Disclaimer: I don't own anything Suzanne Collins owns.

Claimer: I own my work.

From Afar

She walked by the bakery that day.

Her hair was in its usual braid; it seemed to get longer every time I saw her. Her game bag was stashed in her arms, and I could vaguely make out the calluses on her hands, fresh from a hard shooting session. She had a giddy glimmer in her dark brown eyes, the type that told me she'd earned something big.

As I spread icing over a batch of cupcakes, I smiled. She looked beautiful, as always. So I watched her run by, until her sleek form was no longer in sight.

~o~

She walked back a few hours later, this time at a calm and satisfied pace. She carried goods in her hands, and her now empty game bag was slung over her shoulder. She also had a dandelion woven into her braid, something I'd never seen on her before—except perhaps on reaping days.

My mother was in front of me, barking out orders (or was it a reprimand?). I only half-listened as she spoke, though I did—thankfully—manage to nod at the right moment, so as to not get caught in the midst of my reverie. I looked at my mother—really looked at her—and focused on what she was saying for a moment. By the time my mother was gone and I'd actually processed her instructions, she was gone. In her place, however, a lone dandelion sat in the middle of the street.

I made sure my mother was nowhere in sight before running out the door towards the little, lone flower. It sat in the kitchen's windowsill for weeks on end after that day.

Even now, in its wilted state, I keep the stem.

~o~

A few weeks after the dandelion day, she came by again. She had that giddy look in her eyes again, and again she clutched her game bag in her arms. This time around, though, she wasn't walking alone. He walked next to her, keeping in stride. They chattered and laughed as they walked. He twirled the end of her braid in between his fingers as she threw her head back in a chuckle.

I felt the typical burning sensation in the pit of my stomach, rising up to my throat. In a way, it was a good thing that he came along. I'd seen only her those past few weeks, and I knew it wasn't doing me any good.

So I turned my gaze away from them, stumbling upon the sight of the little white dandelion on the windowsill. I gave it a sad smile. She'd never be mine, but that was okay. Because, even if she was away, I could—and would—always admire her from afar.

It'd worked for ten years; I was sure it'd suffice forever.

It had to.