I remember how it was right after our ambush on the Capitol.
I remember the nights of anguish, where I would wake up laying in a pool of my own sweat, soaked to the bone, and the only thing that could tranquilise me were her eyes. Her mahogany eyes that shielded so much hurt and anger, but at the same time were filled with sensitivity, empathy and affection.
I remember having to constantly convince myself that she wasn't an object of their tortuous experimentation, that she was real. That she had a beating heart, and warm blood flowing through her veins. That her skin would heat up, and cool down, and leave a trail of goose bumps on mine when she touched it.
I remember her tormented expression when I rejected her, when I told her I couldn't love her yet, and that I didn't remember what she used to mean to me, or how she used to make me feel. That those memories no longer existed, but had been replaced with a hollow abyss filled with trepidation.
I remember how this hollow abyss affected her in unimaginable ways, as it only increased the agony that she was already experiencing with regards to her own loss. The loss of everything that she held dear, of the most important thing that she had fought for. But most of all, the realisation that she was willing to give all of that up in order to save someone that she didn't even know that she loved.
She soon realised that she had no desire for the passion, or the anger that he brought her. She had plenty of anger of her own. She didn't need a blazing fire, but a still candle to make her see clearer. That would give her peace, that would give her comfort, that would give her home, that would giver her tenderness, that would give her warmth. All of the things that she had unearthed in her liaison with me, but never quite recognized for what they were.
I remember the first time I saw her. Of course, I saw her almost everyday, but the first time I saw her without the filter of lies blocking my judgment. I saw the intriguing beauty in the pearls of sweat that ran down her forehead, I saw the exquisiteness of the way that her hair was intricately braided down her back, I saw the reflection of the sun in her sparkling eyes, and the memories struck me vigorously in the face.
The memories of the freckles on her nose when we were both in school, and how they would multiply for every time I saw her. The memories of how she preferred to sit alone at lunch, and how I so desperately longed to simply go and sit next to her. The memories of the excruciating month when her chair sat so tauntingly empty, and later learning that she was grieving. The memories of her face, filled with a mixture of shock and gratitude when I threw her that piece of bread. The memories of our Reaping, and the overwhelming feeling of admiration as she volunteered to save the life of someone she loved. The memories of my spiteful anger towards her for not loving me, and the anger towards myself for spiting her. The memories of the cave, the way that her lips had felt against mine, careful, exploring. The memories of the beach, where her lips were no longer careful, but forceful, and craving.
But despite seeing her once more, I still had moments of doubt.
Moments where the darkness closed in on me and blurred my established distinctions between reality and fiction. Moments where I engaged in an outright battle with myself, clashing swords with what they wanted me to believe and shooting arrows through what I want to believe myself. But over the years, I learnt to suppress this doubt, and subdue them behind bars to which I misplaced the key.
It still took me a long while to open up to her once more. To open up to the idea of loving her, when for so long my mind had been set on that her sole intention was to harm me. But fact is that those memories, the ones of her, the ones that I cherish more than anything, are the only things that allowed me to survive. They gave me a reason to survive back then, to survive the horrors that they tortured me with, and they give me reason to survive now. Because when faced with my misery, she never left. Even after all that death, all that pain, she never left. Even when she doubted herself, doubted her own feelings, before she gave herself a chance to consider them, she never left.
And that's why, when I ask her "You love me. Real or not real?" and she answers with a matter-of-fact, "Real", I believe her.