WARNING: MAJOR MOCKINGJAY SPOILERAGE UP AHEAD.

I wrote this because I was so sad over Mockingjay, and because I wasn't satisfied with how Gale just disappeared. I wanted to account for him, and I was curious about where he was. So I asked myself. I also cried while writing this. Sue me for being an emotional writer. Reviews are appreciated.

Disclaimer: Don't own the characters, blah blah blah. If I did, Gale would've been friends with Katniss and Prim wouldn't have died.

I guess I've always known nothing would be the same after Katniss was reaped the first time around. But nothing in me foresaw this… this complete alteration. And it's not just us anymore; it's Panem, too. Nothing's the same about it.

My name is Gale Hawthorne. I'm twenty-one years old—twenty-two in a few months. My home is District 12. There is no District 12, and there is no place for me in the new district rising from its ashes. The Mockingjay was my best friend. I devised a bomb that killed her sister. She doesn't say it, but she will never forgive me.

I work in District 2 now. It used to be my job to mop Peacekeepers up, but after a few days, none of them were left, and I had no reason to linger there. Someone arranged for a hovercraft to take me back to District 12 where some refugees—including my entire family—chose to return.

I was literally on the brink of boarding the craft—I had both hands and a foot on the rungs—when I spotted Fulvia Cardew and Pollux beneath another hovercraft next to mine. They were having a one-sided argument about war coverage in District 2—one-sided because, of course, Pollux was mute. But I had a feeling that even if he hadn't been turned into an Avox, Fulvia wouldn't have given him the chance to speak anyway.

"You and Cressida cannot leave today!" Fulvia spat. "No, no, absolutely not. I will not allow it! There is little to no coverage of the casualties here."

Pollux looked exasperated. He held up two fingers and then flipped both his hands around. I knew what that meant; he'd used the gesture a lot—two hundred dead. Two hundred dead in a different district and he and Cressida wanted to cover it, but Fulvia wouldn't let him.

Fulvia sighed. "I know that. But they can wait! They're dead, they're not going anywhere! Right now, District Two's mayor needs to be interviewed. I have cameramen, but no able reporter whatsoever!"

Cressida descended the rungs right then and gripped Pollux's wrist. "We've leaving, Fulvia," she said firmly. "There's a new story developing in District Eight about the mayor's family going missing, and plus, another two hundred bodies were uncovered there. I'm sure you can find another person to do whatever you want us to do here."

"Hardly! Look around you!" Fulvia countered frustratedly, spinning in a circle with her arms out wide to reinforce her point. "I've not seen a single camera-ready face in—"

And that was when she spotted me. She asked me to be their reporter for the day, and Cressida and Pollux's faces lit up. I was left with a decision, a hard one at that: Stay here or go home.

I wanted to be with my family—and Katniss, too. But the question was, did Katniss want me around? I knew without a doubt that, to Katniss, even my mental image was associated with one of her sister catching deadly, deadly fire. And, even though nobody could prove the bombs they used to wipe out those children and Prim were my and Beetee's creation, I reminded her of it. I reminded her of Prim's death.

I caused Katniss pain.

I'd never caused Katniss pain before. Years ago, I'd like to think she saw me as a reliever—at least, that's the way I saw her. Whenever we met up at the woods in District 12 to hunt a long time ago—back when we were normal, before the Hunger Games threw a burl into our relationship—we were happy. As happy as anyone could get with an annual death call looming ominously over their heads.

But that was five years ago. Here comes the present. And with it brings inevitable change.

I knew, deep inside of me, that the only way Katniss would ever get on with her life was if she could hang on to something—or someone—that didn't remind her of pain, of sorrow, of scars, of fire, of destruction, of casualties of war. And that was me—pain, sorrow, scars, fire, destruction, a casualty of war. Katniss didn't need me to survive.

She needed the exact opposite.

I closed my eyes for a second—not long enough to merit a remark from any one of the three people looking at me then—but in that second, images passed through my closed eyelids. Katniss with Peeta, sitting at the Meadow or at Victor's Village, painting and baking—not entirely happy and yet getting there somehow. Katniss with me, the scars on my hands reminding her of the snares I'd always set and of the bomb that ensnared her sister's life—never happy.

So I opened my eyes and looked over Fulvia Cardew's anticipating expression. She raised an eyebrow at me.

"Sure," I finally said. "I'm in."

