I don't know when I knew it was over.
I don't think that there was a definitive point in which I realized she was completely out of my grasp. I don't believe that in one moment I knew that she would never love me.
Perhaps if I did, I would have some concrete thing to agonize over. My regret and self-hatred wouldn't have origins scattered over the years of our friendship.
I suppose the most obvious of reasons would have been made clear when she asked me, "Was it your bomb?"
My bomb. My bomb killed her little sister. The sister that she wanted to save—the act that started it all.
Death must have barked a great laugh in taking her into his hold. She was his from the beginning.
I honestly don't know if it was mine. I won't ever know. Perhaps if I'd never strategized, Prim would be alive. Maybe Katniss wouldn't detest me.
But how can I excuse myself? People were dying. We were working towards freedom. The lives saved by the ending of this war outweigh the losses. I can see that. Why can't she?
She chose him because he was always peaceful. He tried to kill her, but still looked like an idiot with a gun. I guess she'd rather have unstable than strong-minded.
I'm done with this. She chose him. She couldn't handle me because she couldn't handle herself—we're too alike. She knows that.
This is the difference between him and me. I'm not going to give up what I believe in. He melts and reforms at her touch.
As for her? Well, I'd like to say she'll come around.
But she won't.