How well do we know anyone, really.
As evidenced by the physical ramifications of their post-rescue reunion, the hijacking had clearly tampered with Peeta's inner behavior meter, the sliding scale that arranges desired behavior alongside intended behavior and assesses the propriety of merging the two. The doctors banded about a few choice phrases, something about behavior changes and skewed thoughts, but she had greedily honed in on the only portion of the assessment that interested her: the improbability of eventual recovery. Still, she resolved she wouldn't pry her fingers from the sparkler of hope until it singed her.
The interim, of course, proved rather harrowing. She didn't know Peeta knew those kinds of words, would ever even consider deploying them, irrespective of the degree to which his temper raged. She didn't think he would ever attack a woman's sexuality, much less accuse her of rampant promiscuity and minute worth. Particularly in light of his defense of Johanna's elevator antics. In light of her continuing virginity.
While she exerted every effort to clamp down the stinging sense of betrayal, it raged fierce and steady, much as his love had once bloomed. He had initiated this insane love story, rolled the lie along despite external obstacles and the notable lack of a capable costar. He had inspired a nation to rebellion, not her. Not the sullen, functioning mute who could scarcely motivate herself, much less anyone else. And just as their tale neared its climax, her costar checked out. She couldn't carry the damn thing herself. She had barely managed to play her own part, however nominal.
She never thought he would abandon her. Leave her to wrestle with the infected night fictions herself. "Always," isn't that what he'd whispered so fervently? And she had believed him, like a foolish merchant girl cowing to the empty proclamations of adoration conferred by someone merely set on securing a partner for the slag heap.
She couldn't discuss their Games with anyone, anymore. Haymitch, in rare flickers of coherency, simply brushed aside her lamentations and reminded her of her fortune in retaining the transitory jewel of life. Johanna devoted the majority of her time to wrestling the new strains of rage that infected her psyche. Finnick had retreated to a blissful cloud of indifference with Annie. Which is what she desired to do with Peeta, more than anything, really, but when had the universe ever deigned to gift her what she wanted?
The fine people of Panem packed her off to District 12 after a brief stay in solitary confinement. They ushered Haymitch along, ostensibly as her guardian, although anyone with two brain cells rustling around could diagnose him as incompetent in that regard. She had to admit she didn't deserve anyone's attention, anyway.
At home, the loneliness greedily corroded her psyche like acid, horrific memories curling in upon themselves until she could scarcely gasp for air beneath the force of their incessant bludgeoning. She gazed for hours at nothing, continuously castigating herself for failing to save Prim, failing to protect Peeta, failing to prevent Gale from developing weapons of mass destruction, failing to assist Peeta in finding his way back to sanity. Failing at everything, really.
One afternoon, the cloud of abject misery that had settled in the house like thick smoke emanating from singed bread split wide open when a bright smile and glistening halo of golden hair joined her for breakfast, depositing a fresh loaf on the table and a thick salve on her heart. Grinning, cracking jokes with Greasy Sae, gently prodding her into conversation, unfurling every last ounce of charm when she resisted. In the absence of a directive to the contrary, he started turning up for every meal. She had the distant sense of a giant lever inching its way along, of something tremendous and insurmountable and reassuring clicking into place. But her thoughts splintered again before she could analyze the matter.
Between meals, he would float for hours. She spotted him wandering around the town, in a relentless sequence of infinity loops. Somehow the hijacking had imparted a sixth sense, and he would invariably spot her attempts to track him and insist she walk alongside. She almost wanted to clamp a bow in his hands and drag him to the woods, but feared only one of them would emerge if a flashback reared its unwelcome effects. Anyway, those clodhoppers he tried to call "feet" would likely continue to undermine him.
At some point, Greasy Sae deemed her presence superfluous. Peeta's belongings migrated to her house in a steady trickle. Eventually, despite every warning that they should resign themselves for the contrary, they once again occupied complimentary trajectories.
She had sincerely doubted the darkness would ever recede, or even fade so much as a gradient. She didn't think her Peeta would emerge from the flickering rubble the hijacking produced. She didn't think she possessed sufficient resilience to assist him in doing so, or the degree of the fortitude to persist despite everything. But how well do we know anyone, really.