Dear Cato,
As I am writing this my parents are yelling at me through the ceiling, trying to get me out of my "room" but you and I both know it's an attic. It's the day of the reaping, the day I leave home happily, just to-be slaughtered by other kids later on. Surely you knew I'd be going into these games, and I'm not coming back. I might have knife skills but I can't fight 23 other people. I am so thin and short I might as well be a twelve-year-old.
I am forever grateful for your family feeding me rations of their food when they could have easily just ate it all to themselves. I am also grateful for you. When I'm with you, I feel, as if I don't live in an attic. But a bedroom, a glorious bedroom, with a nice bed, and a dresser. I also don't feel so alone, and locked away. I feel like I actually mean something to my parents; not just some rejection in the attic. Most of all, I am thankful for your love. Your love's the reason I haven't given up on life. There was, and still are many days when I have the most darkest thoughts imaginable, but then I remember you, and all of our amazing memories together.
If it wasn't for you I most likely wouldn't be alive, so for everything you've done for me. Loved me, helped me, believed in me. I thank you, and even though I'll die in the games, you must remember. We will meet again, in the afterlife. I'm sure of it.
It's incredibly hard to write this, my tears are all over the paper. I'm sorry about any smudged ink.
I love you, Cato.
Love,
Clove
A/N: This is my first story-ish and I am sorry for how short it is. If anyone could review this story, please do! The next thing I write will be longer I promise. Thank you for reading!
-5ophi3