AN: My first songfic! Wish me luck! I was just listening to this amazing Owl City song (Meteor Shower - go listen to it! Now!) and it's just so perfect! Now read - and please let me know what you think of it in a review!

Disclaimer: Needless to say, I own neither the characters nor the song. Unfortunately.

I Am Not My Own

The thing that's impossible to explain about the hijacking is that I do remember loving her. The Capitol tampered with my memories of events, but they had no way to tamper with my memory of a feeling. So while I had false memories of her being cruel to me, of her trying to kill me, of her being the reason for all of my problems, I also remembered wanting her to kiss me, to hold me, to never let me go. I just couldn't remember why.

She's here now, her eyes hollow and sad as she rips open the earth with her thin fingers. It was my idea to plant the flowers for her sister, and now here we are, kneeling in front of her house. Dirty, hot, and tired as we create something beautiful.

I'm trying to convince myself that I love her, because I know that I should. I know that my head has been messed with, and I know that if I used to love her, then she must have been worth loving. But, to be honest, I can't bring myself to.

Or at least, I couldn't up until that moment. Because looking at her, her hair back in its signature braid, her dirty fingers working endlessly, her eyes sad, it makes me think again.

And suddenly it all comes rushing back. The things I knew in my head, but didn't really know in my heart, hadn't known since the end of the Quarter Quell.

I love her for the way that she does what it takes to survive, but is willing to die for a cause she believes in. I love her for the way that she will do what she has to to protect those who she loves. I love her for the way that she is always doing her own thing, always improvising and choosing her own path. I love her for the little things, too: the voice that makes birds fall silent, the way she scampers up trees like a squirrel, the way she blushes when she sees nudity, the way her hair is always in a braid, the way she insists that no matter how many times she saves my life, she'll never stop owing me for giving her the bread when we were kids and she was starving and I had plenty. I love that I am finally one of the very few people who can wipe the seemingly permanent scowl from her face and make her laugh, I love her twisted sense of humor.

I can see it now. I love her.

I can finally see

That you're right there beside me

"Katniss," I say. She looks up, brushing a strand of hair from her face with her dirty fingers. Her eyes are still so sad and empty - as they have been ever since she saw her sister killed. Only now, I find that seeing her eyes like that makes me both sad and angry.

"Mmm?" she answers. She doesn't say much now - not that she ever really did, but now she says even less.

I want to explain to her, explain that I haven't been myself, haven't loved her even though she thought that I was back to normal, but that now I do. That now I remember all the little things, how she likes cheese buns, how her favorite color is green, how she tied a pink ribbon around Lady's neck before giving it to her sister, how she's a horrible liar. I want to tell her that the Captiol made me into something that I wasn't, but that I'm not that anymore. I am myself again.

But for once, I can't find the words.

I am not my own

For I have been made new

She must see something in me, something different, because she reaches for my hand and squeezes it.

"Peeta?" I still don't know what to say. So I say nothing, even though I should be saying everything.

I wrap my arms around her, bury my face into her neck, thread my filthy fingers into her hair, feel the sharp bones of her shoulders digging into my arm, and all I can think is that she's still not eating enough, and suddenly I'm crying, and she's shushing me and stroking my hair and I've finally found the words, and so I say them over and over again, just to convince myself that they're really, really true.

"I remember. I love you. They don't own me."

She tries to pull away to look at my face, but I don't let her. I can't let her. I squeeze her, press her into me, so hard that we shouldn't even be two separate people anymore, we should just be one big broken person. She realizes what I'm doing, and then she's also squeezing, pressing, holding. I'm glad that she's not trying to pull away anymore, because I think I'll go crazy if she does.

I can't lose myself again.

Please don't let me go

I desperately need you

I am in front of my canvas, painting again for the first time in a long, long time. It's a picture I've painted many times, one that, out of all the others, stood out to me from my time in the Games. It is the way she looked when I woke up after she saved me. Beautiful, vulnerable, and covered in blood.

