Haymitch swears like a fiend when Katniss disappears, but more from habit than aggravation. He's gnawing on the hunk of bread and washing it down with liquor while I watch him uneasily.

"What?" he grunts at me.

"Nothing," I shrug. "Just waiting for you to finish so I can be sure you get in the shower."

He leans back in his chair and stares at me. "What, really?" he demands.

My eyes fall away and I feel myself flush. Slovenly, anti-social drunk that he may be, I know that Haymitch cares about me. In whatever capacity he's able to, anyway. He's been an unexpected source of comfort since we returned from the arena. I can be completely myself around him with no judgment or expectation, because he knows what it's like to come home. And if nothing else, he's a stunning non-example. I feel like he is always honest with me, except for once. And that once is devouring me.

"I wish you'd told me," I finally say, giving voice to the ache I've been carrying for months.

"No, you don't," he says dismissively, tipping back his head and taking a long pull from the bottle in his hand.

"You should have told me," I insist. "I thought- I thought-" but here my words fail me.

"I know," he says, and now it's his gaze that drops. But only for a moment. He brings his gray eyes back up to meet mine and argues sternly, "What would it have helped? It could only have hurt you both. So you believed a lie for a few more days. What difference did it make?"

"I looked like an idiot!" I cry, all the hurt and rejection and loss that's been eating away at me bursts from my lips. "Slobbering over her like a lovesick puppy, and she didn't…" my voice cracks and I feel tears sting behind my eyes. "She didn't even care," I finish brokenly.

"Of course she cared," Haymitch says shortly. "She did everything she could to keep you alive. To keep you both alive," his voice is rising. "What would have been different? You still would have had to slobber over her for the cameras, it just would have been harder, for both of you." He wags a finger at me blearily, "You need to get your head right. The cameras will be back here soon and you better start slobbering all over again. She isn't in love with you. Get over it. You both need to convince the world you are stupid for each other and this 'she never cared' routine isn't going to cut it." He's really winding it up now. "She made choices, just like you did. Accept what you have. A life. Yours and hers. Two of you came out of there because of what you both made people believe. Stop whining you didn't get everything you wanted and be grateful for what you got. It's a damn sight more than what 22 other tributes came away with." He drops the empty bottle on the floor and heaves himself to his feet, chucking me on the shoulder as he wavers past on his way upstairs to shower.

I stare after him, hoping I resemble a guppy less than I suspect I do. I digest his words as I hear him thumping around upstairs, going over what he said and examining how I feel about it.

"Damn it," I mutter, shaking my head. If Haymitch Abernathy has his head on straighter than I do, it's time to start looking closely at my choices. I leave the bread in the kitchen, gingerly pushing aside a pile of who-knows-what to clear a spot on the counter, and let myself out. Crossing back through the snowy grounds to my own house, I pause on the front steps, looking down the street toward Katniss' house. The car is still outside and it reminds me how soon my own prep team will arrive. Turning the key in the lock, I let myself in and drape my coat over a hook by the door. All the while Haymitch's words echo in my head. Could he be right? I'm worried he is.

The cold has made my leg stiff and I limp a little as I make my way to the studio in the back room. Swinging open the door I take a deep breath, inhaling the acrid smells of paints and cleaners. The huge windows flood the room with light and I smile at the chaotic warmth. This is the one part of my prize money I hoard for myself. Canvases, paints, brushes and more, all the supplies that need to be imported to sustain my hobby, which in turn sustains me. I have to bundle up the paintings I'm taking with us on the train to display as my "talent" in the Capitol.

Crossing to the back corner, I approach the dark collection I tend to paint late at night and put away, out of sight. These are the paintings of the Games, the ones I use to capture the images when I wake panting from a nightmare. Capture them so I can lock them away, out of my waking mind. The stacks wait, like coiled serpents, in the corner. Taking a deep breath, I begin flipping through the nearest pile. At first, it's hard to look at them, they bring memories boiling to the surface and I feel my chest tighten. But as I press on, I start to see them as they are, memories. Harmless in their stillness except for whatever power I give them to disturb me. I stop at the large oil of Katniss up the tree, the Careers clustered around the bottom of the trunk, howling for her blood.

I was in that group at the bottom, and as far as she knew, I was just as eager for her death. In her face is reflected the disgust she felt that I would join with them, not only because it was despicable, but because of the high-handed speech I'd given about not playing by the Capitol's rules. And yet, I flip a couple more panels, stopping at the one that has given me more grief than most of the others. Looking at it now, after Haymitch's lecture, I see it clearly. In the dark of night, Katniss leans from her perch high in the safety of the tree's limbs, her face to the sky. The night she called my name. She'd had no idea I joined the Careers only to protect her, but when given the chance to save us both, she'd come for me.

Turning to the pile behind me, I search until I find the one I'm looking for. A smaller piece, dark with browns and blacks, but the eye is drawn to the bright red. Katniss, unconscious on the floor of the cave in a pool of her own blood after she'd gone to the Cornucopia to get the medicine that saved my life. I trace a gentle finger over her pale face, remembering how terrified I'd been to find her like that when I woke. When I woke because of what she did to save me.

I hang my head as shame bubbles up in hot waves from my stomach. Katniss has been cold and stiff and formal around me ever since we got home. But not because she doesn't care about me, because I've been so cold to her. She hurt me deeply and scarringly, but not on purpose. And in an effort to save our lives. All these months, I've been letting my heartache cloud my vision. And it took Haymitch to make me see reason. I shake my head ruefully.

Turning away from the piles of paintings of the Games, I walk across the room to a single canvas that sits hidden under a draping. With gentle fingers, I move the cloth aside and contemplate the picture for the first time in months. Katniss sits against a tree just inside the fence behind the Hob. She sits with hands pressed to flushed cheeks, eyes closed, face turned to the sunset. She is beautiful.

When we returned, it was weeks of celebration before the cameras left. Weeks of continuing to play the besotted lovers at events and parties and interviews. Haymitch is right, it was devastating to hold her hand, kiss her, hear her talk about how in love she was, knowing it was all a lie. Knowing every word, kiss and touch was real for me. When it all finally died down and we went our separate ways, I avoided her as much as I could. My heart was broken and I just couldn't bear it. Then, on the first quiet Sunday, I was in the Hob trying to spread some money around. An older woman was selling some family trinkets and I chose a pin I thought Lila, Jasper's fiancée, might like. The woman was going home after the sale and mentioned she had trouble seeing in the fading light, so I offered to help her home. As we made our way around, I saw Katniss and Gale emerge from under the fence. They spoke for a moment and then Gale left, but not before he took her face between his hands and kissed her. She had sunk down next to the tree and sat there, eyes closed as the sun set behind the trees. Watching, frozen, my broken heart had shattered.

Now, I look steadily at the painting of that moment. I've been unfair. When my name was drawn from the reaping ball, I'd never expected to come home, but had hoped she would. I'd decided to do whatever I could to make that happen. In the arena the crush I'd always had on her had turned into real love, and I'd wanted nothing more than for her to live, to make it back and have a long and happy life with her family. Now she's here, she has that chance. And even more, she has a chance to be in love, to have a family of her own. She has a chance to be happy. It is everything I would hope for her. Finally, after long months of darkness, I feel the weight lift from my heart. She doesn't love me. But I love her, and I want for her only happiness. I was willing to die for her, is it more to ask that I step aside for her? It's time to let her go.

Silently, I turn to the paintings of the Games and bundle them out to the living room. The prep team will be here soon, with Portia and Effie and the cameras and Katniss. It's time to be ready to put my game face on.