He'd never met her before. He'd seen her once or twice, working in the orchards and singing her songs, but he'd never actually talked to her.
Not until they both got reaped, that is. He'd tried his best to distance himself from her, because he knew if he got close he'd suffer in the Games. It was always best not to form an emotional attachment with someone you were going to contend with in the Games.
But she was so cheerful and innocent and full of life that he hadn't been able to help becoming fond of her. Oh, he still hadn't talked much to her, nothing beyond "Good morning" and "Pass the salt" and "Good night", but she'd still felt somewhat of a friend to him. Something to remind him of home. The little sister he'd never had.
The first and only time he'd talked to her had been the night before the Games. "Good luck," he'd said to her, in his gruff, hesitant tones.
She'd smiled brilliantly at him. "Good luck to you too," she'd answered. He'd smiled too, somewhat unwillingly.
And every single night of the Games, he'd look up in the sky and hope that it wouldn't be her face he'd see in it. She was too young to die. She was too innocent to be manipulated by the Capitol and its cruel little fancies. She had her entire life ahead of her, and she deserved the chance to be able to do something with it. He wasn't sure he'd win, but he sure wanted her to.
Then one night he saw her face. He was too stunned to move for a few minutes, and then a dull ache settled in his chest. He couldn't place it. He didn't even know her. Yet her loss hurt. It hurt a lot.
Thresh had never cried in his life, but that night he cried for Rue.