It has been days since I rediscovered that I loved her, and this is the first time I've let myself think of the Games since then, afraid of relapse. But this scene, this image . . . it's impossible to keep it out of my head, especially now that I have remembered how much she means to me. Katniss, vulnerable and dying because she risked everything to save me, even when I didn't want her to.

I'm mostly finished now. The painting itself is well done, although, looking at it, I feel like something in the curve of her arm is off. It brings back the memories though, the real and the not real, and it suddenly makes my head spin trying to sort them out.

Katniss laughed maniacally as she held me down so Cato could stab me. Real or not real?

Katniss risked her life and almost died saving me. Real or not real?

Katniss left me at the mercy of the mutts. Real or not real?

Katniss saved both of us by pulling out the berries. Real or not real?

Other memories, too, memories from after the games.

Katniss told me on the train home that I was a filthy slug and should have died in the Games. Real or not real?

Katniss danced with me on the victory tour, pressing into me, letting me hold her. Real or not real?

Katniss has never said a true word to me. Real or not real?

Katniss was crying when I opened my eyes after Finnick saved me. Real or not real?

The problem is, I can't tell. I have no idea anymore. There's just no way to know, because while I know that some of them must be false, they all seem so real.

"Peeta?" A small voice behind me. I breathe slowly. In, out. In, out. I try to relax the muscles in my neck. I try to unclench my fists.

I don't turn to look at her, but she sees that I'm fighting it, or maybe she guesses when she sees that I'm painting the Games again, because she whispers.

"They don't own you."

And then I'm on her, just like that. I wheel around and slam her against the floor and she shrieks and I hold her there, pin her with my knees on her shoulders and she fights and struggles and screams my name and screams Haymitch's name and it's just no use, because neither of us can really hear her, and because I'm just too big, or maybe she's just too small. My hands are covering her mouth, pinching her nose shut and she claws at me with her chewed-short fingernails and she tries to scream until she runs out of breath and suddenly I see the wild, panicked look in her eyes as she realizes that I am going to kill her. She is going to die. The filthy bitch.

I am not my own

For I have been made new

Suddenly, a memory is crushing me. It's recent, and somehow, instinctively, I know it's real.

She had the same wild, panicked look in her eyes as the armed officials grabbed her. She was fighting and screaming then, too. She was shouting for someone to please shoot her, and I remember praying that no one would. I remember watching in horror as I realized that she was trying to get to the nightlock pill on her shoulder, I remember reaching her just in time. I remember her biting down on my fingers as I took the pill from her.

I remember wanting her to live.

And then I pull my hands away from her face as fast as if she were made of hot iron, I climb off of her, and watch, horrified, as she gasps for breath and coughs and curls into a ball on the floor and lays there, trembling and gasping and weeping.

I wrap my arms around my knees and rock back and forth, pressing my eyes into my knees so hard they burn, murmuring apologies over and over as I listen to the sound of her breathing returning to normal.

It feels like an eternity before I feel small, soft hands pulling my face off my knees. I let her, and then her face is right in front of me. Her eyes are wide and anxious, her eyebrows crinkled worriedly.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper. My hand goes to caress her cheek, and she instinctively flinches. I pull my hand back. It shouldn't hurt me - it's all I deserve. It's the least I deserve. "I'm so sorry," I say again.

"Peeta, I'm fine," she says. And that's all the prompting I need to circle my arms around her and hold her. Her arms go around my neck, mine around her torso, and we sit there, shaking and eventually crying. Somewhere along the way, I pull my hands from her and sit there stroking her hair, not braided at the moment, as she holds me tight enough for both of us. She buries her face in my neck and holds me so tightly that I think that she'll never be able to let go.

I don't want her to. I want to sit here with her, her arms around me, my fingers in her hair, and know that this - this is real. This will always be real, and nothing else matters because nothing else can ever be as real as this.

Because this must be love.

Please don't let me go

I desperately need you