I look at Peeta's face.

He looks so much younger.

Way younger, perhaps he's they same boy I met when I was 11 and starving.

The bread boy.

My bread boy.

But he's not, not after the rebellion.

I can see the sweat dripping down his forehead.

He's sick.

Very sick.

He's got a very high temperature.

My mom's not here to treat him, but she said that she would hop onto the next train to help him.

I know it's going to be hard for her.

I shake his shoulder.

"Hmmm. . ." He grumbles.

"I've got some soup for you" I say, bringing the spoon to his lips.

"No" Peeta says , but as soon as his lips open I poured the soup into his mouth.

And he throws up.

I lay my head onto Peeta's chest.

His heartbeat is slow.

Maybe a bit too slow.

When the time comes for bed, I shake his shoulder again.

No moment.

I lay my head on his chest.

Expecting the sound of his slow and loud heartbeat, instead I find silence.

Then it finally sinks in.

Peeta is dead