It was just supposed to be an emergency, last-ditch, one-time thing. They were still planning to send me back to District 12 after I'd interviewed the mayor, a fact I both loved and dreaded. Loved, because I would see Katniss. Dreaded, because she would see me. But apparently, I'd caught some people's eyes and they thought me fit to become the official reporter for District 2. That decided it for me.

I was meant to stay away.

And stay away, I did. I took the job, stayed in District 2. It's been almost two years now. I've been back to District 12 before, but just to see my family, bring them treats from District 2, and see some old friends. But not one particular old friend.

One time, while visiting District 12, I ran into Peeta Mellark. It was 3:00am, I'd just left my family's new home, I was on my way to the hovercraft port that had been built at the outskirts of 12, and I hadn't had time for breakfast because my boss back at 2 needed me for a spontaneous news report in four hours. I started getting hungry and reluctantly stopped by the bakery. I hadn't visited the place before because I somehow knew Peeta would be there, but a part of me supposed 12 would have other bakers as well. Or maybe I was just too hungry to think it over.

It was probably the latter, because I'd completely forgotten what time it was. It wasn't even light out yet; the bakery was closed. I walked back across town, away from the bakery, from the Victor's Village. It wasn't until I got to the edge of town—to the new market—when I saw him. Actually, he saw me first.

He stopped in his tracks and looked a little surprised. He carried a small sack of flour in one hand and a clump of cheese wrapped in foil in the other. He looked healthier compared to the last time I'd seen him two years ago. He still had some burn scars which sent a pang through me because then I remembered the bomb that killed Prim, but other than that, Peeta looked like the boy who had been reaped with Katniss three years ago.

"Hey," he said, the usual polite Peeta way. "Didn't think I'd see you around here."

"Neither did I," I said, deadpan.

"You staying for a while?" he asked. "You're always welcome at the Village."

That made me smile somewhat sadly. "Thanks," I said. "But I'm leaving for Two in a while, and besides, we both know that isn't true."

He didn't reply. We just stared at each other for a while, and then he nodded slightly.

"Yeah," he agreed. "You're probably right."

Silence. I gestured at the stuff he carried. "Baking supplies?" I guessed.

"Yeah, the bakery ran out of flour and cheese, can you imagine?" he said with a laugh. "I've been baking cheese buns too much lately because it's the only thing that Katniss—" He caught himself and stopped.

I shrugged. "It's okay, go ahead."

"Well, uh, it's the only thing I bake that Katniss will eat," he continues, albeit quietly. He chooses his next words carefully and observes me. "She won't have any of my cakes. They remind her of Prim."

That surprised me, just a bit. I supposed Peeta made a point of mentioning this, just to let me know that I wasn't the only one who reminded Katniss of Prim. But then, the memory of Prim associated with Peeta's cakes was pleasant. I remember walking them home one night and Prim had stopped right in front of the bakery to admire the cakes. She was happy then. In the memory that is linked to me, Prim is dead.

I didn't say anything sour to Peeta because he was genuine. Always had been. I only muttered, "Well, I bet anything you bake is good."

And then we parted ways, but at the clearance that led to the hovercraft port, I turned around. Peeta was at the edge of the market now, a few hundred yards away. But just then, a dark-haired figure caught up to him. She was wearing her father's hunting coat, boots, and a bow and arrows were slung over each shoulder. She carried a squirrel in one hand with an arrow shot cleanly through its eye.

I smiled. Same old Katniss.

She walked ahead of him back to town, and once she had her back to him, Peeta glanced over his shoulder slowly, like he knew I'd be watching.

I willed myself to smile and nodded at him, as if saying, "Go on ahead." And then I turned to catch my hovercraft.

My life isn't perfect. It's not happy. But I've never really needed to be happy. All my life, I've only needed to take care of my family, Katniss's family, and of course, Katniss herself. Rory, Vick, Posy, and my mother are well and they will never miss a meal again. They will never experience the Hunger Games again. Katniss's family is almost nonexistent, but I do occasionally stop by District 4 to visit Ruth Everdeen to see how she and her new hospital is going. And Prim—in my dreams, in my thoughts, I take care of her, apologize for possibly creating the bomb that killed her, tell her she was like a sister to me.

So it's just Katniss left now. I've trusted her in the hands of Peeta Mellark. But maybe that's the best choice. Sometimes, you've got to let go of people if it means a better life for them, even if it means a worse one for you. It's called unselfishness, and I'm getting the hang of it.

Maybe I don't care for Katniss Everdeen personally. But I still do care.