Although he moved back to Twelve with me Peeta and I never did grow back together. We were friends, but he never looked at me the same way. His brain had been hijacked too well and now he didn't love me. I can't say I blamed him for not loving me anymore. He finally saw me for who I really was, he didn't think I was amazing or beautiful anymore, he just thought I was Katniss. I missed Peeta though. I missed him terribly. He really was the only one who could keep my nightmares away.
Gale also ended up moving back to Twelve with me. We lived in my old home in the Victors Village with my mother and sister. Even though Gale had always seen me for who I really was, he loved me. He didn't think I was amazing, or beautiful or any of the things Peeta thought. He knew I was just Katniss, plain and simple.
Although Prim had survived the bombing in the Capitol, she was pretty beaten up and slightly disfigured. Her face had awful red burn marks all across it, and she was covered in black and blue bruises. It hurt to see my little sister, only twelve, scarred and torn apart by the war. She was so young… But of course, she got better. And our mother was just glad that both of us had survived. Who knows what would have happened if either one of us had died. She probably would have too.
Gale and I ended up getting married, even though I was still half in love with Peeta. We had two children, one boy and one girl. They had the same straight back hair that Gale and I had, along with the pale grey Seam eyes. There were no more Hunger Games, so they never had to worry about their names being placed in the Reaping Balls, they never had to face that terror on Reaping Day, wondering if they were going to be placed in the arena or not, wondering if they were going to die. My children didn't know that the green grassy field they played on was a graveyard, filled with the fallen bodies of the old District Twelve. Although, the girl was getting older and she was learning about it in school. She'd come home some days, asking me questions about the Hunger Games, about Haymitch, about Peeta. And I'd have to tell her. It was her right to know what happened in her home, to her mother and her father.
And yet, I'd have to tell them all over again, when the boy was old enough to learn about the Games in school. I'd have to tell them about my nightmares and how on some mornings it feels impossible to take pleasure in anything because I'm afraid it could be taken away. That's when I make a list in my head of every act of goodness I've seen someone do. It's like a game. Repetitive. Even a little tedious after more than twenty years.
But there are much worse games to play.