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
