope you enjoyed it, I found it quite fun to write, despite being a little mean on our Gale-baby :(

Ok, so please please please review! I really want to know what you thought of it! You're opinions mean soo much to me and the future of this story depends on the reviews. I have an idea of how to carry this story on, so if you want more, then review and I shall update!

Thanks, FireflyLlama xxx